Chapter 2
Izzy
My father taught me 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—"
"Thank you." The words are automatic. Meaningless.
He moves on. Another takes his place. Same damp hands. Same empty words. Same eyes calculating what my father's death means for their portfolios.
I've shaken thirty-seven hands in the last hour.
I know because I've been counting to keep from screaming.
Sergei's somewhere behind me. I can feel him. That prickling awareness at the back of my neck that hasn't stopped since Mexico. He's stationed near the side entrance, close enough to reach me in seconds, far enough to blend into the shadows like he belongs there.
Which he does.
The Wolf in the cathedral, watching sheep pretend to grieve.
I glance back just once. Our eyes meet across the sea of black suits and crocodile tears. He doesn't nod. Doesn't smile. Just holds my gaze with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
I see you, those grey eyes say. I'm here.
I turn back to the receiving line before someone notices the heat climbing up my neck.
The priest drones about eternal rest and God's plan, like God gives a shit about Manhattan's elite. I stop listening. My gaze drifts to the stained glass windows, light filtering through in jewel tones that paint the marble like blood.
Dad used to bring me here when I was little, before Mother decided it was too pedestrian for Davenports. He'd point at the saints and make up ridiculous stories, turning them into superheroes, fighting dragons.
I was six and believed every word.
I'm twenty-nine and he's dead.
"Isabelle." Mother materializes at my elbow, all ash-blonde perfection and Chanel No. 5. Her grip on my arm is firm enough to bruise my arm through the Valentino. "Stop looking like you're about to commit murder. People are watching."
"People are always watching." I keep my voice low. Controlled. "That's what you taught me."
"I taught you to perform for them. Not stand there like a wounded animal, waiting to be put down." She adjusts an invisible flaw in my hair. The gesture looks maternal. It feels like a warning. "Your uncle Matthew wants to speak with you after the service. Be gracious."
"I'm always gracious."
"You're always sharp. There's a difference." Her blue eyes, identical to mine, are glacial. "Today is not the day for sharp, Isabelle. Today is the day for grieving daughter. Play the part."
She glides away before I can respond.
I watch her go, cataloguing every detail the way Dad taught me. The perfect posture. The dry eyes. The way she works the room like this is a cocktail party, instead of her husband's funeral.
She knew.
The certainty from last night hasn't faded. If anything, it's hardened into something cold and sharp at the center of my chest.
My mother knew my father was going to die.
And now she's telling me to play the part.
A hand closes around my upper arm. Too tight. Too familiar.
I turn.
Uncle Matthew smiles down at me with all the warmth of a shark sensing blood.
He's wearing Tom Ford because of course he is.
Perfectly tailored to hide the vulture underneath.
He's been orbiting the family business for twenty years, ever since Aunt Irina died.
Always helpful, always circling. Those dead brown eyes.
The way he looks at me like I'm a stock option he's considering exercising.
"Isabelle." His voice drips with manufactured sympathy. "How are you holding up?"
"I'm upright. That's about all I can promise."
"Your father would be proud." His thumb strokes my arm through the fabric, and my skin tries to crawl off my body and find somewhere safer to live. "He always said you were the strong one."
"Did he."
"Oh, yes. Very proud of his little girl." Those eyes flick over me. Assessing. Calculating. "You know, you look so much like your mother when she was young. Same bone structure. Same fire."
The comparison makes me want to vomit.
"I should get back to the receiving line." I try to step away.
His grip tightens.
"Cal Reznick is here, one of my associates. I'd love for you to meet him properly." Matthew's smile doesn't reach his eyes. It never does. "He's been a tremendous help with the estate transition. Very eager to offer his support during this difficult time."
Support. The word sounds like a threat.
"I'm sure he is."
"There he is now." Matthew waves someone over, and my stomach drops three floors.
Cal Reznick is exactly the kind of man Mother would pick out of a catalog.
Late fifties, silver hair slicked back with something that smells like old money and older intentions.
