Day hated these events.
Fake smiles. Backhanded compliments. Every guest armed with either a gun or a secret. Most with both.
He glanced sideways at Sky, who was gawking at the chandelier like it might start raining glitter. Sky didn't belong here. Not with the mobsters and murderers dressed like politicians. Not with him.
And yet, Day hadn't told him not to come.
Sky adjusted the cuffs of his shimmering shirt, completely oblivious to the whispers that followed them through the ballroom.
"That's him," someone murmured. "The heir."
Day heard it all. He always did.
"Why are people looking at us like we're in a soap opera?" Sky whispered, nudging his elbow against Day's arm.
Because we are, Day thought. One where the main character doesn't make it to the season finale.
"Stick close," he said instead.
Sky chuckled. "Wow. Romantic."
But he moved closer.
Day's father sat at the head of the room, surrounded by his captains and their obedient shadows. The King of the Underworld in a spotless white suit. One nod from him, and men disappeared. Cities burned.
Sky didn't even flinch under his gaze. Day didn't know if that made him brave or just hopelessly naive.
"Ah, so the prince finally shows up," came a voice dripping with amusement—and poison.
It was Luca Moretti. One of Day's father's "associates." A man who smiled like a shark and had a thing for making people disappear.
"Who's the plus-one?" Luca asked, eyes flicking to Sky.
Day stepped slightly in front of him.
"He's with me."
That pause in the conversation was deadly. A beat too long. A breath too cold.
Sky, bless his idiotic heart, offered a hand and said, "Hi. I'm Sky. I make lemon tarts."
Luca laughed.
Day didn't.
Because he knew what that laugh meant.
They wouldn't make it out of this night untouched.