Deception: Rogues of the Red League, Book 1

by Blackburn, Briana

  “I’d like to talk to you,” Phillipe de Rossi said casually. “Father to son.”

  “We might have to reschedule,” said Killian, still staring at Roland. Though Roland had the feeling he hardly even saw him.

  “Put down the weapon, Killian. Bring your friend, too. Asha and Opie can handle the shipment tonight for you. It’s a big one. I know how much you wanted to be there, but we have some things to talk about.”

  Roland thought Killian wouldn’t do it. He’d say fuck you to his father and pull the trigger. But he didn’t, he lowered the pistol and put it away. Roland searched for the seventeen-year-old boy in the mugshot he’d shown Tiana. He expected to see the wildness, the rage, the desperation, but it wasn’t there. It was just a cool vacancy. An utter calm.

  Without another word, Killian followed de Rossi, and Roland followed him.

  “What the hell was that?” he hissed at Killian as the pair of them were jostled in the carriage clattering through the streets of the city.

  Killian hadn’t said one word to him, gaze trained out the window, his chin on his fist, his lip turned down.

  “De Rossi!”

  Killian sighed and dropped his hand. “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to explain to me what the fuck is going on. Why you pulled a bloody gun on me!”

  “Technically, I pulled it on Opie,” he amended dryly.

  “Screw your technicalities,” he snapped.

  “I would if I could,” he muttered. He looked at Roland, hard. “What do you want from me, Roland? Honestly. I’ve hardly taken you to any of the places you’ve demanded of me when we first made our deal. All you’ve done is hang out with us. So much for your fact-finding mission.”

  Roland opened his mouth to demand what he was talking about, only to freeze when he realized he was right.

  Smugly, Killian sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Did the lonely little prince need a friend?”

  “Screw you,” Roland scowled.

  Something darkened in his expression and suddenly he was leaning forward, arms on his knees, braced and interested. “No, seriously. I’ll trade you. Tell me why you stayed with us, drank with us, and never asked me to show you anything.” “I asked you.”

  Killian waved the lame excuse away.

  Roland, still glaring at him, said, “You first. Tell me where your father is taking us and why.”

  “Well, that’s easy. I was a bad little boy. I was...occupied last night and didn’t show up when I was meant to. He probably knows I haven’t been going to university like he thought I was. He's probably wondering like a good papa what it is I’ve been doing. Now, your turn. Why did you stay with us?”

  Roland regarded him, realizing he genuinely wanted to know, and before he could stop himself, perhaps it was because the night before this asshole had dove into the water after his parents’ sword, but he answered the gangster. “I liked being Luther.” Killian raised an eyebrow and leaned back once again. “Huh,” was all he said.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, I think you and I have more in common than I thought.”

  Shaking his head, Roland refused to look at de Rossi’s idiotic face and said nothing more until they pulled up in front of the de Rossi manor. In the distance, the castle gleamed, blanketed by white swaths of moonlight, some windows glistening in the yellow alchemical light.

  The door opened and Killian hopped out first, not even glancing back at Roland as he swaggered up the steps. Phillipe de Rossi awaited him at the top.

  “The place looks good, father,” called Killian. “Have you done something with the garden?”

  And it did look good. Better than good, actually. As Roland stepped out onto the crunchy gravel, he took in the white stone manner, with spotless window panes across the three stories. There was a working fountain in the middle of the drive, a bauble of alchemical light stuck through the centre of the spew like the sun.

  “Without your sister, I had to make some of my own choices. I think she’d approve.”

  Killian shrugged, giving his father a roguish smile. “She wasn’t really one for flowers.”

  “No,” said de Rossi, studying his son as he came to join him. Killian was only slightly shorter. “She wasn’t.” Then he remembered Roland. “Luther, right?”

  “Aye, sir,” said Roland, giving a quick bob to the Don, who merely looked amused.

  “Where’d you find this fresh meat, Killian?”

