Chapter 147
Raven
The urge hit me like a freight train—raw, primal, utterly consuming. My fingers itched toward the blade concealed beneath my jacket, muscle memory screaming at me to end every single person in this room. One swift movement. Twenty-three targets. Thirty seconds, tops.
Not yet.
I forced my hand to relax, channeling the rage into something colder, sharper. The rabbit mask suddenly felt like a cage, its eyeholes too narrow, the air beneath it thick with the stench of champagne and human filth.
Beside me, Scarlet's fox mask tilted slightly—a warning. Her hand found mine under the table, squeezed once. Hard.
Wait.
So I waited. And watched.
Miranda clapped her hands together, drawing the room's attention to the raised platform at the front. Her smile was radiant, practiced. The smile of someone who'd perfected the art of looking human while being anything but.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Her voice carried beautifully through the underground chamber. "Please, please take your seats! Tonight isn't just about celebrating another successful year." She paused for effect, her gaze sweeping the masked crowd. "It's about sharing our successes. Our... innovations."
Innovations.
The word tasted like poison in my mouth.
I rose from my seat, each movement deliberate. The crowd's attention shifted toward me—the mysterious rabbit who'd claimed an impossible number. I could feel their eyes through their masks, hungry and curious.
Miranda's smile widened as I approached the platform. "Oh wonderful! Our distinguished guest from the East! Please, come share your wisdom!"
I climbed the three steps to the platform, my boots making soft thuds against polished wood. From here, I could see them all—pigs, wolves, ravens, bears. Monsters wearing party costumes. My hand drifted toward my hidden blade.
"Well?" Miranda's voice held an edge of expectation. "What insights can someone with nineteen thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine... acquisitions... share with us?"
The room went silent. Waiting.
I turned to face the crowd, taking my time. Let them squirm. Let them wonder.
"Insights?" My voice came out flat. Cold. "What the fuck kind of insights do you want?"
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Miranda's smile flickered. Just for a second. "I—I'm sorry?"
"Insights," I repeated, each word dripping with contempt. "Heart-to-heart sharing? Is that what this is?"
Scarlet stood abruptly, her chair scraping against marble. "Ha! Sorry, sorry!" She waved her hands apologetically, voice pitched high and nervous. "You'll have to excuse my associate. She's always been... temperamental. Her 'insights' are usually buried with her clients, if you know what I mean. Secrets that stay in coffins." She laughed, forced and brittle. "She doesn't share easily—"
"Oh, I'll share." I cut her off, my gaze never leaving Miranda. "I can share a few insights."
The relief on Miranda's face was almost comical. "Oh! Wonderful! Please, we're all eager to hear from someone of your... caliber."
I turned back to the crowd, my fingers drumming once against my thigh. The blade pressed reassuringly against my ribs.
"But first." I gestured lazily at the sea of masks. "Let's hear from all of you. I'm curious what passes for 'innovation' these days." My hand swept across the room before landing on a pig mask in the third row. "You. Start talking."
The pig stood eagerly, practically bouncing. "Oh! Well, I'm from South America—Peru, mostly. My method's pretty straightforward, you know?" He laughed like we were discussing baseball stats. "I hit the highland villages. Poor areas. Nobody asks questions when kids disappear from places like that."
My jaw clenched so hard I tasted copper.
"I load them into trucks, take the river routes through the Amazon basin to avoid checkpoints. Then it's straight to the docks and up the coast to North America." He spread his hands proudly. "All my merchandise goes directly to Mr. Volkov. The talented ones—he passes to The Surgeon for Bloodline recruitment. The rest..." He shrugged. "Mr. Volkov handles distribution."
The room erupted in polite applause.
Something inside me cracked.
The Surgeon.
The name detonated in my brain like a cluster bomb. Fragments of memory—my mother's body, cold and still. Claire Harrison's murder. My own fragmented childhood, stolen and sold like fucking livestock.
He didn't just kill my mother.
He made me into Phantom.
I'd been merchandise. Product. A goddamn commodity passed from The Surgeon to Bloodline like a FedEx package.
"How many?" The words left my mouth before I could stop them.
The pig tilted his head. "Sorry?"
"How many did you sell this year?" My voice was too quiet. Too controlled.
"Oh! About thirty-two hundred. Honestly, bit disappointing compared to last year, but—"
"Where are they now?"
Silence dropped like a guillotine blade.
The pig's mask tilted in confusion. "The... children? Why would I know that? I just shared my process, like you asked—"
"WHERE. ARE. THEY."
Miranda stepped forward, her hostess smile cracking at the edges. "Miss Rabbit, I'm not sure what you're—"
"The children." I turned on her, and whatever she saw in my eyes through the mask holes made her step back. "The ones brought in tonight. This week. This month. Where the fuck are they?"
"That's—" She laughed nervously. "That's not how this works. We're brokers, not—we don't ask about final destinations. It's unprofessional. You should know that better than anyone with your numbers—"
My hand shot out, fingers closing around her throat like a vice.
"FUCK your professionalism."
I hauled her forward, her expensive heels skittering on the platform. The room erupted—chairs scraping, voices shouting, the unmistakable sound of weapons being drawn.
I didn't care.
The blade appeared in my other hand as if by magic, pressing against the soft flesh beneath Miranda's jaw. Her eyes went wide, pupils dilating with pure animal terror.
"I'm going to ask you one more time." Each word was a shard of ice. "And I suggest you think very carefully before you answer."
Her hands clawed at my wrist, nails scraping uselessly against leather.
"Where." The blade pressed deeper, drawing a thin line of crimson. "Are. The. Children."