Ash closes his eyes, jaw clenched so tight I can see the vein in his neck jump. “And you called that a compromise,” he says, voice shaking. “You called that ‘running hot.’ You called that insubordination.”
Damien bares his teeth. “Itwas.”
“No,” Ember says. Her voice cuts through his like a knife. “No, it was protection.”
She steps in even closer.
She’s so near now that Damien can’t not see her. Can’t not feel her. She takes up his entire field of vision. The only thing he can look at is her. The only thing in his world, right now, is her.
And she makes him sit in it.
“You killed my brother,” she says softly. “Or you signed the paper that killed him. And you let a man put his hands on a seventeen-year-old girl who was terrified, isolated and in your care because your op looked cleaner that way. And you came intomycity and you sold his name dirty. And then you tried to take me out. Silence me, so I could never tell a single soul.”
Her eyes glitter when she smiles this time, and it’s beautiful. Terrifying, and so fucking royal it makes my chest ache.
“Damien,” she whispers, “you’re going to die in this house.”
The silence that follows is absolute. He sucks in a ragged breath, tears spilling down his cheeks despite himself.
“Ember,” I say quietly. Her gaze flicks to me. I don’t tell her no. I don’t tell her slow down. I don’t tell her she’s gone too far. She hasn’t. She’s fucking perfect.
I say, calm and even, so he hears it too, “We’re not finished yet.”
Her chin lifts once, followed by a nod, understanding shining in her gorgeous blue eyes. “Understood.”
We’re going to peel him for every piece of information he can give us. Cleanly. Systematically.
Names, routes, dates, payments. Russo. The internal corridor. Syndicate ties. Anyone who laid a hand on her. Anyone who put Owen in the ground.
Thenwe’ll end him.
And when that moment comes, I’m not sure there’s going to be anything left in me that isn’t hers.
I release Damien’s hair and step back, giving her the space she’s earned — giving her the floor.
She turns back to our traitor. Our prisoner. The man who thought we were going to kneel down and take it.
Her voice, when she speaks again, is steady. “We should start withMarcus,” she says, a feral grin sliding across her face.
Chapter 48
Vale
I’ve wanted to kill a lot of men. That’s not poetic. It’s just math. You take enough contracts, carry enough grudges, watch enough people bleed for someone else’s pride, and the list stacks up.
But Marcus?
Marcus is different.
Marcus is not on a list. No. Marcus is carved into the inside of my skull. Marcus is fuckingpersonal.
And I am not allowed to kill him.
That’s the part that’s making me insane.
London is breathing wet tonight. Too warm for the season. Pavement still slick from a rain that came and went without bothering to be dramatic about it. Atmosphere thick, buzzing with low traffic and sodium-orange streetlight. Canary Wharf a glittering lie on the horizon.
We’re in Bethnal Green. Or rather, Marcus is, anyway.
