CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
IVY
A bouquet of aromas—chocolate and caramel, fish and sulfur—pervades the chilly gust of wind as my stiletto heel probes the icy sidewalk for anchorage. Cities have a way of assailing, leaving their mark so there’s no concealing who they’ve claimed.
Like a domineering man.
Once-slushy snow, refrozen in jagged peaks, fringes the path scraped clean for us. Crystallized ice sparkles atop the muck. Glistening filth. Bile rises to the back of my throat, burning and bitter, at the sight. Snow will never be the same.
Snow is carnage and blood.
Winter is death and mothballs.
Black leather gloves and too many lilies.
Goodbyes.
One of the many reasons New Orleans was my choice for a new beginning. No snow.
Maybe in the humid sunshine, the black hole will lose its power.
Gage winks at me as he flanks the elbow Wells isn’t linked to.
The guys taunted and cheered as we left the bedroom on the plane, which infuriated Wells, goading him into a slew of hissing expletives.
No doubt he’ll be soundproofing the plane’s suite soon.
The knowledge that they heard or suspected our collective unleashing should embarrass me, I suppose, but those jeers are woven with a genuine happiness that bundles me up, blocking the chill .
And I can’t find it in me to be ruffled by the moments I am wholly riveted in the present.
There’s too much shame in lost time.
Liam zigzags around us, opening the huge, peaked wooden door to the old cathedral while Ty cages me from behind, a hand on the small of my back.
In the inky night, you’d think the dingy antique-white would shine.
Pearlized. It doesn’t. It’s just an ancient, forgotten house of prayer, transformed into a meeting ground for supreme, clandestine puppeteers.
And execution chambers.
The thump of my pulse whirs in my ears.
We should light a candle. Make amends to the spirits.
Other than the click-clack of our shoes, tapping like a beratement from Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven,” the steps to the ceremonial space elude me.
The black hole begs to pull me under.
Nev-er-more. Nev-er-more.
Stone and wood and mortar. Steeples piercing the night sky.
Altars and secrets.
We enter the sanctuary, a room resolved to upend its allegiance, paying homage to devilry. There was a time that would have slayed me—to serve my soul to wickedness.
But even blankets of white are dotted in crimson and gloom.
I can be the light—not quite as brilliant as the sun, but a glow in the night.
Like the moon. Or the glint in my sword.
Little Storm. Be the storm, Ivanna.
Lightning. Crashing into sin and shadows, illuminating, while still belonging in the dark.
Two leather chairs face a round oak table.
There’s ten feet between them, separating Wells and me.
My fingers drag over the jewels at my neck, thighs tightening over the stickiness between my legs.
I stand before the chair and lower my hands to an elegant clasp at my waist. Ty stations himself behind my chair, Liam behind Wells, Gage at an even distance between our posts.
All four are gleaming in their three-piece suits, pistols tucked into their waistbands, faces stony. My wall of armor.
The men—the knights and their security—pile into the drafty space. Streaming in as one entity, like a meandering river, they take their seats in a half-moon arrangement and nod for us to do the same. Will that be me? Fluid and flexible and connected?
There are official introductions, although not in the way of the social decorum I’ve been taught. This reads more like one of those hearings—my representatives and me on the side who’s yet to provide adequate testimony.
Don’t slip away.
You have nothing to prove.
Daniel grins at me, a dimple piercing his cheek. His eyes are kind—another strike in the darkness. I let that settle into my bones, relaxing me some, but my brain is still pulsing with “The Raven” drumbeat.
Click. Clack. Never. More.
The Balzano leader—Johnathan Balzano, the hospitality mogul, known as Johnny to his closest friends and family—finally bites into the meat of the proceedings, dour gaze lasered on me. “Did you feel your trial was harsh, Ivy?”
That’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one. The truth? What they did was so beyond fucked up that harsh doesn’t cover it. I don’t see how that nugget will aid me though. His high chin, flinty eyes, tempered breaths—he wants me to rebuke them, to show weakness.
Irritation flares in my veins, bubbling up in my chest, but I know how to maintain a simmer.
I will my chin to rise, like his. “No harsher than a jigsaw puzzle, Johnathan. Psychological warfare is sharper than a sword if wielded at an unshielded psyche. But the difference between that and a blade is that mind games only penetrate if one allows them to. I did not.”
You didn’t fucking break me.
His mouth crimps into a grimace, but The Order’s leader, Jared Austen, lifts his palm, silencing dear Johnny.
