"Cause of death?"
"Overdose. Heroin. She was dating a low-level dealer for the Latin Kings. Guy got her hooked, then let her choke on her own vomit while he flushed the stash."
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking.
Now I see it.
It’s not justice he’s chasing. It’s redemption.
He looks at Ivy and he doesn't see a woman who made a choice. He sees his sister. He sees a victim trapped in the web of a powerful, dangerous man. He thinks he can save her. He thinks if he pulls her out of the fire, he can rewrite the past.
That makes him formidable. A man fighting for a ghost never stops.
"He approached her at the gallery," I say, tapping the photo. "He touched her."
"I can put a team on him tonight," Luca offers, his hand drifting to his gun. "Make it look like a mugging gone wrong. Queens is dangerous at night."
"No."
I stand up and walk to the window. The city lights are blurred by the rain, smears of red and gold against the black.
"If a decorated detective vanishes two weeks after Nikolai Sokolov disappears, the NYPD won't just investigate. They’ll declare war. They’ll bring the Feds. They’ll tear this building apart brick by brick until they find something."
I press my hand against the cold glass.
"Kane wants to be a hero," I murmur. "He wants to be the knight who slays the dragon."
"So what do we do?"
"We don't kill him," I say, turning back to the room. A cold, cruel smile touches my lips. "We ruin him."
I find Ivy in the studio.
It is the room she asked for—the one with the lock only she can open. But true to our agreement, the door is ajar.
She is standing in front of a massive canvas, covered in paint. She’s wearing one of my old shirts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and nothing else. Her legs are bare, the platinum tracker on her ankle gleaming under the studio lights.
She is painting fire.
It’s a chaotic, violent swirl of orange and black. It looks like the explosion at the shipyard. It looks like the inside of my head.
I watch her for a moment.
She is so focused she doesn't hear me enter. She attacks the canvas with the brush, her movements sharp, aggressive. She isn't painting to create; she is painting to destroy.
The memory of yesterday flashes through my mind. Her body bent over the marble bar. Her wetness. Her confession.
I’m wet for the game.
She is corrupted. She is mine.
But Kane... Kane thinks she is a bird with clipped wings.
"It’s angry," I say.
Ivy jumps, spinning around. A smear of orange paint lands on her cheek.
"Silas," she breathes, lowering the brush. "You scared me."
