And I see it—the thing that makes ice crawl up my spine and wrap cold fingers around my lungs.
She's not surprised.
She knows something.
Holy fuck, she knows something.
"The will reading is after the funeral," she calls. "Don't be late."
I makeit to the sidewalk before my throat closes.
Sergei's there. Waiting. Those grey eyes reading everything on my face.
"Something's wrong," I manage.
"I know." His jaw is granite. "I saw it, too."
He doesn't ask what. Doesn't push. Just opens the car door and waits for me to get in.
On the drive to my penthouse, I press Dad's lighter against my palm until the metal bites.
My father was murdered.
My mother knows something.
And the man in the front seat—the one who handles logistics like a machine and doesn't offer comfort because he knows I'd break—might be the only person I can trust.
I flip the lighter open.
Click snap
The flame catches against the Manhattan dark.
I'm going to find out who did this.
I'm going to burn them to the ground.
Even if it kills me, too.
2
Izzy
My father taughtme to read a room before I could read a book.
Watch the eyes,he'd say.People lie with their mouths. Their eyes tell you what they actually want.
Right now, I'm standing in St. Patrick's Cathedral, surrounded by five hundred people whose eyes all want the same thing.
My inheritance.
The pews are packed with vultures in designer black. Politicians, CEOs, old-money families, whose fortunes are older than democracy. They're not here to mourn. They're here to network over my father's corpse. To position themselves for whatever power vacuum just opened up.
And I'm expected to stand here in Valentino and smile.
Fuck every single one of them.
"Miss Davenport." A man I vaguely recognize from the board presses my hand between both of his. His palms are damp. "Such a loss. If there's anything I can do?—"
