Chapter 2 - What was in the file.

ROMAN

There are thirteen seats around the table.

Tonight, twelve of them are occupied.

Nobody asks about the empty one.

They know better than to do that.

I sit at the head with my phone facedown beside my hand while Cole, spends the better part of five minutes making the man standing across from us believe they're having a friendly conversation. They're not. That's the thing about Cole. He smiles when he's angry, laughs when he should probably be throwing punches and can convince almost anyone that he's on their side long enough to get exactly what he wants from them.

I've watched professors apologise to him after catching him breaking rules. I've watched women forgive him for things they should've slapped him for, probably stabbed him for. Right now though, I'm watching a twenty-year-old junior make the mistake of thinking Cole's smile means he's getting out of this room without telling us what we want to know.

"So," Cole says, leaning back in his chair. "Let's try this again."

The guy swallows.

"I already told you what happened."

"No. You told us such a shit story and hoped we'd believe it."

Noah snorts from the chair beside him.

"To be fair, it wasn't even a good shit story." Cole points at him.

"Exactly. If you're going to lie to me, at least make it entertaining and believable."

"I wasn't lying." he stammers and I just wish I could lean over this table and snap his neck.

Across the way, Rhys finally lifts his eyes. He has those kind of evil eyes that make people want to bow down and apologise to him.

The guy shuts up which is a smart move. Thew first one of the night.

Rhys hasn't said a word since we brought our unexpected guest downstairs fifteen minutes ago. He hasn't needed to. There are people at Blackthorne university who think Rhys Hunter is shy because he doesn't waste words on people he doesn't like. Those people are idiots and more gullible if they truly do believe that. Rhys doesn't talk because silence makes other people uncomfortable, and uncomfortable people have a habit of filling it. Usually with things they shouldn't say or admit. He sits with one ankle resting over his knee, black shirt pushed to his elbows, watching the guy like he's deciding which part of him would break first. At 22 years old, he has a big habit of pushing someone to the brink of a cliff and smiling as he does so.

Hypothetical and literal. He has a kink for seeing other in pain.

Noah catches my eye from across the table and raises one eyebrow. He knows exactly what Rhys is doing. So does Cole. The idiot standing in front of us clearly doesn't get the memo. If he does then he's brave enough to ignore it.

My phone vibrates against the table.

Nobody sitting around it reacts.

The guy does.

His eyes drop towards the sound.

Big mistake my guy.

"Look at me."

His attention snaps back to mine.

Immediately.

"What did you see?" I ask again.

"Nothing."

Cole sighs.

Noah leans back in his chair.

Rhys smiles his unhinged smile.

The guy notices that one.

Whatever colour remained in his face disappears.

"I swear."

"People who swear they're telling the truth usually aren't," Noah says.

"That's not remotely true," Cole replies. "But It sounded good."

"It sounded stupid."

"You sound stupid." Noah laughs but I don't so much as crack a smile.

Cole looks offended. "I've been carrying this conversation for the better part of 43 minutes now."

"You've been talking. There's a difference. We haven't got shit out of the scrawny little fuckface, so we haven't made progress yet, have we?"

Under any other circumstances, I'd tell both of them to shut the fuck up. Tonight, I let them continue for another few seconds because the guy standing opposite us is getting more nervous every time they act like this isn't serious. That's another thing people misunderstand about the four of us. They expect darkness. Threats. Raised voices. Some dramatic fucking show of power because apparently rich university students with dangerous surnames are supposed to behave like villains in cheap movies.

We don't. We don't need to. Blackthorne has known our families longer than any of us have been alive. Our names are carved into buildings, printed across the scholarship funds that are sent to the unfortunate and buried inside enough university paperwork that removing us would probably require demolishing half the campus.

The Hollow existed before us. It'll exist after us. We just happen to be the four men currently making sure nobody fucks with it.

I push the folder in front of me across the table.

It stops at the edge.

The guy stares down at it.

"You accessed the west archive at eleven forty-three last night."

"I got lost."

Noah laughs. Actually laughs.

"Underground? That's a very specific place to be getting lost in."

"I was looking for the library."

"At midnight?" Cole asks.

"I study late."

"In a locked archives?"

The guy doesn't answer which has Cole leaning forward.

