The suite opens into darkness cut by city lights bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows. Chicago spreads out below like a circuit board, all those tiny lives buzzing along, oblivious.
I pull the door shut with a softclick.
“Ivy.” Emeric's voice replaces Punk's, smooth as aged whiskey. “How are we feeling tonight?”
“Homicidal,” I mutter, crossing the foyer. Marble floors. Original art on the walls. The kind of wealth that makes you forget people are starving three blocks away.
He laughs, low and rich. “Yes, I gathered that from yourenthusiasticrequest for field work.” A pause. I can practically hear him swirling whatever overpriced bourbon he's drinking. “Tell me, does this sudden bloodlust have anything to do with a certain snowboarder who's been blowing up your phone?”
My jaw clenches. “No.”
“Liar.”
I ignore him, moving deeper into the suite. The bedroom door is cracked open, light spilling through. I catch the sound of running water. Shower.
Perfect.
“You know,” Emeric continues, because apparently he's decided to be chatty tonight, “I find it amusing. All these years, nothing rattles you. Not the close calls, not the injuries, not even that mess in Prague. But one pretty boy with boundary issues and suddenly you're requesting hits like you're ordering takeout.”
“Are you going to be useful or are you going to keep psychoanalyzing me?”
“Can't I do both?” The amusement in his voice makes me want to reach through the comm and strangle him. “Humor an old man,ma chérie. What is it about this one that's got you so…itchy?”
My phone buzzes again. I don't look.
“He's a complication,” I say, slipping a knife from the holster strapped to my thigh. The blade catches the light from the window, a thin line of silver that promises efficiency. “Complications need to be managed.”
“Mmm. And murdering a human trafficker is management?”
“It's stress relief.”
He laughs again, genuine this time. “Fair enough. Though I must say, I'm rather enjoying watching you squirm. It's beenwhat, six years? Seven? Since anyone's gotten under your skin like this.”
“He's not under my skin.”
“Of course not. That's why you've checked your phone four times since entering the building.”
I flip him off even though he can't see it.
The shower cuts off. I move to the wall beside the bathroom door, knife ready, breathing steady.
“Tick tock,” Punk says. “Twelve minutes.”
The bathroom door opens. Steam rolls out first, then him—Marcus Dalton, fifty-three, CEO of a shipping company that's really a front for moving girls across state lines. Sixteen confirmed deaths, dozens of ruined lives, and enough money to buy his way out of every investigation.
Not tonight.
He's in a towel, skin still damp, completely unaware. I wait until he passes me.
Then I move.
My arm hooks around his throat. He grunts, hands flying up to claw at my forearm, but I'm already sinking the blade into his kidney—quick, deep, angled up. The resistance gives way to something softer, and I feel the exact moment his body understands what's happening. He goes rigid against me, a strangled sound caught somewhere between his chest and his mouth.
“Shhh,” I whisper against his ear. “This is the part where you pay your tab.”
He tries to speak. Blood bubbles at his lips instead.
I hold him as he dies. It takes less than a minute. When his weight goes slack, I lower him to the floor, careful not to let him thump.
