I climb into the truck and start the engine.
We drive back into the city. Manhattan rises across the water, a glittering fortress of glass and steel. It looks different tonight. Before, it was a hunting ground. Now, it looks like a kingdom waiting for its new monarchs.
I drive to Midtown. I pull up to the entrance of the St. Regis.
The valet looks at the battered, mud-splattered Bronco. He looks at me—bruised, bleeding from a cut on my forehead, wearing tactical gear covered in dust. He looks at Ivy, who looks like she walked out of a war zone.
He hesitates.
I roll down the window. I hand him a stack of hundred-dollar bills. It’s thick. Maybe five thousand dollars.
"Park it," I say. "Don't look inside. Don't touch anything."
The valet takes the money. His eyes widen. He nods once. "Yes, sir. Welcome to the St. Regis."
Money is the universal language. It translates violence into eccentricity.
We walk into the lobby. The crystal chandeliers sparkle. The marble floors gleam. Guests in evening gowns and tuxedos turn to stare. They whisper behind their hands. They see the blood on my shirt. They see the knife sheath strapped to Ivy’s thigh.
Let them stare.
I put my arm around Ivy’s waist, pulling her into me. I walk us to the reception desk.
The concierge freezes. "Sir, I... do you need medical assistance?"
"I need the Presidential Suite," I say, placing my black card on the marble counter. It’s metal. Heavy. "Indefinitely. And I need a bottle of your most expensive bourbon sent up. No ice."
"Of course, Mr...?"
"Vane," I say. "Silas Vane."
The name ripples through him. He knows it. Everyone knows it. The disgraced CEO. The fugitive.
But he also sees the way I’m looking at him. He sees the predator who just ate the competition.
"Right away, Mr. Vane."
He hands me the key card with a trembling hand.
We take the elevator up. The silence is golden, mirrored, and oppressive.
When the doors open on the penthouse floor, I carry Ivy across the threshold.
The suite is palatial. Silk carpets, velvet furniture, a view of Central Park that costs ten thousand dollars a night. It smells of lilies and old money.
I kick the door shut and lock it.
I set Ivy down in the middle of the living room.
She looks around, dazed. The contrast between the shipping containers and this opulence is jarring.
"The shower," I say. "Go."
She nods and walks mechanically toward the bathroom.
I go to the minibar. I pour two glasses of bourbon. I drink one in a single swallow, letting the burn cauterize the lingering adrenaline in my throat.
I check my phone. Messages are flooding in.