"See, this is what I mean. You're not even trying to bullshit properly."

"I didn't take anything." he shouts and I would hate to be on the receiving end of his fate tonight.

"Nobody said you did."

Silence.

There it is.

His eyes widen slightly when he realises what he's done.

Rhys lowers his foot to the floor in triumph.

And I finally understand why the idiot has spent the last 45 minutes lying to us. Because he knows he isn't escaping so easily.

"You took something."

"No."

"You just told me you didn't take shit but your face says different. Your hands won't stop fidgeting around on the table or your lap, your eyes keep looking towards the door in hopes you can make a quick exit and your body language leans more towards the 'I definitely did take something' attitude."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant."

I open the second folder and remove the photograph security pulled from the corridor outside the archive. Grainy. Black and white. Enough to show him entering at eleven forty-three and leaving six minutes later with something tucked beneath his jacket that wasn't there before. The university thinks the cameras in that section stopped working years ago. Most students don't even know that corridor exists. The Hollow made sure of both. I slide the photograph across the table and watch his eyes drop to it. That's when the fear finally becomes real. Not because he's worried about getting caught. Because he's realised we already know more than he thought we did.

"What did you take?"

"Nothing."

Rhys exhales.

Just once.

Cole looks towards him while flipping his knife between his fingers.

"Want this one?"

"No."

The guy visibly relaxes but Rhys continues.

"I don't want him." he says and the relief disappears from his face.

Noah rubs a hand over his mouth, hiding a grin. "That's somehow worse."

"It usually is," Cole says.

I ignore them.

"Last chance."

The guy looks around the table as though one of the other eleven men might suddenly decide to save him. Nobody moves. The Thirteen aren't friends. Not all of us. Some barely tolerate each other. Membership isn't built on friendship. It's built on legacy, usefulness and the understanding that whatever happens inside this room stays inside it. The Hollow was created around 116 years ago but 'The Thirteen' was created only 4 decades ago. Each member seated at this table has a family member who has also sat at this table. A secret society that lives solely by two things. To destroy and rule our territory.

Some family members are in high end real estate, some are from old money, some are from new money and then there is Me and my guys. Were from all three combined plus one extra addition. We are all heirs and set to take over the criminal empires our families have been doing for centuries, when we turn 25.

Cole, Noah, Rhys and I are different. We grew up around each other. Our fathers sat in these seats before us, as did their fathers before them.

Blackwood. Saint. King. Hunter. The four names tied to Blackthorne so tightly that people have spent generations trying to decide whether the university created our families or our families created the university. Personally, I couldn't give a shit which version they believe. Both have advantages.

My phone vibrates again.

I turn it over this time and sigh.

Dad.

Three missed calls.

Two messages.

Dad: Answer your phone.

The second arrived thirty seconds ago.

Dad: Sunday. Dinner. 7pm. Don't make plans and don't be late.

I stare at it. He never summons me back to his house. Why the fuck would he now?

Cole notices and stares over my shoulder.

"Alexander?"

"Unfortunately."

Noah grins. "Still trying to domesticate you?"

"He gave up on that when I was twelve."

"Maybe he's dying?" Cole offers.

"He'd schedule it more efficiently. On his terms no doubt."

Rhys looks across at me.

"Wedding?"

One word.

Of course he remembers.

I told them weeks ago that Alexander - Dad - had apparently decided on getting married without warning anybody -Apart from me but I refused to attend cause I didn't give a shit - was an acceptable use of his time. I received the news through a message while we were in New York. No phone call. No introduction. Just a photograph of two champagne glasses and a sentence telling me her name. I responded with a thumbs-up. He called me an asshole. I told him marriage hadn't improved his personality. We've barely discussed it since.

Noah taps his fingers against the table.

"You still haven't met her?"

"No."

Cole looks genuinely interested now.

"Do you know her name?"

I think about it.

"No."

He stares at me.

"Your father has a wife and you don't know what she's called?"

"I assume he knows. Probably also calls her one of his mistresses names during sex." I say and laugh because the old man has never been one for marriage. Nor commitment. I

They all simply just laugh.

"Jesus Christ, Blackwood."

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm just starting to understand why your family communicates exclusively through lawyers."

