Chapter 38
Izzy
“Can I do your makeup?”
Mila’s voice pulls me from staring at the red dress hanging on the closet door, like a death sentence wrapped in silk. I turn to find her standing in the bathroom doorway, eyes bright with excitement that makes my chest ache.
“You want to help me get ready?” My voice comes out softer than intended.
“Mama never let me.” She moves closer, bare feet silent on marble. “Said I’d mess it up. But you’re different.”
A few months ago, I was picking out shoes for charity galas and avoiding my mother’s criticism. Now I’m preparing for war with an eight-year-old, who just called me different like it’s the highest compliment.
“I’d love your help, sweetheart.” I gesture toward the vanity, where my makeup is laid out like surgical instruments. “But first, I need to shower. Think you can pick out which eyeshadow would look good with the red dress?”
Her grin is pure sunshine. “The gold one. It’ll make your eyes look like jewels.”
She’s right. Of course, she’s right—she’s Sergei’s daughter, which means she notices everything.
The shower’s scalding, turning my skin pink, but I can’t make myself adjust the temperature.
Steam fills the glass enclosure, and I press my palms against the tile, breathing through the knot in my chest. Tonight we walk into The Plaza surrounded by people who want us dead.
Matthew’s hired Chicago professionals. Mother’s warned me off.
Cal Reznick will be circling like a shark.
And I’m bringing Sergei—the most dangerous man in the room—as my date.
My hand finds the razor. I shave my legs, then move to other areas, making sure everything’s smooth. Not for the gala. For after. For when we survive and come home, and I can finally stop thinking past the next breath.
If we survive.
No. Not if. When. We’ve planned for every contingency. Andrei has men positioned. Wesley’s monitoring security feeds. Sergei will be glued to my side.
We’re going to win.
I step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel. In the mirror, steam-fogged and distorted, I barely recognize myself. Black hair hangs wet down my back. Blue eyes look too bright, too wide. I’m twenty-nine years old and planning to destroy my family at a charity event.
Dad would hate this.
But Dad’s dead. And the people who killed him are about to learn what happens when you underestimate a Davenport.
“Izzy? Can I come in?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.”
Mila appears with an armful of makeup palettes, her face serious with concentration. She’s wearing pajamas covered in stars, dark hair in the braids Sergei recently learned how to do. She looks so small. So innocent.
“Sit.” She pats the vanity stool like she’s the adult and I’m the child.
I obey, letting the towel gap slightly as I settle. Mila studies my face with those hazel-green eyes that see too much, then reaches for the primer.
“Papa taught me about bone structure,” she says conversationally, dabbing product on my cheeks. “He said everyone has angles. You just have to find them.”
“Your papa taught you about makeup?”
“He taught me about faces. How to read them. How to remember them.” She blends with surprising skill. “But makeup’s basically the same thing. You’re enhancing what’s already there.”
I watch her work in the mirror, this eight-year-old applying foundation with the precision of a professional. Her tongue pokes out between her teeth in concentration.
“You’re really good at this,” I tell her.
“Mama used to practice on me sometimes when she was in a good mood. She said I had good cheekbones. Like Papa.”
“You do. You’re beautiful, Mila.”
She pauses, brush hovering near my temple. “You think so?”
“I know so.” I meet her eyes in the mirror. “And not because of cheekbones or angles or anything your papa taught you about faces. Because you’re kind. Brave.”
She sets down the brush, reaching for the eyeshadow palette. “Papa’s different with you. You make the scary parts smaller.”
My throat closes. I force myself to breathe normally, to not let her see how those words wreck me.
“Close your eyes,” she instructs.
I do. The brush sweeps across my lids—soft, deliberate, the gold she picked earlier catching light even through closed eyes. She works in silence for several minutes, and I let myself exist in this moment. Not thinking about Matthew or guns or the very real possibility I might not come home.
Thinking about this. A little girl who’s lost her mother and found something like safety in the woman her father fake-married.
“Open.”
I do. The woman in the mirror looks like me but sharper. Dangerous. The gold eyeshadow makes my blue eyes electric, and Mila’s applied liner with a wing that could cut glass.
“Wow.” The word comes out breathless. I seriously didn’t expect an eight-year-old to be this good at applying makeup. I was fully prepared to redo the entire thing after she was gone to not hurt her feelings. “Sweetheart, you’re amazing.”