  “Asha was sleeping with him,” Killian said, returning the lie as if it were water down a quiet stream. Utterly natural. Roland, on the other hand, had to school his face to mask his surprise.

  If Phillipe de Rossi noticed the lie, he didn’t say, but turned and strode through the open door of the house. Killian winked at Roland then followed.

  The house was mostly dark, the front hall rising up into tall ceilings and a classic double staircase, winding up into various wings. The elder de Rossi didn’t bother going up the stairs, but turned instead to one of the side doors.

  Killian must’ve caught him eyeing the stairs because he explained, “It’s where the family sleeps. Or would sleep, if any of them lived here.”

  “You don’t?” he asked.

  Killian snorted. “As if I’d make my life even more difficult.”

  They went further into the house, lights glowing lowly in the sconces until they finally came to a thick oak door which Phillipe de Rossi flung open, leaving Killian to catch it as he went and sat in the enormous desk. Why did the men in this family open doors so damn dramatically?

  A withering fire lay dying in the grate beyond him, and above that; a family portrait framed in black wood.

  Recognition went like a spike through his brain and suddenly the pieces clicked just a bit easier.

  There were two children in the painting, for it was a painting, rendered by a talented hand and done in sweeping baroque oils. They were both young, perhaps seven years old. The girl had a round face with masses of red hair and a smile blinding, mischievous and happy. She shared her brother’s black eyes and pointy chin, but his nose was more his fathers and hers more delicate and just a bit longer. Her hand was twisted within Killian’s, her brother’s face dour and tugged down at the corner. Their father was perched behind them, massive and barrel-chested. His face was serious, his mustache groomed and stately. He had a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, in the simple way his finger’s squeezed, the affection was plain. His other hand, however, did not rest on his son’s shoulder. Whether it was the intention of the painter or not, the boy looked a bit off, a bit askew, a bit adrift from the rest of his family.

  And Roland would have felt bad, he really would’ve, if he could’ve stopped staring at the girl.

  The girl with the squinting, smiling, challenging, black eyes.

  “You’ve got drool on your chin, pervert,” said Killian to Roland, grinning wickedly. He’d picked up the decanter of amber liquid from his father’s small bar and poured himself a long splash. He offered neither his father or Roland one and drank it rather quickly. The Don de Rossi frowned.

  “Don’t talk about your sister that way.”

  “Tiana wouldn’t care,” said Killian, his eyes cast low, but Roland could feel them on his face, as if they knew he might have a reaction. “She’d be flattered. I’ve got on good authority that Roland is quite an attentive gentleman.”

  He was careful to keep his expression neutral and Killian chuffed a laugh. The little shit.

  “It’s a beautiful painting,” Roland said to the Don de Rossi. “Who’s the artist?”

  “Our very own Mr. Black, actually,” said de Rossi, glancing up at the portrait with a fondness but also a sadness.

  “Opie?”

  “We found that little demon and I paid good coin for his abilities. Tiana insisted. And I was not unhappy with the results. Although, trusting a ten-year-old with a painting of this scale was...unexpected.�
��

  “She thought she could make his life better,” supplied Killian.

  De Rossi frowned. “She did make it better.”

  “He’s off leash and he’s pissing on the carpet,” said Killian, waving his nearly empty glass.

  “Do you want to put him down, killer?”

  Killian recoiled. “Saints, no. I just think we should pull him out of the game for a while. Get him sobered up. It’s what Tiana would want. You know, since she isn’t here to have her say anymore.”

  “We are not fighting about this in present company.”

  Killian crossed his arms. “Fine. Then, tell me about the Southern Elvish.”

  “Killian,” said de Rossi lowly. “This is not the time. We are here to discuss you, and your actions.”

  “I fell asleep in the library,” Killian shrugged, turning back and sloshing more whiskey into his glass. “Ain’t more of a story to tell.”

  “I would love to believe that, my studious son, but I checked with the university.”

  “Worried were you?”

