I look over at Ivy in the passenger seat. She rips off the wig, letting her hair tumble down. She throws the glasses out the window.
She is breathing hard. She is covered in sweat and grime.
She looks at me and smiles.
"We robbed him," she says, laughing breathlessly. "We actually robbed him."
"We stripped him clean," I confirm, reaching over to grip her thigh. "And we left him bleeding."
I look back at the road, a dark satisfaction settling in my gut.
We have the money. We have the power back.
And Nikolai Sokolov has a scar to remember my wife by.
The King is back.
And the Queen just earned her crown.
CHAPTER 23
THE BLOOD RUSH
POV: IVY
The city blurs past the window of the Bronco like a streak of neon paint on a wet canvas. Red taillights, white streetlamps, the yellow glare of taxis—it all merges into a river of light that we are cutting through like a knife.
I am shaking.
Not from fear. Not anymore.
I am shaking from a high so potent, so electric, that I feel like my skin is too tight for my body.
I look at my hands. They are resting on my knees, stained with grime and sweat. Ten minutes ago, these hands held a ceramic knife. Ten minutes ago, I slashed a man who terrifying half of the Eastern European underworld.
I cut him. I saw his eyes widen. I saw the fear.
I look over at Silas.
He is driving with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping my thigh so hard his fingers are digging into my muscle. He isn't looking at the road; his eyes are darting between the mirrors and the windshield, scanning for threats, but every few seconds, his gaze flicks to me.
And when he looks at me, it’s not with the cold, calculating assessment of the captor.
It’s with the raw, starving hunger of a man looking at his salvation.
"You’re quiet," he growls, his voice rough over the roar of the engine.
"I’m buzzing," I whisper. I turn fully in the seat to face him. "Silas, did you see his face? Did you see him when I stepped on his foot?"
Silas lets out a dark, ragged laugh. "I saw. I saw you dismantle him."
He squeezes my thigh, his thumb rubbing circles against the fabric of my tactical pants.
"You were magnificent, Ivy. You were terrifying."
The praise hits me straight in the chest. A week ago, I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to paint in quiet corners and hide from my father’s debts. Now, the idea of being invisible feels like death. I want to be seen. I want to befeared.
"Where are we going?" I ask as he takes a sharp turn, tires screeching, heading toward the industrial labyrinth of DUMBO.