“You were certainly a formidable opponent, Ivanna. Although, you should know, opposition was not the intent. Dealing with politicians and infiltrating government agencies—it’s no small feat.
Secrets, leverage, and unveiled lies are the currency in your new position.
You’ve proven yourself adept at mining them. ”
His eyes squint, like he’s extracting a thought from somewhere far away.
Reaching. Plucking. “Thomas Kingston was one of my most respected members. He …” He rubs his hand over his mouth, masking emotion.
My father had that effect on people, bending even the steeliest of men.
“It all makes sense now—the way things often do in retrospect. We had our doubts about you, but you decimated those with a staggering display of not only tactics to conquer the trial, but also with the mettle and valor to leave deserving scars on those who crossed you.”
“While also somehow bathing those scars in a balm of loyalty,” Payne Logan—the financial institution tycoon—interjects. “Astounding.”
My turbulent pulse and breathing abate with the praise. It seems they are impressed. “Thank you, Mr. Austen, Mr. Logan.”
“You blew my grandson away,” Luca Cabrini adds with a jabbing chuckle and pointed glance at Wells—a grandson he barely knows, but I suppose it’s all about the bloodline, not the relationship.
He steeples his hands. “The initial impression about this marriage was not favorable. There is no rule against it, simply because we never anticipated such a matter.”
Makes sense since women weren’t permitted to have a seat, and I don’t suspect their minds are open beyond that.
“It convolutes boundaries, muddies the waters of power.” He sighs. “But what’s done is done. We linked your trials to test loyalty and see how well you could fare, separate from your husband.”
It does not go unnoticed that the one in need of proving was me even though I had entered the marriage with no knowledge of any of this .
He clears his throat, stroking his neatly trimmed gray beard. “What we found is, you both excelled apart, but also managed to unite when it all came crashing down, despite the devastation between you. We couldn’t have asked for more.”
I nod and smile, but before my appreciation sounds, Johnathan Balzano purses his lips with a groan. It’s not hard to pinpoint him as one of the votes against me.
Fucking patriarchy.
“This position is a key to a kingdom,” he scorns.
“Two hundred fifty million for passing the trial and accepting the seat, riches and privileges, power, and a yearly salary matching the bonus. But it comes at a cost, like that of the trial. A life of constant stress and danger. Eyes never shutting. Suffering and daunting challenges.” His censuring leer dips to my stomach.
“Family time interrupted, no matter how expecting that life becomes. Are you prepared for that, Ivy ?” He may be meeting my eyes again, but he spits my name like he’s scolding an unwed teen who’s decided to keep a baby.
Prick.
My womb isn’t even filled, and he’s cursing it. This is exactly the crap that led me to choose a gown over a suit. I won’t hide who I am. Not having a dickis one of my best attributes.
A contemptuous grin tugs at my tight lips.
“I am. I have a keen sense of balance—so capable that a little weight around the middle won’t throw me off.
” I glance at his beer belly with a plastic frown before locking on to his cold, dark eyes.
“You raise valid points, the very elements I find so empowering.” My hands slice through the dank, musty air to gesture at my guys.
“I have the best protection in the country. Unmatched. Eyes-never-shutting stress is nothing new—nothing I haven’t stared down the barrel of and fired at myself .
And that expectant life, the weighty interruption, will someday be the knitting of KORT’s heirs apparent.
” I swing my gaze to Wells as I add, “Two of them. I’m not afraid to be a woman at that table.
I won’t shrink from all it means. Will you, Johnny ? ”
Ty’s quiet chuckle reaches my ears seconds before Daniel bellows with a cutting wave to Johnny, “Clearly, she’s ready and not to be questioned. Let’s move on.”
They shift to Wells, commending his strides in the trial, his years as a SEAL, and his erasing business. Since the Cabrini chair handles data mining, my husband’s expertise is well suited. He fields their inquiries with the resolute poise he always conveys as I look on with pride.
He’s mine.
Gradually, their voices whir to a muffled din. I feel myself slipping. Drifting. Unable to hold on. There’s nothing to grip. The edges are black and smoky. It’s cold. So cold that my limbs don’t work.
Frozen. Limp. Indolent.
I have to get out of here.
The air tastes like gray clouds and rusty snow and loss.
It’s slippery and …
My neck is heavy. Why is it so heavy?
I’m not there. I’m not there.
My father. No. He’s gone. Gone. I was too late.