CHAPTER 27
THE GILDED CAGE
POV: IVY
The champagne in my glass costs three hundred dollars a bottle. It tastes like cold gold—crisp, metallic, and entirely indifferent to the fact that I killed a man four weeks ago.
I stand in the center of the gallery, surrounded by the elite of New York City. They are a sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns, a murmur of polite conversation and fake laughter. They smell of expensive perfume, old money, and desperation.
They are looking at me.
They are whispering about the young artist who came out of nowhere, financed by the disgraced-yet-triumphant CEO Silas Vane. They are whispering about the rumors—the kidnapping, the war, the disappearance of the Russian mob. But they don't dare ask.
Instead, they look at the walls.
My soul is plastered across the white plaster of the gallery in oil and charcoal.
To my left hangs The Red Snow. It’s a chaotic splash of white and crimson, capturing the moment Silas rubbed his blood into my cheek in the Adirondacks.
To my right is The King of Ashes. A dark, brooding portrait of Silas, his face half-shadowed, the scar on his brow rendered in stark, jagged strokes.
And directly behind me is the centerpiece. The shipyard.
It’s abstract. A collapsing crane. A fire in the dark. A figure in white lying broken on the asphalt.
"It’s visceral," a woman with too much botox and a diamond necklace the size of a fist says, leaning in to inspect the canvas. "The use of red... it’s so violent. Is it a metaphor for capitalism?"
I sip my champagne, hiding my smile behind the crystal rim.
"Something like that," I say softly. "It’s about the cost of doing business."
The woman nods sagely, pretending to understand, and moves on.
I feel a hand on the small of my back.
It’s heavy. Warm. Possessive.
I don't need to turn around to know who it is. My heart rate monitor—still strapped to my ankle beneath the floor-length emerald silk gown—probably just sent a notification to his phone.
Spike. 85 BPM.
"They love you," Silas murmurs against my ear.
I lean back into him. He is a solid wall of heat in a room that feels strangely cold. He is wearing a tuxedo that fits him like a second skin, concealing the gun I know is holstered under his left arm.
"They love the spectacle," I correct him. "They think it’s fantasy. If they knew it was a documentary, they’d be running for the exits."
"Let them run," Silas says. His hand slides down, his thumb tracing the curve of my spine through the silk. "We locked the doors."
It’s a joke. Mostly.
We are at the grand opening of The Vane Gallery. It is the first floor of our new fortress—the renovated building at 15 Central Park West. We live in the penthouse. The gallery is my playground. The basement is... well, the basement is where Luca keeps the things we don't talk about.
"Are you happy?" Silas asks.
I look around the room. I look at the red dots stickers on the wall next to the paintings. Sold. Sold. Sold. I have made a million dollars tonight. Legitimate money.
"I’m rich," I say.
"That wasn't the question."
I turn to face him. His blue eyes are searching mine, intense and unrelenting. He looks tired, but good. The war is over. Nikolai is dead. The city has bent the knee.
But there is a restlessness in him. I feel it because it mirrors my own.
"I’m safe," I say. "I’m successful. I’m Mrs. Vane."
"But?"
"But it’s quiet," I whisper.
Silas’s lips twitch. "Peace is boring, Ivy. We talked about this."
"I don't miss the fear," I say quickly. "I don't want to be chased again. But... I miss the clarity. In the cabin, in the shipyard... everything was simple. Survival. You and me."
"We are still you and me," he says. "We just have better sheets now."
He kisses my forehead. "I have to talk to the Senator. He’s asking about shipping lanes in Jersey. Don't wander off."
"Where would I go?" I ask, lifting the hem of my dress slightly to show the glint of the platinum anklet.
"Nowhere I can't find you," he promises.
He walks away, disappearing into the crowd like a shark sliding into a school of fish. The crowd parts for him. They fear him. They know he won.
I turn back to my painting. The shipyard.
I stare at the figure in white paint. Nikolai.
I killed him.
I close my eyes, trying to summon the feeling of the recoil. The snap of the gun. The rush of power.
It’s fading. The memory is getting polished, smooth, like a stone in a river. I’m losing the edge.
I open my eyes.
And I see him.
He is standing across the room, near the bar. He isn't looking at the art. He isn't looking at Silas.
He is looking at me.
He doesn't fit here.
