Brandon

I, Brandon King, belong to one of the most influential families in the

UK, if not the most influential, but I still don’t get people’s obsession with

selected elites.

Is it the illusion? The unknown? Something entirely different?

The girl’s chatter comes to a halt and she looks up as everyone else

grows silent. I follow her field of vision and pause when the balcony doors

on the second floor open and five men stroll outside, all of them wearing

neon-stitch Halloween-esque masks.

The one in the middle has an orange mask and carries a metal club. He’s

tall and broad, but the guy by his side who’s wearing a yellow mask is taller and buffer, and he reeks of hostility, even from this distance.

He stands out because he’s the only one without a weapon, but he still

emanates a nefarious energy. The rest of them, however, seem to have their

thoughts and tempers under control.

Red Mask’s fingers wrap around a bat, letting it rest nonchalantly on his

shoulder.

A recurve bow is nestled in Green Mask’s hand and there’s a quiver

attached to his back, and White Mask strokes a heavy-looking chain that’s

hanging around his neck.

They’re all dressed in black T-shirts and trousers like a conformist unit

of destruction.

Fortunately, I’ve never crossed the Heathens’ paths or interacted with

them, which can’t be said about my prick of a brother. Is he with them?

Perhaps he’s playing a sick game to be part of their inner circle?

Or is he maybe somewhere in front of me or behind me? Maybe next to

me?

The problem is, I can never imagine Lan being a participant in another

group’s glory or a mere follower in someone else’s mayhem. He’s too

narcissistic for that. Besides, how could he possibly get an invitation?

The same way I got invited?

Probably.

Maybe.

I watch the five Heathens closely. The one in orange, standing tall in the

middle, is most likely Jeremy Volkov, the leader of the Heathens and a

Russian mafia prince. If my friends’ gossip can be trusted, he’s ruthless to a

fault and is rumored to kill everyone in his wake.

Green and Red Masks are possibly Gareth and Killian Carson. The

siblings are affiliated with the mafia but are more American royalty instead

of mafia princes. However, I’m not sure which is which. White Mask seems

like the leanest of the bunch, so he can’t be any of the three previously

mentioned.

Yellow Mask can only be Nikolai Sokolov. Another Russian mafia

prince, Killian and Gareth’s cousin, and the craziest twat who ever walked

the earth.

If rumors are anything to go by—and in Nikolai’s case, they probably

are—he’s capable of punching someone to death just because they had the

audacity to piss him off. I’ve only stood close to him once, a week ago when—again—my twin brother was fighting him in an underground fight

club.

I honest to God thought he’d pummel Lan to death.

He didn’t, because my brother is a cat with nine lives.

My concern about Lan shifted to disturbing unease when Nikolai looked

at me with a manic expression while wearing my brother’s blood on his

bandaged hands.

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