"A corrupt cop soliciting sex from a victim in exchange for protection," Ivy muses. "Or a stalker obsession turning violent."
"Exactly. We send the footage to Internal Affairs. We send it to the press. He becomes a predator. He goes to prison. And we walk away clean."
Ivy looks down at her hands. She is thinking.
I watch her closely. I am asking her to use her body—the body that belongs to me—as bait. It goes against every instinct I have to protect her, to keep her hidden. But this is war. And in war, you use your sharpest weapons.
"What if he doesn't hesitate?" she asks quietly. "What if he touches me for real?"
The question hangs in the air.
I cross the room in a blur of motion. I grab her face, forcing her to look at me.
"I will be ten feet away," I vow. "I will be behind the wall. If he puts a hand on you that you don't invite... if he hurts you... I will forget the plan. I will tear his throat out with my teeth and deal with the Feds later."
My thumbs stroke her jawline.
"Do you trust me?"
She looks at me. Her eyes are clear. The fear is gone.
"I trust the monster," she whispers.
"Good."
I kiss her. It is a hard, bruising kiss. A seal on a devil’s bargain.
"Get dressed," I say, pulling back. "We need to buy a burner phone. And you need to practice your crying."
Two days later, the stage is set.
We chose a motel in Queens.The Golden Hour. It’s a dive—flaking paint, neon sign buzzing with a dying fly sound, rented by the hour to junkies and adulterers.
It is exactly the kind of place a terrified woman would run to.
I am in Room 104.
Ivy is in Room 105.
The wall between us is thin. I drilled a hole through the plaster behind the mirror earlier today. I threaded a fiber-optic camera through it. I have audio feeds planted in the lamp, under the bed, and in the smoke detector.
I am sitting on the edge of the stained mattress in Room 104, wearing a headset. My laptop is open on my knees, showing the feed from Room 105.
Ivy is sitting on the bed.
She looks pathetic. We chose her outfit carefully. An oversized hoodie. Jeans. No makeup. Her hair is messy, as if she’s been running. She is twisting her hands in her lap, looking at the door.
She is acting.
But watching her on the screen, seeing the tremble in her lip, I feel a spike of irrational rage. It looks too real. It reminds me of the first days at the penthouse, when she really was that scared girl.
I hate that I put her back in that box, even for a show.
"He’s here," Luca’s voice crackles in my ear. "Ford Taurus. Just pulled into the lot. He’s alone."
"Copy," I whisper. "Hold position."
I watch the screen.
