Chapter Text
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Wylan drew in a deep breath before knocking on his father’s door, as if the air itself might fill him with courage. His gaze caught on the large mirror beside the frame, and he couldn’t resist straightening himself up. His father despised disorder, despised carelessness. That was why Wylan’s unruly copper-gold curls were always tamed and slicked back. Not a single crease was permitted in his expensive, finely tailored suit. If there was, his father’s eyes would find it immediately—and then refuse to look at him at all.
For all his ruthless power in the Barrel, Jan Van Eck had no tolerance for vulgarity. The swagger others wore with pride, he regarded with disdain. He craved refinement, costly simplicity. Even the gambling hall and bar beneath his office bore the mark of his taste: dim red light filling the room, a piano drifting lazily in the background, patrons forever dressed in their finest. And above, in the sanctity of his office, were treasures no one without permission would ever know of—statues, busts, and works of art collected like secrets.
Wylan knocked gently but firmly enough that the sound carried. At his father’s curt summons, he stepped inside.
“Is it done?” Jan Van Eck asked. He did not bother to look at his son, eyes buried in the endless stacks of papers before him. Unlike the other bosses of the Barrel—who shoved responsibility onto their underlings so they could lounge, drink, and waste their time—Jan Van Eck worked tirelessly. Half the day, every day, was given over to work. He had no patience for laziness, no tolerance for failure.
Wylan smoothed his jacket and stood tall, back straight, voice calm. “As you commanded, Father.”
Apparently his tone lacked conviction. Jan Van Eck’s sharp blue eyes—darker than Wylan’s—lifted at last, fixing on him. The weight of that gaze sent a shiver down Wylan’s spine.
“And?” his father pressed.
“There were some complications. But they’ve been dealt with,” Wylan said, his voice faintly rough.
“What kind of complications could possibly arise with that Barrel rat, Brekker’s boy?” Jan Van Eck’s voice rose.
“They’ve been handled, Father,” Wylan insisted. “Trust me.”
His father’s eyes hardened. “Every time you ask me to trust you, I lose. You can’t even manage the simplest tasks.”
It wasn’t true. Wylan had overheard him boasting to Pekka Rollins not long ago—boasting that his son was the finest sharpshooter in the Barrel, a true heir to power.
Not entirely true, either. Wylan was good, but these days he had a rival. Two years ago, Jesper Fahey had appeared: tall, Zemeni, reckless with his gambling, only a year older than Wylan. By now, his debts stretched across every gambling den in Ketterdam. Just last week Wylan had seen him, hands twitching with excitement as the wheel spun, his face shifting from thrill to despair.
Wylan didn’t gamble. Or if he did, it was rare. He knew he had a knack for card counting, but he had no desire for his father to ever learn of it. Jan Van Eck despised gamblers, even if he gladly pocketed the profits their addictions brought.
It was fortunate his father had never seen Jesper at the tables. The sharpshooter could never sit still—restless, animated, his body in constant motion. How he ever managed to take aim, Wylan couldn’t fathom.
And he lost. Constantly. Watching him play stirred an odd irritation in Wylan, as though he wanted to shake him, shout Is this what you deserve? The feeling unsettled him. Jesper’s worth, or lack of it, was none of his concern.
Another complication was a boy named Kaz Brekker, Jesper’s crewmate. In just three years he had risen swiftly through the ranks, becoming the right hand of Per Haskell, president of the Crow Club. There was something about him that unsettled Wylan, something that reminded him of his own father—merchant-cut suits, attire plain and understated compared to the Barrel’s usual flash. Already, with Inej Ghafa—the best spider in the Barrel—and sharpshooter Jesper Fahey, his crew had grown formidable.
Clever. Cunning. If there was a job worth hearing of, his name was bound to be tied to it. Wylan despised crossing paths with him. Brekker would begin with a disarming, almost friendly conversation, and then in an instant his words would turn sharp, cutting like knives. There was something chilling in his cruelty. Wylan had not dealt with him often, but he had heard enough: a perfect thief, a perfect gambler. Wylan had heard his reputation echoing through the Barrel, and once, just once, he had wanted to watch him at a card table. Perhaps even challenge him to a game...
His father’s interest faded quickly. That brief silence was dismissal enough. Wylan bowed his head, hands clasped before him, then turned and left the office without another word. As he descended the stairs to the casino floor, anger welled up in his chest. At the bottom, he tugged at his jacket to straighten it once more, then strode to the bar. He ordered something strong, braced his back against the counter, and let his eyes sweep the room with loathing. Every time his father flung failure in his face, Wylan spat his hatred at the world around him.
His fingers found the cold metal of his gun. He rubbed at it idly, but the gesture only stoked the fire inside him. Weapons had never brought him comfort—not in moments like this.
He tipped the drink back in one hard swallow. Like his father, Wylan usually preferred finer, more expensive liquor, but when he was angry, it was as if he meant to drown himself. Never enough to get drunk, never even to grow lightheaded. His first time drinking had been a disaster; intoxication had left him sick and helpless, bent over with nothing but bile to show for it. He loathed the weakness of it. So he set the glass down as gently as possible.
The old bartender knew his habits well enough not to offer a refill.
