Ace of Shades (The Shadow Game #1)(35)

Jac snorted. “A job doing what?”

“I told Vianca she was an acrobat.”

“Think you could get me a free ticket to their next show? I need a good laugh.” Jac kicked an empty beer bottle across the street. It clunked loudly—too loudly. This section of Olde Town was lifeless except for them.

Then footsteps thumped through the silence. Chez strutted out from the alley next to the old church, Mansi following close behind. Chez was scowling, which had lately become as permanent a feature of his face as his protruding brow bone and sharp sliver of a nose. He saluted Levi, quickly and haphazardly.

Mansi, however, brightened the moment she saw him and didn’t hesitate to cross herself. Like most kids in the North Side, Mansi took the laws of the streets seriously. Every rule. Every myth.

She looks skinny, Levi thought. Skinnier than usual.

He sighed. He was so tired, in his body as much as his soul. It exhausted him, carrying all this guilt. If all his failures were a sea, then he was drowning, and the omerta was the ball and chain dragging him down to rock bottom.

“’Lo,” Levi greeted them.

“Where were you last night?” Chez demanded. “Either of you?”

“Working, same as we both have every Saturday for the past year,” Levi grunted. Chez already knew this. “Why? What did we miss?” That was a question that, as the Iron Lord, he should never have had to ask.

“A run-in with the Scarhands,” Mansi blurted. Her gaze shifted wildly from Levi to Chez.

“What?” Levi growled. He would’ve never sanctioned such a brawl. Nor would Reymond. But street law had more power than the lords, in the end. Besides, Levi’s history with Reymond wasn’t common knowledge outside of this circle. The other Irons would view it as a breach of loyalty—Chez certainly did.

“Where was this?” Jac asked sharply.

“Near Revolution Bridge.” Not far from the border between Iron and Scar Lands.

“Was anyone hurt?” Levi asked, searching Mansi for scratches and bruises but, thankfully, found none.

“One of our rats pulled a knife but didn’t get a chance to use it,” Chez answered, his chest puffed out. “Scavenger had it coming.”

“Someone pulled a knife on Jonas?” Levi couldn’t imagine which of his kids was that thick. Jonas was the deadliest agent in the Scarhands. He’d even killed a Dove once.

“Will Reymond be upset? Didn’t mean to anger your missy, Pup,” Chez said, then instantly froze.

Both Jac’s and Mansi’s mouths fell open. It took everything Levi had not to cringe, to remind himself that he didn’t deserve this.

He was meant for more than this.

Levi slowly slid his knife out of his jacket. Not the smart one Vianca paid for, but the one with the rusted handle he’d used in the old days.

Chez eyed the knife but didn’t move. Levi flipped it a few times in the air as he walked toward him, and the blade’s edge twirled around Levi’s fingers with deadly finesse. Chez wasn’t the only one who could show off.

“It was a joke. You gonna gut me?” Chez said it more like a dare than a question, but they both knew that this was more than that. Six months ago, these comments were a joke.

Now they were a threat. To Levi’s power. To his pride.

Levi didn’t know how far he would go, but, oh, that knife felt good in his hand. Reymond or Ivory would’ve never allowed their third to talk to them like that. But Levi had sworn long ago he wouldn’t be like Reymond or Ivory. He wanted glory, not fear.

Besides, it wasn’t as if Levi could gut Chez, or simply kick him out. He’d need to replace him with someone else who could relay Levi’s orders to the other Irons—Jac couldn’t do all that himself. Mansi would run to the edge of the world and back for Levi, but she was only thirteen—how would it look if the third of the Irons was just a kid? The other gangs thought Levi was just a kid. If he made Mansi his third, they’d think he was a punch line.

He hated to admit it, but he needed Chez—at least until he got Sedric his payment and could focus on the Irons again. Or maybe Chez would grow more tolerable after that. He used to be better, before he’d decided the Irons’ problems were his responsibility, not Levi’s.

They’d been friends, once.

It all came back to respect, in the end. Levi would rather earn his respect at the card table than demand it at gunpoint. But it was Reymond who had once told him that respect and fear were two sides of the same card. Since it had come this far, Levi needed to play his hand.

He placed the edge of the blade against Chez’s throat. Chez went rigid. He didn’t dare to breathe. But he didn’t fight back, either. He didn’t think Levi would truly hurt him.

Levi barely recognized his own voice as he growled, “I could gut you.” Beside him, Mansi’s eyes widened with uncertainty. It was a look Levi wouldn’t soon forget.

“Oh, is that how you’re playing now?” Chez rasped.

“The question is how you’re playing,” Levi hissed. “What makes a lord isn’t the bravest, the smartest or the first person to whip out a knife. It’s the one who earns the volts and keeps everyone alive. No one else can lead like me.”

Levi felt the wisps of Jac’s aura grazing his shoulder, as if trying to calm him. Jac probably didn’t even realize his aura was doing it. Levi knew he wasn’t acting like himself; the Iron Lord didn’t have a reputation for pressing knives to his subordinates’ throats. But this was the hand he’d been dealt. He didn’t know how else to play it.