Modred Vane wasn't entirely sure what to make of the cold smile playing on Zane's face, nor could he truly believe he was standing before Zane Whitman.
It wasn't a matter of admiration; Modred couldn't care less for a Whitman, especially since Herbert had nearly blown all their asses wide open. It was simply the fact that this was Zane—the golden boy, the seemingly white sheep of the family. Or perhaps he was grey.
Modred had always sensed this fellow had more up his sleeves than he let on, and now here the man was, standing in a den as filthy as this, uttering the words "dirty sex" to gain entry.
That was the only way he could have reached this floor: the access code. Who had told him? Who had betrayed the circle?
Modred was certain as hell that neither he nor his colleagues had invited the arrogant orphan; the Whitmans were nothing but trouble.
