He pauses. He looks at me, then takes my hand. He turns it over, kissing the palm where the phantom blood of the man I shot used to be.
"We have the money," he says. "I checked the account on my phone in the elevator. Fifty-two million dollars. It cleared the Panama wash."
"Fifty-two?" I blink. "I thought it was fifty."
"The exchange rate favored us," he says with a smirk. "And I skimmed a little off Henderson’s personal account for the inconvenience."
I laugh. It sounds a little hysterical. "So we’re rich."
"We were always rich," he says. "Now we’re liquid. And untraceable."
He stands up and walks to the sink, washing his hands. He looks at me in the mirror.
"We can go, Ivy."
"Go where?"
"Anywhere," he says. "With this kind of capital? We can disappear. I have a contact who can get us new passports in twelve hours. New names. New faces."
He turns around, leaning against the sink, crossing his arms.
"We could go to Bali. Buy an island. You could paint all day. I could... learn to fish. We could never look over our shoulders again."
He’s watching me closely. It’s a test. I know it’s a test.
I picture it.
Bali. White sand. Blue water. No Nikolai. No guns. Just me and Silas, living a normal life. Or as normal as life can be with a man who keeps a tracker on my ankle.
It sounds like paradise.
It sounds like running away.
I look at the bandage on my arm. I think about the fear in Mr. Henderson’s eyes. I think about the way Nikolai touched my hair, the entitlement in his voice.Problematic.
And I think about the Estate. Silas’s home. The place where he grew up. The place where his father hurt him, yes, but also the place he built into a fortress. Nikolai broke it. He rammed a truck through the gates. He killed the guards.
If we run... Nikolai wins. He keeps the territory. He keeps the fear.
And we spend the rest of our lives looking at the door, waiting for it to be kicked in.
I stand up.
I walk over to Silas. I stand between his legs, placing my hands on his chest.
"You hate fishing," I say.
He blinks. A slow smile spreads across his lips. "I do."
"And I don't want to paint sunsets in Bali," I continue. "I want to paint here. In New York. Inourhome."
"The Estate is compromised," he reminds me.
"So we fix it," I say. "We have fifty million dollars, Silas. We can rebuild the wall. We can hire an army."
I reach up and grab the collar of his shirt, pulling him down until our faces are inches apart.
"We aren't running," I whisper. "We didn't steal his money just to use it as a retirement fund. We stole it to hurt him."