  “Yes,” said de Rossi. “I was worried when my eldest child failed to show up as he promised he would. As he assured me he would. I thought something had happened to you.”

  “Wouldn’t that have been nice,” muttered Killian. “And Tiana is older than me.”

  De Rossi slammed a fist on his desk, rising. “Where were you? You were not in class, you aren’t even enrolled in that damn school. I demand to know where you were.” “You demand?” asked Killian, a dangerous glint in his eye. He glanced over at Roland, gave him a rueful smile, then turned on his father. “You get to demand shit, old man.” “Watch your words, boy.”

  “You tied me to this life, you put me on this ship, and I’ve given up everything to be here. And I want to spend the days to myself, away from this bucket of crap, and you can’t even let me have that, can you? Meanwhile, you want nothing to do with Tiana and everything to do with me. Why is that? Why did you send her away, Pops? She was the one who wanted to stay and you didn’t give a shit that I was the one who wanted to leave.”

  “I am not discussing this again,” de Rossi said coldly. “Tell me where you were.”

  “And if I said I was nowhere, just drinking myself to death and lying in fields waiting for it feel like something, waiting for all of my madness to go away, what would you say? Would you write another goddamn death certificate for someone else just so I can stay your little pet dog?”

  “Killian—” Killian smashed his drink on the ground, spraying alcohol everywhere, shards of sharp glass spewing and sinking into the expensive rug. “Why are you trading with the Southern Elvish?”

  There was a long, tense, silence.

  Killian was panting. His hair had slid in his eyes. He was seething. He pointed an accusing finger at his father.

  “They’re the reason she left; they’re the reason we couldn’t stay with her. For all we know, they killed her, and you’re giving them weapons to do in the rest of us!”

  “That won’t happen,” replied de Rossi coolly.

  “Aye, it will! It’s happened before. They sought to exterminate us the last war. They didn’t want our human taint—our filth—corrupting anymore of their ancient, goddamn lines.”

  “You’re overexcited,” said de Rossi slowly. “You’ve been drinking. It’s perhaps best if you leave, sleep it off. We can speak in the morning. We will speak in the morning.”

  “And if I’m not here for your summons?” Killian scoffed.

  “Then I will drag you here before me, wherever you are.” And he meant it.

  Dismissed, they walked out the front doors. There were no carriages in sight.

  “Killian—” “Don’t talk to me,” Killian warned.

  Roland grabbed him and whipped him around so they were face to face, barely an inch apart. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew they were selling arms to the Southern Elvish?”

  Killian smirked up at him and ripped his arm out of his grip. “Get lost, princeling. You’re in over your head.”

  Roland snarled and made another move to grab him, but Killian danced away, and in a swirl of his cloak, darted forward and jabbed a finger into the side of Roland’s neck. His eyes widened, hands flying to the puncture.

  Killian backed away with a mocking salute. Roland made no effort to follow—falling to his knees and glaring, loathing swelling hot and heavy.

  “Please, do us the favor and don’t bother coming back this time,” Killian advised.

  “I’m going to find you and skin you alive,” Roland growled.

  Killian winked. “See you soon, big guy.” Then, he turned the corner and vanished. Or, so it appeared. Roland could barely see, the Yai Root already pulling him under.

  Chapter 23

  When he came to, he found himself dumped at the gates, the sun bearing down on him, and probably burning the other side of his face to match. That was two days in a row he’d woken up to the stream of sunlight, and both times were because of Killian de Rossi. Although this time, it was because the asshole had poisoned him. Well, technically he’d done that twice.

  Groaning, he got to his feet, using the stone of the gates to pull himself upright. Squinting, he took in the guard already wandering from their post to get an eyeful of him. Then, he looked to the castle beyond, his mouth tightened, and his resolve hardened. There was an Apprentice Librarian with some explaining to do.

