The mood in the room shifts instantly. The scent of skepticism is replaced by the scent of greed.
"That’s a lot of liquidity," Chen notes, his eyes narrowing. "But money doesn't buy survival against the Sokolovs. Nikolai has an army, Silas. You have... a bag of cash and a girl."
He gestures dismissively at Ivy.
"Why is she here?" O’Malley sneers. "This is business, Vane. Send the whore to wait in the car."
The room goes silent.
I don't move. I don't flinch.
I look at O’Malley. I look at the smirk on his face. I look at the way he dismisses her, reducing her to an object, a hole to be used and discarded.
My hand twitches toward my holster.
But before I can draw, Ivy moves.
She doesn't attack. She walks around the table. Her heels click rhythmically on the hardwood floor.Click. Click. Click.
She stops behind O’Malley’s chair.
She leans down, bringing her face close to his ear.
"I’m sorry," she whispers, her voice sweet and poisonous. "I didn't catch that. What did you call me?"
O’Malley laughs, turning his head to look at her. "I called you a—"
Ivy grabs a handful of his hair. She yanks his head back, exposing his throat.
In one fluid motion, she draws the ceramic knife from her thigh.
She presses the blade against his jugular.
O’Malley freezes. His eyes bulge. The laughter dies in his throat.
The other men at the table stiffen, reaching for their weapons.
"Sit down," I command, my voice a thunderclap. I draw my Glock and aim it at the center of the table. "Anyone moves, and this becomes a funeral."
They freeze. They look at me. Then they look at Ivy.
She hasn't flinched. She holds the knife steady. Her eyes are locked on O’Malley’s.
"I am Mrs. Vane," she says softly. "I am the woman who robbed Nikolai Sokolov of fifty million dollars yesterday. I am the woman who is financing this war. So I suggest you choose your next word very carefully."
O’Malley swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs against the blade. A thin line of blood appears.
"Mrs. Vane," he chokes out.
"Better," she says.
She releases his hair. She shoves his head forward. She wipes the blade on his shoulder—a gesture of pure disrespect—and sheathes it.
She walks back to me. She stands at my side, her chin held high, her chest heaving slightly.
She looks magnificent.
I look around the table. The men are staring at her with new eyes. Not lust. Fear. Respect.
