It was empty.

Jess had never seen his father’s warehouse empty before; there were always bolts and bundles of imported silk, pieces of fine furniture, boxes of expensive trinkets. His father had expensive tastes, but his real treasures had been concealed behind false walls and up high in the rafters—boxes and stacks of rare, original books. Beauties that ranged into antiquity, from the hands of the original authors or the most accurate copies. His father always sold quality, whether the items were legal or criminal.

There was nothing there now except a squad of hard men. Most were armed with knives and some with stolen guns liberated from either Garda or the army. Finding weapons wasn’t a challenge for someone well-known in the shadow markets.

“Come out, Da,” Brendan said. “I know you’re here. They would have already run to the hills if you weren’t.”

There was a laugh from the shadows, and then Callum Brightwell stepped out—grimy, thinner, with a cut on one cheek that had barely begun to heal. “My boys. Come here to me.”

Brendan walked over and received a bear hug. Jess didn’t move.

“I think I’ll stay where I am,” Jess said. “I can see you’re overcome with joy that I’m alive.”

“I am,” Callum said, though there was no real sign of it.

“How did you get away from the Garda?”

“Hard fighting, boy. They got my Codex and twelve of my men. But they lost me. And you, apparently. Clever lad.” His father had lost his smile. “Stop dithering. Your place is with us. I didn’t send you to the damned Library to become a rebel. There’s no profit in it.”

“There might be,” Jess said. “If you’ll listen to what we have to say.”

“Sure,” Callum said. “But first I have a job for you. Tell your High Garda friends to lower their weapons or I’ll have my men shoot and use the ones who survive it.”

That was a cold, clear threat, and Jess turned to look at Santi. Santi shifted his aim to rest on Callum Brightwell’s forehead. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Shoot me, I’ll still pull the trigger. You know that.”

“I have two fine sons to carry on for me. Do you think I’m worried, Captain Santi? Yes, I know who you are; I like to know who has influence over my son. Including you, Scholar Wolfe.”

“Stop this,” Jess said, and took another step toward his father—but not far enough to interfere with Santi’s aim. “I’m not some Brightwell asset. I make my own decisions.”

“Yet you come running to me for help.”

“I’m bringing you an opportunity you’ll never see again. It’s business.”

“And we thought you didn’t have the Brightwell heart,” Brendan said. He was smiling and his eyes were bright, and in that moment Jess knew his instincts had been right. He couldn’t trust his family. Ever. “We’ve got business for you to do first. Show us you’re trustworthy, and then we’ll look at this opportunity of yours. Or don’t, and we’ll kill some of your friends, if not all of them. Your choice.”