CHAPTER 2
THE DEVIL IN THE PEW
POV: SILAS
The flame of my lighter flickers, a tiny, restless dancer reflecting in the darkened glass of the window. I snap the lid shut, suffocating the fire, then flick it open again.
Click. Flash. Click. Darkness.
It’s a rhythm that matches the slow, heavy thud of my heart.
Up on the fourth floor, the light in apartment 4B goes out.
A grim, satisfied smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth.
She didn't take it off. I would have seen it.
I have eyes everywhere, but right now, I didn't need cameras to know what Ivy Ross was doing.
I could feel it. I could feel the moment she surrendered to the weight of the diamonds around her throat.
I could feel the shift in the air when she touched herself, calling out to the ghost in the room.
Yours, she whispered.
I heard it. Not with my ears—I’m four stories down, encased in reinforced steel and bulletproof glass—but I heard it in my blood. It roared through my veins, a dark, possessive hymn.
She thinks she’s scared. She thinks she’s confused. But the truth is simpler, uglier. Ivy is just like me. She craves the cage. She just needed someone to build a pretty enough one for her.
My phone vibrates in the breast pocket of my suit jacket.
I ignore it. I’m not ready to leave yet.
I want to savor this feeling—the knowledge that for the first time in the six months I’ve been watching her, she finally acknowledged my existence.
She didn't run. She didn't scream. She accepted the gift.
She accepted the collar.
The phone buzzes again. Persistent. Annoying.
I pull it out, the screen illuminating the scarred interior of the Rolls-Royce. The name on the display is LUCA.
I slide my thumb across the screen. "Speak."
"We have a problem at The Altar," Luca’s voice is tight, clipped. He knows better than to call me unless blood has been spilled or money has been lost.
"Define problem," I say, my eyes drifting back to her dark window. I picture her curled up in that narrow bed, the birdcage pendant resting against her pulse. I wonder if the metal has warmed to her skin yet.
"It’s Marcus," Luca says.
My hand tightens around the phone, the leather of my gloves creaking.
"Her father?"
"Yeah. He’s here. And he’s not alone. He’s with the Sokolov brothers. They’re making noise, Silas. They’re talking about collateral."
The temperature in the car seems to drop ten degrees. The possessive warmth that filled my chest a moment ago crystallizes into ice. Sharp, jagged, lethal ice.
Marcus Ross. The gambling addict. The alcoholic. The man who squandered his family’s fortune and left his daughter to starve in a rat-infested walk-up while he chased his next high.
"Don't let them leave," I command, my voice low. "Put them in the Red Room. I’m coming."
"Understood."
I hang up and toss the phone onto the passenger seat.
I look up at her window one last time. Sleep well, little bird, I think. Because tomorrow, your world burns.
I shift the car into gear, the engine purring like a restrained beast, and peel away from the curb.
The Altar isn't a church, though plenty of people come here to pray.
It’s an exclusive underground club in the Meatpacking District, a place where the city’s elite come to indulge in sins they pretend to condemn in the daylight. Heavy velvet drapes, dim chandeliers, and music that throbs like a headache. It’s my kingdom. My sanctuary.
I breeze past the security at the back entrance. The guards nod, their eyes averting respectfully. They know the mood I’m in. They can smell the violence on me.
I don't stop at the bar. I don't stop to greet the politicians sniffing lines off hookers' tits in the VIP booths. I head straight for the elevator that requires a biometric scan.
Down.
The basement level is soundproofed. The air here is different—sterile, smelling of bleach and copper. This is where the real business happens. This is where debts are settled.
Luca is waiting for me outside the heavy steel door of Room 3. He’s my second-in-command, a man who looks like a catalogue model but kills with the efficiency of a machine. He hands me a towel.
"They're inside," he says. "Marcus is crying. The Russians are... impatient."
"Did they touch him?"
"No. We kept them separated. But Silas... you need to hear what they’re offering."
I take the towel, though my hands are clean. Habit. "Open it."
Luca pushes the door open.
The room is stark white. Tiled floors, a drain in the center, a single metal table. Marcus Ross is zip-tied to a chair on the left. He looks like a wreck—sweaty, shaking, his expensive suit stained with vomit.
On the right, leaning against the wall, are two men. The Sokolovs. Alexei and Dmitri. Low-level enforcers for the Russian Bratva. They’re big, loud, and stupid. A dangerous combination.
"Vane," Alexei grunts, pushing off the wall. "About fucking time. We were about to start carving pieces off this pig."
I ignore him. I walk over to the metal table and slowly peel off my leather gloves, finger by finger. I place them neatly next to the tray of surgical instruments.
"Gentlemen," I say, my voice smooth, devoid of emotion. "You’re in my house. You don't make the schedule here."
I turn my gaze to Marcus.
He flinches as if I’ve struck him. "Silas... Mr. Vane. Please. I told them. I told them you’d vouch for me. I told them we’re partners."
"Partners?" I raise an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that lending you fifty grand six months ago made us partners, Marcus. I thought it made you a debtor."
"I have the money!" Marcus babbles, his eyes darting between me and the Russians. "Well, not cash. But assets. I have assets."
Alexei laughs, a harsh, barking sound. "He has shit. That’s what he has. He owes us two hundred large, Vane. And he’s trying to pay us with promises."
"Not promises," Marcus squeaks. "Flesh. I told you. I have... I have a daughter."
The room goes silent.
