"I’m going to end this, Ivy. Tonight. I’m going to cut the head off this snake so it stops whispering in my ear."
"We," I correct him.
He hesitates. He looks at my stomach. The old fear flickers for a second.
"Silas," I warn. "Don't put me back in the box."
He takes a deep breath. He nods.
"We," he agrees. "But you stay by the door. You are the extraction team. If things go wrong, you leave. That is the condition."
"Deal."
He reaches into his desk drawer. He pulls out a heavy silver object.
It’s not a gun.
It’s a fountain pen. A heavy, antique thing with a sharp nib.
"What is that?" I ask.
"Pendelton loves contracts," Silas says, examining the pen. "He loves signing things. I think it’s time he signed his resignation."
He looks at me.
"Get dressed, Mrs. Vane. We have a meeting."
I smile. The nausea is gone. The fear is gone.
The cure for paranoia isn't safety. It’s action.
"I’ll wear the red dress," I say.
"Wear the black one," Silas says darkly. "We’re going to a funeral."
CHAPTER 33
THE INK AND THE POISON
POV: SILAS
The Century Club smells of stagnation.
It is a scent composed of humidors, aged mahogany, and the decay of men who have ruled the world for too long. It is a fortress of silence on the Upper East Side, a place where fortunes are traded in whispers and scandals are buried under thick Persian rugs.
I hate it.
My father loved it. He spent his evenings here, drinking scotch that cost more than a teacher’s salary, complaining about the decline of "standards." He brought me here once, when I was ten. He told me to sit in the corner and not speak. He told me that this was where the real power lived—not in the streets, but in the shadows.
He was wrong.
Power lives in the hand that holds the knife. Or, in this case, the pen.
I walk through the double doors. The doorman, an elderly man in a livery that looks like a costume from a period drama, steps forward to block me.
"Sir, this is a private club. Members only."
I don't stop. I don't look at him.