Her smile could power the entire city. “Now lips. What color?”
“Red. Same as the dress.”
She finds the tube in my collection, twisting it up. “This is the fancy one. Papa says rich people waste money proving they have money. He says real power is quiet. But you’re different rich. You don’t waste things.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You’re doing good. Papa loves you, you know. I can tell.”
“Mila—”
She hops off the stool. “Now get dressed. I want to see the whole thing.”
She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me staring at my own reflection, heart hammering against my ribs.
The red dress hangs waiting. I drop the towel and reach for the black lace set I bought specifically for tonight. La Perla, obscenely expensive, the kind of lingerie that makes you feel powerful, even if no one sees it.
I slide on the bra, adjusting until everything sits perfectly. Then the matching thong that barely qualifies as underwear. In the mirror, I look like sin wrapped in lace, and satisfaction curls low in my belly.
Let Matthew try something. Let his Chicago professionals make their move. I’m done being afraid.
I step into the dress, pulling red silk up my body. It fits like a second skin—plunging neckline, open back, a slit up my right thigh that stops just short of indecent. I had it altered specifically for tonight, with hidden pockets sewn into the bodice and thigh.
One pocket holds a knife. The other will hold Dad’s lighter.
I’m buckling my heels—black Louboutins with five-inch stilettos that could double as weapons—when Mila returns.
“Wow.” Her eyes go wide. “You look like a princess. A scary princess.”
“The best kind.” I stand, testing the weight distribution, making sure I can move fast if necessary. The dress doesn’t restrict movement despite its elegance. Perfect.
“Can I do your hair?”
“You want to?”
“I’ve been watching YouTube tutorials with Papa.” She’s already pulling the desk chair over to the vanity. “Sit. I know exactly what to do.”
I obey again, letting her work her magic.
“Where’d you learn this?”
“Papa bought me a practice head. For learning.” She wraps a section around the barrel. “He said if I wanted to be good at something, I should practice until it’s easy.”
“Smart man.”
“The smartest.” Pride fills her voice. “He can speak five languages. And he makes the best pancakes in Brooklyn.”
“Quite the resume.”
“He’s perfect.” She moves to another section, and as surprisingly good as she was with makeup, hair is definitely something that I’ll have to fix once she’s done.
“All done.” Mila steps back, admiring her work.
“It’s perfect! Thank you, sweetheart,” I say, and considering that an eight-year-old did it, it really is.
“You’re welcome, Mom.”
I smile. “Can you go find your papa? Tell him I’ll be down in five minutes.”
She nods, already running toward the door. “Don’t forget your purse! The fancy one!”
I turn to the mirror and quickly redo parts of the hair.
She didn’t do too bad of a job, but considering the type of gala we’re going to, I have a reputation to keep.
After I’m done, I barely recognize myself.
Dark curls cascade down my back and over one shoulder, elegant but touchable.
My makeup’s nearly flawless. The red dress transforms me into someone dangerous and magnetic.
I look like I could attend a charity gala or commit murder. Maybe both.
I move to the dresser where my clutch waits. Black velvet, small enough to be elegant, large enough to hold what matters. I check the contents—phone, lipstick, compact mirror that’s actually a compact mirror and not a hidden weapon because I’m not that paranoid.
Yet.
Then I move to the nightstand. Dad’s lighter sits exactly where I left it this morning, gold catching lamplight. I pick it up, thumb working the familiar mechanism.
Click snap
Click snap
The weight grounds me. Reminds me why we’re doing this. Why I’m walking into danger wearing a dress.
For you, Dad. I’m ending them tonight. Both of them.
The lighter slips into the hidden pocket at my thigh, warm metal pressing against skin through silk. I check the knife in the bodice pocket—still secure, easily accessible if I reach through the neckline.
I take one last look in the mirror. The woman staring back is someone my mother tried to create but never could. Polished and deadly in equal measure. The Davenport heiress who learned to bare her teeth.
I grab my clutch and head downstairs.
Sergei’s in the living room, and the sight of him makes my steps falter.
He’s wearing a tuxedo that should be illegal—black on black, perfectly tailored to emphasize those shoulders.
His silver-threaded hair is slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face and the scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
The tattoos on his hands are visible below his cuffs, and when he turns to face me, his grey eyes go molten.
“Jesus Christ, Isabelle.”