His eyes wandered aimlessly across the room. He could see the crew his father had assigned to him—men at least ten, sometimes twenty years his senior. They spent half their lives drinking, brawling, and stumbling out of brothels or bars at dawn. They were not Wylan’s personal choices—could never have been. Jan Van Eck did not admit just anyone into his ranks, especially not the young.
The young were, in his words, too reckless, too wasteful, careless and inept. And whenever he said it, his eyes never left Wylan’s, as if daring him to contradict.
Sometimes Wylan wanted to choke him for it. The thought was useless, of course. No matter how many weapons he held, no matter how many people he shot or assassinations he carried out, he could never quite summon the strength to turn a gun on his father. And if he did? Jan Van Eck would laugh. He would look at him the way he had when Wylan was five years old, the day he’d first pressed a gun into his hands and forced him to shoot a captured man.
Wylan rubbed at his eyes. He hadn’t slept well. He worked as tirelessly as his father—perhaps more so—but he never achieved that perfect balance Jan Van Eck seemed to maintain with ease.
Sleep eluded him. Four hours at most, and then he would jolt awake drenched in sweat, lungs heaving, sprawled across the mattress as he waited for sleep to take him again.
Using his hands for support, Wylan nudged the barstool back and began to walk, slow and deliberate, each step edged with pain. Blanca would have laughed at his pace, saying he looked like he was sauntering, as if he were some spoiled, noble creature—haughty, languid, almost coy.
He shoved the memory aside quickly and fixed his attention on the tables, on the players. Watching people so wholly consumed by their games sparked a familiar need in him—the urge to capture it, to sketch those trembling, twitching fingers on paper.
His talent for drawing had meant nothing to his father until Wylan began sketching architectural blueprints. Just as his knowledge of chemistry had been dismissed as a hobby until he applied it to the making of explosives. Jan Van Eck valued knowledge, but he saw Wylan’s inability to read as ignorance. Worse, he sometimes behaved as though Wylan did it deliberately, as though his son chose to shame him. One day you’ll take my place, he’d snapped once, as if demanding Wylan correct himself immediately.
It was why Wylan had sharpened every other skill he could, anything to appease his father’s heart. And yet, deep down, he knew this flaw could never truly be erased.
He kept moving through the tables, walking with the kind of lofty pride his father expected. He should have gone straight upstairs, directly to his room in the attic above the office. But he wasn’t ready to drown alone in the humiliation of his father’s undeserved reprimand.
A flash of bright fabric caught his eye—like a spark of flame in the dark. Wylan couldn’t help the curl of a smile. Jesper Fahey. He’d been seeing far too much of him lately, and he wasn’t at all sorry for it.
The sharpshooter was sprawled deep into a leather armchair, leg bouncing with excitement. Judging by his face, the game had only just begun. He was dressed, as always, in his Barrel bravado: a lime-green jacket and a crisp white shirt that clung to his rich, brown skin.
The wheel spun. Jesper tensed with anticipation. Beside him sat a man in a neatly cut suit—likely some middling clerk, a man with modest wealth and a respectable job. The Laurel Club often attracted such patrons. Its appeal lay in its cleanliness, its veneer of sophistication.
The wheel kept spinning merrily. Wylan strolled on, and as he passed, he reached out without thinking—stopping the wheel with a mocking tap before continuing on his way.
Jesper cursed behind him. Wylan’s smile slipped free.
“Hey, pal!” Jesper’s voice boomed across the club, echoing off every polished wall. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Wylan turned slightly, voice light with feigned surprise. “Oh—were you talking to me?”
The truth was, Jesper’s failure to recognize him stung. Wylan Van Eck—one of the best sharpshooters, an explosives expert, heir to the growing Van Eck empire.
But Jesper was probably half-drunk and had mistaken him for just another one of the Laurel Club’s well-dressed young patrons. And why wouldn’t he? Wylan lacked Kaz Brekker’s deadly aura. He could be mistaken for an aristocrat’s son, a musician, even a scholar.
But no matter what the guesses, the conclusion was always the same: Wylan was rich, and it showed.
Jesper’s fingers brushed the pearl handles of his revolvers. Perhaps it was thoughtless habit. Perhaps not. His next words made it clear enough:
“You looking for a fight, pretty boy?”
In any other club, it might have been nothing more than a careless taunt. Even here, perhaps Jesper only meant to spook some spoiled merchant’s son, to put him in his place.
But in the same instant, every dealer, every attendant, every guard in the club drew their weapons, training them on Jesper and the poor, unlucky clerk beside him.
Jesper froze, caught off guard. The croupier pressed the muzzle of his pistol to Jesper’s temple, eyes flicking to Wylan, waiting for the word.
Wylan raised his hands in a calm, almost soothing gesture. Slowly, the weapons lowered. But the air remained taut with unease, heavy with the scent of fear. Players shifted nervously, cowed by the sudden tension.
Wylan met Jesper’s storm-grey eyes. “Don’t you think that’s enough games for one night?” His voice was smooth, but there was no mistaking the implication. Jesper hadn’t started here.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned his back and walked on. Behind him, he caught the croupier’s voice, loud and deferential:
“The Van Eck heir.”
Wylan didn’t bother to hide his smile this time.
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