I raised an eyebrow, masking the rush of adrenaline that always followed walking into one of Black’s offices unarmed. “You really expected me to walk around the city with a priceless artifact?”
Black’s frown deepened, and he fixed his gaze on me. “What do you want?”
I took a seat across from his desk, determined to appear collected even as the magnitude of my next words pressed against my composure. “Where is Madigan Kelley?” I asked plainly, getting straight to the point.
At that, Matthias Black finally looked directly at me, his dark sapphire eyes sharp and assessing. Leaning back, he tapped his finger thoughtfully on the desk. “And why would I tell you that?”
“Because I need to speak with her,” I replied, my tone steady, though my mind flickered to the Codex—a centuries-old notebook of Da Vinci’s, its secrets powerful enough to shift allegiances and draw blood. It wasn’t just a bargaining chip; it was the only leverage standing between me and disaster.
He pressed further. “Why?”
I shook my head with a slight, knowing smile, my fingers balling into a fist beneath the desk. “That’s not how this works, Matthias. If you tell me where to find her, I’ll have the Codex delivered by armed courier. Otherwise, I walk—and you never see the Codex again.”
Matthias paused, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not that easy, Rowen. I owe her husband a debt.”
“Her husband is dead,” I breathed, my words scraping raw as guilt tightened in my chest. For a split second, a flash of memory—Jasper Michael’s escape, the chaos, my split-second hesitation—seared behind my eyes. I swallowed it down, forcing myself to hold the present.
Matthias nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “And whose fault is that?”
His question landed like a blow to the gut. A prickle of unease crawled up my spine, and for an instant, I almost let the weight of it show—Jasper Michael’s trail of violence, the innocent lives lost since that night, all a direct consequence of my failure to contain him. But I stiffened, refusing to let my guilt or Matthias’ accusation unravel me. The room felt smaller, the air electric with unspoken blame as Matthias leaned forward. “Tell me, Rowen, how many people has Jasper Michaels killed since you let him slip through your fingers?”
I refused to take the bait. For a moment, silence pulsed between us; I steadied my breathing and forced myself to meet his gaze, letting the pause stretch until it threatened to snap. Finally, I spoke—my voice low but steady. “You know as well as I do that blame doesn’t matter. What matters is what’s left, and what comes next.”
Matthias’ jaw tightened, but the edge softened in his eyes. He hesitated, weighing whatever secrets he guarded against the offer I’d laid on the table. At last, he sighed—a sound full of old regrets. “She’s not safe, Rowen,” he murmured.
I leaned forward, urgency threading through my words. “All the more reason for you to trust me. Where is she?”
He considered me for a moment longer, then scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and slid it across the desk. “Don’t make me regret this,” he said quietly.
I took the slip, tucking it carefully into my jacket. “You won’t,” I promised, the full significance of what I was riskingechoing in my chest. Then, without another word, I stood and left, the weight of the Codex and everything it meant pressing on my shoulders as I stepped into the night.
As soon as we climbed into my car, I pulled out the slip of paper Matthias had given me and unfolded it with trembling fingers. My eyes scanned the address scribbled there, and a knot formed in my stomach. I let out a low, frustrated curse. “Fuck.”
Michael glanced over, concern flickering across his face as I jammed the key into the ignition. “What is it?” he asked, his voice tense.
I forced out a breath, gathering myself before answering. “We have to go to Pier 87,” I said, my voice laced with both urgency and dread. “We need to talk to Maxim Fedorov.”
Michael’s eyes went wide, disbelief written plainly on his face. “The Bloodletter?ThatMaxim Fedorov?”
I let out a groan, feeling the weight of what lay ahead settle over me. “The one and only,” I muttered, bracing myself for what was to come.
Chapter Forty-Three
Rowen
The city lights whipped by in streaks of yellow and white as we raced toward the docks, the engine’s relentless hum echoing the anxious thud of my heartbeat. Michael gripped the edge of his seat beside me, his posture stiff, shoulders hunched as if bracing against what was coming. I glanced over, catching the tension in his jaw with each sharp turn, the pressure in the car thick enough to taste. When I finally parked a block from Pier 87, I paused for a moment, scanning the deserted streets. Shadows spilled between flickering streetlights, and every empty alley seemed to promise trouble. I let my eyes linger, searching for any sign of movement—a stray figure, a glint of steel—anything that might mean danger. The stakes weighed heavy; this was enemy territory, and both of us knew it.
New York City Harbor sprawled beneath the shroud of night, its waters slick and obsidian under the scattered city glow. Fog drifted in thick waves, mingling with the briny tang of salt, while distant horns and the hollow groan of shifting metal carried on the wind. Shadows slid across battered shipping containers, their shapes uncertain and shifting. Every creak and echo in the darkness felt like a warning—this place held secrets, and each step toward Pier 87 tightened the knot of dread in my stomach. The harbor seemed to breathe, alive with the threat of what was hidden just beyond the reach of our headlights.
Michael leaned toward me, his voice barely more than a whisper as he clutched the slip of paper in his hand, knuckles white. “Are you sure about this?” His gaze darted nervouslybetween the address and the shadowy expanse before us. The chill that crept over my skin had little to do with the night air. I swallowed, thinking of the secret tucked in my jacket and the weight of the truth I carried. Determined, I opened the car door and stepped out, Michael following close behind. Our boots struck the cracked pavement in tandem, the sound echoing through the stillness. Each step felt heavier, the distance to Maxim Fedorov shrinking, the unknown stretching out ahead. Suddenly, an empty tin can skittered across the ground, making me flinch as the metallic rattle broke the silence. I froze, pulse hammering in my ears.
From the shadows emerged a large man; his presence dominated the street as he strode forward. He wore a finely tailored black suit under a heavy wool coat that failed to conceal his imposing build. Reflexively, Michael reached for his gun, his hand jerking toward his holster with practiced speed. I stood motionless, recognizing the approaching figure and willing myself to stay calm. At the last possible moment, recognition flickered in Michael’s eyes. He exhaled sharply, relaxing his grip and holstering his weapon. “Jesus fuck, Jingles. I almost killed you,” he muttered, voice rough with relief and lingering adrenaline.
The man ignored Michael’s outburst; his attention focused on me as he extended a steady hand. “Rowen,” he said, his tone measured and purposeful.
I took his hand, meeting his gaze. “Sebastian,” I replied, letting the familiarity settle between us, my pulse finally slowing as the immediate danger passed.
Michael blinked, confusion written across his face as he tried to catch up. “You two fuckers know each other?” His disbelief was almost comical, punctuating the tension with a flicker of unease.
