Several minutes later, the front of Lex’s vehicle turns down a wide driveway. Frowning, I scan the road we’d just left and then look towards the three-story neoclassical-style mansion. Not a ritzy hotel, but a private residence.
The front porch light is on and a few of the windows cast a golden glow across the green lawn that defies the season. Lex slows to a stop along the bricked driveway, the wheels rolling to a halt in front of the stone steps leading up the front double doors of the house. I wait a beat, sure they’re about to tell me we’ve made a wrong turn somewhere, but then Lex shuts off the engine and that expectation is erased.
Nolan and Gio are the first ones to get out as I drop my legs back to the floorboards and reach for my seat belt. The moment I pop my door open, Lex does too, and together, we exit the vehicle and look up at the grand building. It’s no different than anything any one of my old friends would have lived in. In fact, for a house on the north side, it’s actually a bit small.
Living in apartments and mill homes and carriage houses for the last few months has really fucked with my perspective.
Nolan strides past the front of the SUV and up the steps, leaving the rest of us to follow behind him. Before he even manages to reach the door, however, it’s pulled open from the inside and a tall, broad figure steps into the light.
I recognize Mitchell Vikson as he’d introduced himself to me at The Dionysus Lounge. Except, this time, he’s not dressed in a semi-professional manner. Clad in a pair of loose gray sweatpants that pull tight over tree-trunk-sized thighs and a black t-shirt straining at his shoulders and biceps, he looks as if he just rolled out of bed or is preparing to go for a five-mile run.
“Boys,” he calls as the four of us freeze on the steps. Then his eyes find mine. “And lady,” he amends before stepping out of the doorway and gesturing into the front hall. “Come on in.”
Passing underneath the hanging lantern that illuminates the front porch, I trail the guys into the mansion and the door quietly shuts behind us. Vikson wastes no time with pleasantries as he bypasses our group and moves into a large living room.
“Did you see the message I sent you earlier?” Nolan speaks first, directing the question at the man as he strides across the living room to what looks like a wet bar and pours himself a drink from a crystal decanter.
I let my eyes trail around the room, picking up a few key details. There are no family photos on the walls, merely a few pieces of impressionist art that might be expensive but could just as easily be prints or copies. There’s a massive wood fireplace with a black gate set in front of it, but no sign of soot or ash to show it’s been used recently. The house is clean—as if it’s regularly maintained—but there’s no scent of cooked food that lingers even hours after a meal or other smells that would reflect a long-term resident.
In essence, it’s a model house. No one actually lives here. It’s just for show.
“If you mean about the legal issue with Calloway, then yes,” Vikson replies, turning to face us. He arches a brow when he realizes none of us have taken more than a single step or two into the space and then gestures to the twin couches that are stationed across from each other before the fireplace. “Take a seat,” he urges. “I’m sure you’re tired if you’ve been at practice all night.”
I hesitate, but the guys’ muscles must be more sore than they let on because, one by one, each of them moves to the couches and takes a spot. When I don’t move, Vikson arches a brow my way and tilts his head.
“Nice to see you again, Juliet,” he says. “I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.”
“What’s your goal here, Mr. Vikson?” I ask, the question shooting from me before I can stop myself.
Nolan told me that Vikson offered assistance when I was kidnapped. He might have connections with some powerful people in Eastpoint, but other than our one meeting, I know nothing about this man. I don’t trust him. I can’t. Not yet.
What would stop him from turning on us if he were to know all that we’ve done? I cast a look at Nolan, who sits rather stiffly in his seat, though he tries to appear relaxed with one ankle crossed over his knee and an arm thrown across the back of the couch.
Vikson cracks a smile at my brusque tone. “To get to know my nephew, for one thing,” he replies easily, raising his glass to his lips and taking a long sip. “And please call me Viks, I prefer it.”
“Noted,” I reply, “but what else?” It’s not like Lex has been hiding from him for the last eighteen years. Why now?
Viks stares back at me, not seeming the least bit perturbed by my brazenness. He empties his glass and sets it back down before he speaks.
“Before I answer your question, will you answer one from me?” he asks.
My jaw hardens, clenching so tight my teeth ache, but I don’t deny him. I merely jerk my head down in a nod and wait.
“What do you want, Juliet?”
I blink. “What?”
“It’s a pretty simple question,” Viks says. “What is it that you want? Do you want your old life back? Money? A house? A job?”
What do I want?
I want what everyone wants. I want something to finally give. I want my anger to finally fade. That’s not the kind of answer he’s looking for, though. Viks is asking what I want for the future. What I want when this is all over.
Money buys nothing but material goods and a false sense of security. A house? One that could just be taken in an instant. Burned down. Broken. Wrecked. A job? Actually, I do need that, but if I’m honest, I know getting attached to a job here in Silverwood will only lead to disappointment further down the road.
Viks hums in the back of his throat, the sound reverberating through the room as I remain silent. “Maybe it’s not as easy of a question,” he offers mildly. “Let me rephrase then.” He moves away from the wet bar and strides across the room towards me.
At once, all three guys stand from the couches, but Viks merely stops in front of me—ignoring their sudden movements. “If you were given a chance to get out of this life, would you take it?”