His suit is cheap—polyester blend, ill-fitting at the shoulders. His shoes are scuffed. He isn't drinking champagne; he’s nursing a club soda with a lime twist.
He is tall, lean, with a face that looks like it was carved out of granite and left out in the rain too long. Tired eyes. Gray at the temples.
He isn't a buyer. He isn't a socialite.
He’s a cop.
My stomach drops. Not with fear, but with a sudden, sharp jolt of adrenaline.
Hello, trouble.
I watch him. He takes a sip of his soda, his eyes never leaving my face. He doesn't look away when I catch him staring. He holds my gaze. It’s a challenge.
I check the room. Silas is deep in conversation with the Senator and two other men in suits. Luca is by the front door, scanning the perimeter.
This man slipped through.
I should tell Silas. I should tap my ear—old habit from the heist—or just walk over and whisper, There’s a wolf in the fold. Silas would have him removed. Or disappeared.
But I don't move.
I feel a prickle on my skin. A ghost of the feeling I had in the woods. The hunt.
I want to know who he is. I want to know what he knows.
I turn and walk toward the bar.
I move slowly, letting the silk of my dress flow around me like water. I am the Queen of this castle. I have nothing to fear.
I reach the bar. The man is standing there, leaning his elbow on the marble counter. Up close, he smells of stale coffee and mint gum.
"You don't like the art," I say.
He turns to me. His eyes are brown, flat, and unimpressed.
"It’s a little violent for my taste," he says. His voice is raspy, like he smokes too much.
"Violence sells," I reply, signaling the bartender for a refill. "What brings you to the opening? You don't look like a collector."
"I’m not," he admits. "I’m a fan of the backstory."
"The backstory?"
"The artist," he says. "Ivy Ross. Daughter of Marcus Ross. Disappeared for a month. Reappeared married to Silas Vane, billionaire and... let’s call him an 'industrialist'."
He takes a sip of his soda.
"And now, suddenly, she’s painting crime scenes."
I freeze. My hand tightens on the stem of my glass.
"They’re landscapes," I say coolly.
"Are they?" He gestures to the painting behind me. The shipyard. "That looks a lot like the Red Hook terminal. There was a hell of an accident there last month. Crane collapse. Gas explosion. Wiped out half the block."
"I wouldn't know," I lie. "I paint from imagination."
"Imagination," he repeats. He reaches into his jacket pocket.
I tense. My hand drifts to my thigh, but I’m not wearing the knife. I’m defenseless.
He pulls out a card. A business card.
He slides it across the bar.
DETECTIVE THOMAS KANE. NYPD - COLD CASE / ORGANIZED CRIME.
"Detective," I say, looking at the card but not touching it. "Is there a problem?"
"There are lots of problems, Mrs. Vane," Kane says. "For instance... a man named Nikolai Sokolov went missing the same night that crane collapsed."
"I don't know him."
"Don't you?" Kane tilts his head. "That’s funny. Because we found a car registered to a shell company of his crushed under that crane. And we found ballistic evidence scattered all over the asphalt. 5.56 rounds. 9mm rounds."
He leans in closer.
"And we found blood."
My heart is hammering. 120 BPM.
"It was a gas explosion," I say, repeating the official story Silas paid the Fire Marshal to file.
"Gas explosions don't leave 9mm casings," Kane says. "But here’s the interesting part. We found a partial print on a piece of debris. It was small. A woman’s print."
He looks at my hands. My manicured, diamond-ringed hands.
"I’m sure you have a lot of fingerprints on file," I say, keeping my voice steady. "New York is a dirty city."
"It is," he agrees. "And Silas Vane is the janitor. He cleans up well. Bodies disappear. Evidence vanishes. Money moves."
He picks up his card and taps it against the marble.
"But people talk, Mrs. Vane. Especially when there’s a power vacuum. The streets are whispering that Nikolai didn't just leave town. They’re saying he was executed."
"Rumors," I say.
"Murder," he corrects. "And there’s no statute of limitations on murder."
He slides the card into the neckline of my dress. His fingers brush my skin. It’s invasive. It’s a violation.
"I’m going to find out what happened that night," he promises softly. "Silas Vane is slippery. He’s got lawyers, judges, politicians in his pocket. I can't touch him."
He looks me in the eye.
"But you? You’re new to this. You’re the weak link."
I laugh.
