CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
IVY
T here isn’t much to fear at this point. Being stripped of everything you deem important will do that. But this city with its weed smoking, scantily clad street hustlers, and blitzed groupies is frightening to navigate.
The scents of piss and pot. Sausage and yeast.
Of covert outings and funnel cakes.
My destination smells of a different sort of allure—sex and thrill. Top-shelf whiskey and dessert champagne. Roaring Twenties transgressions rather than titty-flashing bead begging.
A different threat too.
Glitter and lace debauchery.
Risks threaded with tangled temptations of privilege and liberation. When, in actuality, the sin is simply beaded on a strand of pearls.
Pretty enough for pomp.
Strong enough to strangle.
But the men who pull those strings are dark and cold. Wicked depravity personified.
I know what I’m walking into. I also know I hold the trump card, and they’re betting men.
Because I remember all the passwords—like my brain filed them, instinctually sensing I’d be in possession of something valuable while also a fugitive—I enter the elite guest entrance with ease.
With a concealed gun. And two knives. The members who enter here have a special clearance, so no pat-downs.
I’m stuck in a holding lobby nonetheless, awaiting approval.
Bernard—the butler who attended to the guys and me in September—greets me, his eyes narrowing in an attempt to place who I am.
His face scrunches when the recognition dawns on him.
My hair is a chestnut brown now—a temporary means to my escape since my ginger locks are a dead giveaway.
Bernard doesn’t appear altogether pleased to see me.
“Ms. Kingston,” he drones my maiden name.
Ahh, like the rest of the world, Wells doesn’t exist in his.
“Good evening, Bernard.”
He sighs, charmed and conflicted. “What can I do for you? Miss Rena will not—”
“I’m not here to see her.” Hoping I will but won’t hold my breath.
“Oh?” he muses, intrigued. “Then, how may I assist you?”
“I’d like to see Ryker,” I state firmly.
He balks, plainly annoyed that I’ve deigned to request Noire royalty. “Ms. Kingston, the Noire family is otherwise engaged.”
A sardonic smirk tips my lips, matching his self-righteous indignation. This might be the Noire kingdom, but I have the crown jewel. “Tell him I have Montgomery intel.”
His eyes widen, and without another word, he reaches for the house phone.
“Master Ryker, you have a guest. No. Female, sir.” He muffles his voice with his hand, but I catch his mutterings anyway.
“Ms. Ivanna Kingston … Montgomery tip.” With that, he clicks the receiver and regards me.
“Master Ryker will be here momentarily.”
While his harsh expression mellows, he doesn’t engage in idle small talk. He guards me. Like I’m an assassin infiltrating La Lune Noire.
Ryker steps off the elevator moments later, wooden and icy. Disdain marring his chiseled features. His eyes meet mine, and he flicks his wrist for me to follow.
He doesn’t speak in the elevator, and neither do I. He wants to take me to his suite so I feel trapped and he can fuck with me. I already anticipated that, so his this-is-your-last-meal energy doesn’t faze me.
We flounce into the penthouse, impatience marking his hasty stride. The door closes behind me with an ominous click of the lock. A warning.
He brooks no niceties. “The fuck are you doing here?”
I considered asking for Axel. He’s just as deranged and threatening, but he plasters on a prettier facade. Ryker makes no apologies for his ruthless demeanor, which is admittedly intimidating, but also the reason I requested him. He’s easier to read.
Unwilling to let his sadistic nature torpedo me, I fix a straight-lipped grin and get to the point. “I have something you want, but I need something in return.”
He scoffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, his eyes swirling with a thirst for death and blood and revenge. I can work with that.
He leans in close, expecting me to retreat, but I steel my spine as he attempts to lance me with his gritty rebuke. “I don’t make trades, darling , and I doubt you have anything I want.”
“Actually, I possess what you want most in this world. The shovel to bury Montgomery, but …” I bite my lip with a never-mind shrug. “If you’re not interested, forget it.”
His palm slams against the door behind me, thrusting me against it in the process. “If you’re fucking with me, I won’t think twice about killing you.”
