The temperature in the car seems to drop ten degrees. The possessive warmth that filled my chest a moment ago crystallizes into ice. Sharp, jagged, lethal ice.
Marcus Ross. The gambling addict. The alcoholic. The man who squandered his family’s fortune and left his daughter to starve in a rat-infested walk-up while he chased his next high.
"Don't let them leave," I command, my voice low. "Put them in the Red Room. I’m coming."
"Understood."
I hang up and toss the phone onto the passenger seat.
I look up at her window one last time.Sleep well, little bird,I think.Because tomorrow, your world burns.
I shift the car into gear, the engine purring like a restrained beast, and peel away from the curb.
The Altar isn't a church, though plenty of people come here to pray.
It’s an exclusive underground club in the Meatpacking District, a place where the city’s elite come to indulge in sins they pretend to condemn in the daylight. Heavy velvet drapes, dim chandeliers, and music that throbs like a headache. It’s my kingdom. My sanctuary.
I breeze past the security at the back entrance. The guards nod, their eyes averting respectfully. They know the mood I’m in. They can smell the violence on me.
I don't stop at the bar. I don't stop to greet the politicians sniffing lines off hookers' tits in the VIP booths. I head straight for the elevator that requires a biometric scan.
Down.
The basement level is soundproofed. The air here is different—sterile, smelling of bleach and copper. This is where the real business happens. This is where debts are settled.
Luca is waiting for me outside the heavy steel door of Room 3. He’s my second-in-command, a man who looks like a catalogue model but kills with the efficiency of a machine. He hands me a towel.
"They're inside," he says. "Marcus is crying. The Russians are... impatient."
"Did they touch him?"
"No. We kept them separated. But Silas... you need to hear what they’re offering."
I take the towel, though my hands are clean. Habit. "Open it."
Luca pushes the door open.
The room is stark white. Tiled floors, a drain in the center, a single metal table. Marcus Ross is zip-tied to a chair on the left. He looks like a wreck—sweaty, shaking, his expensive suit stained with vomit.
On the right, leaning against the wall, are two men. The Sokolovs. Alexei and Dmitri. Low-level enforcers for the Russian Bratva. They’re big, loud, and stupid. A dangerous combination.
"Vane," Alexei grunts, pushing off the wall. "About fucking time. We were about to start carving pieces off this pig."
I ignore him. I walk over to the metal table and slowly peel off my leather gloves, finger by finger. I place them neatly next to the tray of surgical instruments.
"Gentlemen," I say, my voice smooth, devoid of emotion. "You’re in my house. You don't make the schedule here."
I turn my gaze to Marcus.
He flinches as if I’ve struck him. "Silas... Mr. Vane. Please. I told them. I told them you’d vouch for me. I told them we’re partners."
"Partners?" I raise an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that lending you fifty grand six months ago made us partners, Marcus. I thought it made you a debtor."
"I have the money!" Marcus babbles, his eyes darting between me and the Russians. "Well, not cash. But assets. I have assets."
Alexei laughs, a harsh, barking sound. "He has shit. That’s what he has. He owes us two hundred large, Vane. And he’s trying to pay us with promises."
"Not promises," Marcus squeaks. "Flesh. I told you. I have... I have a daughter."