  * * *

  He found Tiana in her room. Ignoring Serai’s protests, he pushed through the back doors of the yet unopened library and stormed down the private corridors belonging to their staff. She didn’t follow him beyond the doors, going silent as Niki asked her to go back to her desk. She, of course, said something rude to him, and Roland could hear his friend’s laughter following him. It chaffed.

  He flung open the door to her single room, taking in the absolute disorder of it. The strewn clothing, the wreckage of bottles on the ground, and the woman sleeping in the bed, swathed in a white linen shirt so long it covered the backs of her thighs. Roland immediate recognized it as his own. It looked as if she’d stumbled in a rage and merely gone and fallen asleep right there on top of her sheets. She was snoring. Of course, she was snoring, her cheek pressed into the pillow so far it looked as if she could have suffocated herself if she moved her head a fraction of an inch. Her eyes, he noticed, were swollen.

  He stood over her for a long moment, considering her shapely legs, bare and porcelain toned, leading up to a deeply dented waist, and the long lengths of red hair, which were damp as if they’d been hastily washed.

  “Are you checking out my ass?”

  “You’re wearing my shirt.” He met the dark eye open and observing him shrewdly without an inch of give.

  “Oh, is this yours?” she asked. “I thought I’d got it from the other prince I’d been sleeping with.”

  “Don’t do that,” he warned. “Don’t push me away again. I came to talk to you.”

  “Did you now?” she asked, twisting her body so her feet were on the floor and she was sitting up. She pushed her hair out of her face. “And if I don’t want to talk to you?”

  “Tiana, I know.”

  She lifted a corner of her mouth, but there was no mirth in her expression. And her voice when she asked, “And what do you think you know?”, it was steeped in wry sarcasm. There was nothing playful about it. Not like there usually was. It made Roland wish he’d come with pies, wished the night before hadn’t happened, that he’d known all along.

  But then again, why was he feeling guilty? He’d done nothing wrong. She’d lied to him.

  “I know your last name is de Rossi.”

  “I’m sure many people have the name.”

  “I know you have a twin brother named Killian.” She considered him. And that bothered him.

  “Do you deny it?” he demanded.

  “Would you let me?” she asked, amused but also annoyed, looking and sounding like Killian himself as she stood the
re and crossed her arms. She pointed her chin in the air so she could defiantly stare at him. He tried to ignore the longing to wrap her in his arms. How dare she wear his shirt now, when he’d come to confront her. When had he even left it here?

  Glaring at, the likeness was blatant. Even the way there was dirt smudged on her nose gave her the illusion of a nose like her brother’s.

  “By gods,” he breathed. “How the hell did I miss that?” She rolled her eyes. “You’re being ridiculous. I have nothing to do with that life. I haven’t seen my family since was a child. I have nothing to do with them. I was exiled by my father and abandoned by my brother.”

  “But—”

  “I tried when I was fourteen, to run with them. I got the permanents to show for it.” She yanked her shirt off—stealing Roland’s breath as he took in her beautiful, beautiful body. He couldn’t help it, devouring the skin she flashed him, the beauty marks on her stomach like constellations, the bars through her nipples. But she turned, tugging the fabric away, revealing the tattoos, impressive and sweeping in true Sludge style. But what drew his real attention, were the scars they highlighted. “My father saw me one day and freaked out. He wanted me to be different. He wanted me to be sweet and contrite. He wanted more. So he bundled me up and shipped me here. The Head Librarian was the son of my grandfather’s second. So he had the ties and my father helped him get this job here and meet the right people. He took me in. Now I’m here. And believe it or not, I’m happy.” She looked at him accusingly. “Or I was until you started being a blathering idiot.”

  “I’m an idiot?”

  “Yes, you kind of are,” she snapped, pulling the shirt closed.

  They are silent for a bit and Roland tried to pull his head out of his ass and say the words burbling at his mouth, but his brain was having a hard time searching through the avalanche of options of how to proceed.

  He cleared his throat. “So, you aren’t associated with them, at all?”