The silence isn't peaceful. It’s the breathless, vacuum-sealed silence that happens right before an explosion.
I stop moving. My hand hovers over a scalpel on the tray.
"Repeat that," I say.
Marcus swallows hard, sweat dripping from his nose.
He thinks he sees a lifeline. He thinks he’s negotiating.
"Ivy. She’s... she’s beautiful. Twenty. Virgin, as far as I know.
Clean. Smart. She’s at Parsons. She’s worth way more than two hundred.
You can... you can take her. Train her. Sell her. Whatever."
He looks at the Russians, desperate. "She’s prime stock. I kept her away from all this. She’s pure."
Pure.
The word hangs in the air, tainted by the filth of his mouth.
He’s selling her.
My Ivy. The girl who whispers to ghosts in the dark. The girl whose reflection I branded. He’s trading her like a used car to settle a gambling debt with two bottom-feeding Russians.
A red haze creeps into my peripheral vision, similar to what happened in the confessional, but this is colder. This is focused.
"You’re offering your daughter," I clarify, picking up the scalpel. The light glints off the surgical steel. "To settle your debt with the Bratva."
"Yes!" Marcus nods frantically. "Alexei said they’d take her. It’s a fair trade, right? A life for a life."
I turn to Alexei. "Is that true? You’d take her?"
Alexei shrugs, smirking. "Why not? A pretty American girl? We could have some fun with her for a few weeks, break her in, then ship her to the houses in Dubai. We’d make our money back in a month."
Break her in.
Ship her.
Dubai.
I nod slowly. "I see."
I move so fast it doesn't even register as movement.
I step forward and drive the scalpel into Alexei’s eye.
He screams—a guttural, wet sound that echoes off the tiled walls. I don't let go. I twist the handle, severing the optic nerve, pushing deeper into the brain matter. He drops to his knees, thrashing, hands clawing at his face.
Dmitri roars and reaches for his waistband, but Luca is faster. Two shots ring out. Pop. Pop. Dmitri drops, a hole in his forehead and another in his throat.
Alexei stops twitching. He slumps to the floor, dead, the scalpel still protruding from his socket like a grotesque antenna.
The room is quiet again, save for the ringing in my ears and Marcus’s hyperventilating sobs.
I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe a speck of blood from my cheek. I look down at the bodies. It’s messy. I hate messes.
"Luca," I say calmly. "Clean this up. The usual disposal."
"On it," Luca says, holstering his weapon. He doesn't even blink. He knows the rules. No one touches what is mine. No one even thinks about touching what is mine.
I turn to Marcus.
He’s paralyzed with terror. He’s staring at Alexei’s body, then at me. He’s realized, too late, that he made a fatal calculation error.
I walk over to him. I grab the lapels of his ruined suit and drag his chair closer, until our knees are touching. I can smell the sour stench of his fear.
"You seem confused, Marcus," I say softly.
"P-please," he stammers. "I didn't know... I didn't know you wanted her."
"I don't want her," I correct him. "I own her."
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. I tap the app I installed three months ago. The feed loads instantly.
It’s a night-vision view of Ivy’s apartment. The camera is hidden in the smoke detector.
She’s asleep now. She’s curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other clutching the blanket. The diamond choker is still around her neck, glinting in the grainy black-and-white footage.
I turn the screen so Marcus can see.
"Look at her," I command.
He looks, his eyes widening. "Is that...?"
"She’s sleeping," I say. "She thinks she’s safe. She thinks the world is just cold, not evil. She doesn't know that her own father tried to sell her to a pack of wolves."
I pull the phone back.
"You owe the Sokolovs two hundred thousand," I say. "Or you did. Now they’re dead. So, who owns that debt now, Marcus?"
"You," he whispers. "I owe you."
"That’s right. And since you have no money, and no assets..." I lean in, my voice dropping to a whisper that sounds like a prayer. "I accept your offer."
Marcus blinks. "What?"
"Ivy," I say. "I accept Ivy as payment. In full."
"You... you’re taking her?"
"I’m acquiring her. The debt is cleared. You walk out of here alive. You never speak to her again. You never look for her. You disappear, Marcus. If I ever see you within ten miles of her, I will peel your skin off while you’re still conscious. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he sobs. "Yes, God, yes. Take her. Just let me go."
"Good."
I stand up and signal to Luca. "Cut him loose. Throw him out the back."
"And the girl?" Luca asks, eyeing the dead Russians. "The Bratva will come looking for these two. If they know Marcus offered the girl..."
"They won't find Marcus," I say. "And they won't find the girl."
I look at the phone screen again. Ivy shifts in her sleep, murmuring something I can't hear. She looks so peaceful. So vulnerable.
I can't leave her there. Not anymore.
The lock I put on her window will keep out common thieves, but it won't keep out the Russian mob when they realize their men are missing. They’ll trace the last known location. They’ll find Marcus’s trail. They’ll find her.
I can't watch from the shadows any longer. The game has changed.
I tap the screen, zooming in on her face.
"Prepare the car," I tell Luca. "And get the guest suite ready at the Penthouse."
"You’re bringing her in tonight?"
"I’m bringing her home," I correct him.
I walk toward the door, stepping over Alexei’s corpse without a second glance. The blood on my shoes is a nuisance, but it’s a small price to pay.
I’m done being a ghost.
Tonight, the monster comes out from under the bed.
And he’s taking the girl with him.