Tailored suit that can't quite hide the soft belly underneath.
The kind of man who's spent his whole life being powerful and expects everyone to be grateful for his attention.
His eyes land on me and light up like he's just spotted a prize racehorse.
"Miss Davenport." He takes my hand between both of his. Damp, too warm, the grip of someone who thinks he's already won. "Such a tragedy. Your father was a great man."
"Thank you."
"I hope you'll allow me to offer whatever support you need during this difficult time.
" The way he says support makes my skin want to file a restraining order.
His thumb strokes my knuckles, and he doesn't let go when I try to pull away.
"I've known your family for years. Your uncle and I are very close. Practically brothers."
Vultures of a feather.
"That's very kind." I yank my hand free with more force than is strictly polite. "If you'll excuse me—"
"Of course, of course. We'll have plenty of time to talk later." His smile is all teeth and no warmth. "I look forward to getting to know you better, Isabelle. Much better."
I'm going to need a shower.
Possibly a flamethrower.
I escape toward the side entrance, where Sergei's stationed, my heels clicking sharp against marble, my pulse hammering against my ribs. He straightens when he sees me coming. Reads the tension in my shoulders, the set of my jaw.
"Problem?"
"My uncle and his associate." I stop beside him, using his body as a shield from the room. "Cal Reznick. He looks at me like I'm something he's planning to acquire."
"I noticed." Something dark flashes across Sergei's face. "He touched you."
"He shook my hand. Held it too long." I rub my palm against my dress like I can wipe away the residue. "Made it very clear he wants to offer support."
"What kind of support?"
"The kind that makes me want to invest in mace."
His jaw tightens. "Point him out."
"Sergei—"
"Point. Him. Out."
I shouldn't feel the warm glow spreading through my chest. A man offering to commit violence on my behalf shouldn't be attractive.
And yet.
I nod toward where Cal's standing with Matthew, both of them watching me with expressions that make my skin crawl. "Silver hair. Too much confidence. Standing with my uncle like they're plotting a hostile takeover."
Sergei's gaze locks on target. Something shifts in his posture. Subtle, dangerous. The Wolf sizing up prey.
"If he touches you again," he says quietly, "I'll break every finger on that hand."
"We're at a funeral."
"I'm aware."
"In a church."
"God and I have an understanding." His eyes don't leave Cal. "He ignores my sins. I don't bother Him with prayers."
A laugh escapes me. Raw, inappropriate, the first real thing I've felt since landing in New York. Several mourners glance over with scandalized expressions.
I don't care.
For a moment, we just stand there, his shoulder nearly brushing mine, something electric humming in the space between us.
"I have to survive the will reading after this," I tell him. "Mother scheduled it because she's constitutionally incapable of wasting time on sentiment."
"I'll be there."
"It's supposed to be family-only."
"I'll be there," he repeats. Those grey eyes finally leave Cal to meet mine. "Whoever killed your father knew what he was worth, which means they know what you're worth. I'm not leaving you alone with these people."
These people. My family. My mother's society. The vultures circling my father's corpse.
He's right.
I hate that he's right.
"Fine." I straighten my shoulders. Compose my face into the mask of grieving daughter. "But if you make a scene—"
"I never make scenes." The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "I end them."
The will reading takes place in my mother's drawing room because she's physically incapable of letting anyone else control the setting.
We're gathered like suspects in an Agatha Christie novel. Mother on her ivory settee. Matthew in the wingback by the window. Cal Reznick sprawled in a chair he wasn't invited to occupy.
My cousin Julie perches on the loveseat, dabbing at bone-dry eyes with a handkerchief. She flew in from Monaco for this. I'm sure the grief is devastating her shopping schedule.
Great-Aunt Cordelia sits rigid in the corner, eighty-seven years old and sharp as a scalpel, watching everyone with the same expression she uses at bridge tournaments. Calculating odds. Counting cards. She’s outlived two husbands and a son. She'll probably outlive us all out of sheer spite.