"We don't."

"Accountants too," Rhys says.

Cole points across the table.

"See? Hunter gets it."

My phone vibrates again because the impatient bastard can't take a hint that I don't give a shit.

Dad: That also wasn't a suggestion.

I type back.

Me: Sounded like one.

The reply arrives almost instantly.

Dad: Be there.

Me: And what if I don't want to be there.

Dad: I told you about Caroline and her daughter. Play nice and be there.

Me: I knew you were getting married. I never asked for her fucking family tree.

I lock the screen and put the phone facedown again. Alexander can wait. His new wife can wait. Whatever attempt he's making at forcing us into one room so he can pretend we're suddenly some functioning family can definitely wait. I have no problem with him getting married. I don't particularly care who he spends his life with, provided she makes him less irritating. But I don't need to sit through dinner and answer polite questions from a woman I'll probably see twice a year. Alexander knows that. It's probably why he's insisting. The man has spent twenty-one years treating my refusal as an invitation to push harder. Unfortunately for him, I've spent the same twenty-one years learning how to push back.

Cole clears his throat.

"Are we done discussing the Blackwood family dysfunction now?"

"We weren't discussing it to begin with." I snap

"We were absolutely discussing it."

"Noah was laughing," Rhys says.

"I was contributing to such a dreadful dynamic that is Blackwood's life. Better than Noah's anyway."

Noah turns towards him with a scowl on his face.

"I say my own words and I have a decent life thankyou."

"You've said nine words in twenty minutes."

"Eight." Cole says as he starts counting on his fingers and nodding to confirm it.

I look back at the guy standing across from us.

"Sit down."

The humour disappears immediately.

He sits.

I slide the security photograph closer to him.

"We're going to do this one more time. You're going to tell me what you took, who told you where to find it and why they wanted it."

"And if I don't?" he asks, acting brave. Braver than anyone I know.

I lean back in my chair.

"Then you will find out why everyone at Blackthorne knows better than to come looking for The Hollow for trouble."

Nobody speaks after that.

They don't need to.

The guy looks at the photograph again, then at the twelve men sitting around the table. His shoulders drop. Whatever loyalty brought him down here clearly isn't strong enough to survive the reality of being caught.

"It was a file."

"We kind of gathered that part. What was in this file?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit."

"I swear. There wasn't a name on it. Just a date to pick it up and a place to drop it off to."

I watch him carefully.

"What date?"

He tells me. And for the first time tonight, Rhys reacts to the news.

Barely. Just a slight shift in his chair.

But even that small notion is Interesting.

"Who asked you to get it?"

The guy hesitates.

I don't.

"Name." I shout at him.

He looks directly at me. "I've never met them."

Cole mutters something under his breath.

The guy rushes on.

"Everything was through messages. An anonymous account. They gave me the location, told me which cabinet it was in and said they'd pay five grand if I got it out without being caught."

"Well, well done because you have officially been caught. Where's the file now?"

"I left it where they told me to."

"Where?"

His answer changes the room.

Not because the location means anything to the other members.

Because it means something to the four of us.

Rhys stands first. Then the others.

And my phone vibrates for the fourth f*ck*ng time in ten minutes.

I don't bother checking it.

Whatever Alexander wants from me on Sunday has just moved even further down my list of problems.

I close the folder and stand.

"Meeting's over."

Nobody argues.

Chairs scrape against stone as The Thirteen begin leaving the room, conversations kept deliberately low. Cole waits by the door. Noah pulls out his phone. Rhys is already halfway across the chamber before stopping and looking back at me.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Probably."

Cole glances between us.

"That's reassuringly vague."

Noah pockets his phone. "We checking it tonight?"

I pick up my jacket.

"Now."

My phone vibrates again.

I glance at the screen as we head towards the stairs.

Dad: Roman. Seven o'clock. Sunday. I mean it.

I type a reply without slowing down.

Me: Fine. One hour.

Then I put my phone away and forget about the dinner almost immediately.

Four days from now, Blackthorne opens its gates for another year.

Thousands of students will arrive believing they know exactly what kind of university they've chosen.

Most of them will never realise what's underneath it.

That's the point.

Blackthorne keeps its secrets.

And so do we.