“That’s fair,” I chirp, appeasing the psychopath and ducking under his arm. “I’m not fucking with you, but to be clear, if I don’t check in after this, my contact has been informed to alert Wells that I was meeting with you and didn’t make it out. And since he has Mercy, well, you can bridge that.”
I pick at my nails as if I’m bored while he growls. This guy. As if I didn’t live with four snarling, overweening men drunk on power.
Not even breaking a sweat, jackass .
He crosses the room, halting at a hallway with a scowl. “Come,” he orders.
I follow like an obedient pet—with canine teeth capable of gnawing through his carotid artery if need be. We enter a huge conference room, a massive oval table in the center and two desks on either end.
He pours two glasses of whiskey, slamming mine down on the table. “Start fucking talking.”
So hospitable.
I stride to the table but remain standing with a stony gaze on him until he sits, and I join him. “About a month ago, a memory surfaced of a conversation I’d overheard regarding your interests .”
He swigs his drink. “And why the fuck do you know anything about my interests? Playing all of us with that AirPods, reading ruse, sweetheart ?”
Jesus, he makes terms of endearment sound menacing.
“Yes,” I admit. No point in lying. “It wasn’t calculated.
Sometimes, far-off things stick in my brain.
” Sipping the putrid liquid, I mask my choking.
Although my froggy squeak betrays me, which provokes a twitch in Ryker’s lips—the first hint at humanity.
Clearing my throat, I add, “That skill of mine is like a late, shiny Christmas gift to you though.”
His features soften in the way marble shines—still hard and cold but reflecting a glimpse of light. “Get on with it.”
Wells barked the same command to Maddox at our wedding.
Ignoring the brick sinking into the pit of my stomach from the flash of my wedding day, I manage a smile.
“Here’s the deal: In exchange for the information that will open a casket , I need you to take a necklace of mine to a jeweler here tomorrow.
I’m sure there’s one you trust or own. Have them run the serial number and leave them with a picture of Wells and a note.
The jeweler should know running the number will beckon a slew of thugs with millions flashing in their eyes.
I don’t want anyone hurt. And the note is only for Wells. ”
“Why wouldn’t I call Wells, tell him I have you, and let him fuck the information on Montgomery out of you?”
Ahh, that’s one way to go. The thought has me squirming in my seat.
Not now.
“Because,” I argue, “you’d have to wait for it, you’d risk him not letting me share it, and because you and I aren’t so different. We’re both desperate for someone out of our grasp, and this plan of mine clamps down on them both.”
He squints his glacial blues, his finger circling the rim of his glass. “Sounds to me like you’re playing with fire and—”
“I’ve already done that. I literally burned our old life to the ground.” No sense holding back. “You’d be wise to take me seriously.”
He snickers, chugs his whiskey, and rises to retrieve the bottle from the bar.
One glass isn’t going to cut it for this conversation, obviously.
“I don’t know much about the shit involving you.
I can see the appeal in fucking your husband over.
But why purposely call out the thugs and hit men after you? ”
“I’ll be tapped into the jeweler’s security, letting me see the face of every asshole trying to kill me. And fucking with Wells is cathartic,” I confess. “Two birds.”
That wins me favor.
Ryker cackles, spilling another glass of whiskey into his mouth. “Nothing worse than an underestimated badass bitch.”
Far more endearing than sweetheart out of his mouth.
I clink his empty glass and venture another sip. It’s only mildly smoother, but the burn is strangely satisfying. “So? Deal?”
He combs his fingers through his waxy brown tresses. “Fine. Better be good.”
Since this isn’t the type of deal brokered with a contract, I take him at his word. Something tells me Ryker’s good on it.
“My father had a conversation with a man last April. A month ago, it resurfaced in my mind. The man was distressed because Dalton Montgomery was causing his father, Monroe Montgomery, trouble again. He mentioned that Monroe had helped Dalton bury Hailey Holden in the Dundee Caverns.” Ryker’s eyes darken with a murderous gleam, but I don’t stop.
“Here’s the kicker: Monroe was disgusted with his son and said he couldn’t choose Dalton over his grandson.
He wanted nothing to do with hurting Mercy or her son, Jett. He’s desperate to have Jett back.”
Ryker drags his fingers across his mouth, processing. His mind is clearly a runaway train, but there’s excitement chugging within it.