It’s a genuine laugh. It bubbles up from my chest, dark and amused.
"The weak link?" I ask.
I step into his space. I lower my voice to a whisper.
"You have no idea who you’re talking to, Detective. You think I’m the victim? You think I’m the damsel Silas dragged into his tower?"
I lean in until my lips are inches from his ear.
"I’m the one who locked the door."
Kane pulls back, blinking. He looks unsettled. He expected fear. He got defiance.
"Be careful, Mrs. Vane," he warns. "Monsters eat their own."
"Good thing I have sharp teeth."
I turn around and walk away.
My heart is racing. My blood is singing.
I feel... alive.
For the first time in weeks, the boredom is gone. The itch is scratched.
There is a threat. A hunter.
I look across the room. Silas is watching me. He has broken away from the Senator. He saw me talking to Kane. He saw Kane touch my dress.
His face is a mask of thunder.
He meets me in the middle of the room. He grabs my arm, his grip tight.
"Who was that?" he demands.
I look at him. I see the possessiveness. I see the violence coiling in his muscles, ready to snap.
If I tell him Kane is a detective... if I tell him Kane knows about the shipyard... Silas will kill him. He will have Luca trail him home and put a bullet in his head tonight.
And the game will be over. The threat will be gone. And I will be bored again.
I look at the business card tucked into my dress. I feel the sharp corner digging into my skin.
I want the game. I want the cat and mouse. I want to see if I can beat him without Silas’s bullets.
"Just a fan," I lie.
Silas narrows his eyes. "He touched you."
"He was drunk," I say. "He tried to slip his number into my dress. I told him I’m married to the devil."
Silas stares at me. He is reading my face. He is checking for the lie.
"Show me the card," he says.
My breath hitches.
"I threw it away," I say effortlessly. "In the trash by the bar. He wasn't worth keeping."
Silas holds my gaze for another second. Then, slowly, he relaxes. He believes me. Or he chooses to believe me because he wants to believe that I am untouchable.
"If he approaches you again," Silas says, "I will cut his hands off."
"I know," I say. "But I handled it."
"You did," he agrees. He pulls me closer, his hand sliding down to my ass. "Let’s go home. I’m tired of sharing you."
"Yes," I say. "Let’s go home."
We leave the gallery. We walk out into the cool night air of Central Park West.
As we get into the back of the town car, I glance back at the gallery window.
Detective Kane is standing there, watching us. He isn't intimidated. He is taking notes.
I smile in the darkness of the car.
Silas thinks the war is over. He thinks he won the peace.
But I just started a new war.
And this time, I’m the general.
We ride in silence to the Penthouse.
The new apartment is a masterpiece of modern gothic design. Black marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the park, dark velvet furniture. It is the cage I designed.
Silas dismisses the staff.
We are alone.
He walks to the bar and pours a drink. He looks agitated. The interaction at the gallery bothered him more than he let on.
"You’re tense," I say, walking up behind him. I wrap my arms around his waist, resting my cheek against his back.
"I don't like men looking at you," he admits. "I don't like sharing the air with them."
"You own me," I remind him. "Let them look. They can't touch."
He turns in my arms. He sets the glass down.
"Take it off," he says.
"The dress?"
"Everything."
I reach back and unzip the dress. It falls to the floor. I step out of it.
I am naked, save for the diamonds around my neck and the platinum tracker on my ankle.
Silas looks at me. His gaze is heavy, tactile.
"Beautiful," he murmurs.
He picks me up and carries me to the bedroom. He throws me onto the bed—the massive bed that sits in the center of the room like an altar.
He looms over me, stripping off his jacket, his tie, his shirt.
I watch him. I watch the muscles ripple under his skin. I watch the scars.
I think about Kane. I think about the threat. I think about the secret I’m keeping.
It turns me on. The danger is an aphrodisiac.
"Silas," I whisper.
"What?"
"Make me forget," I say, echoing the words from the bunker. "Make me forget everything but you."
He crawls onto the bed. He pins my wrists above my head with one hand.
"I will be the only thing in your world," he vows.
He kisses me. It is deep, claiming.
But as he moves down my body, as his mouth finds my breast, my mind drifts back to the business card hidden in my dress in the laundry hamper.
Detective Thomas Kane.
Silas thinks he is the only danger in my life.
He’s wrong.
And I can't wait to play.