CHAPTER 29
THE UNTOUCHABLE
POV: SILAS
There is nothing more dangerous in this world than a man with a conscience.
Criminals, I understand. They are driven by hunger, by greed, by the primal need to elevate themselves above the muck they were born in.
A criminal has a price. You can buy his loyalty, or you can buy his silence.
You can threaten what he loves, because a criminal always loves something—money, power, a woman.
But a saint?
A saint is a chaotic variable. You cannot bribe him because he values righteousness over gold. You cannot threaten him because he views martyrdom as a promotion.
I am staring at the dossier of Detective Thomas Kane.
It is spread across the glass desk of my new office in the Penthouse. Unlike the mahogany fortress of Vane Enterprises, this desk is transparent. Nothing to hide. Or so it appears.
Luca stands by the window, looking out at the rain slashing against the glass. He looks frustrated. He looks like a man who wants to punch something but can’t find a target.
"Nothing?" I ask, my voice low.
"Nothing, Boss," Luca says, turning around. "I’ve dug back twenty years. The guy is a monk. He lives in a one-bedroom apartment in Queens. He drives a ten-year-old Ford. No gambling debts. No ex-wives asking for alimony. He doesn't even drink on the job."
I pick up a photo of Kane. He looks tired. His eyes are dark circles of exhaustion, but there is a hardness in them. A resolve.
"Everyone has a vice, Luca. You just haven't found the right vein to tap."
"We checked his financials," Luca argues. "Clean. We checked his browser history. Clean. We even put a tail on him to see if he visits massage parlors in Chinatown. The guy goes to work, goes to the gym, goes home. On Sundays, he visits a cemetery."
I pause. "Who is buried there?"
"His sister. Emily Kane. Died twelve years ago."
"Cause of death?"
"Overdose. Heroin. She was dating a low-level dealer for the Latin Kings. Guy got her hooked, then let her choke on her own vomit while he flushed the stash."
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking.
Now I see it.
It’s not justice he’s chasing. It’s redemption.
He looks at Ivy and he doesn't see a woman who made a choice. He sees his sister. He sees a victim trapped in the web of a powerful, dangerous man. He thinks he can save her. He thinks if he pulls her out of the fire, he can rewrite the past.
That makes him formidable. A man fighting for a ghost never stops.
"He approached her at the gallery," I say, tapping the photo. "He touched her."
"I can put a team on him tonight," Luca offers, his hand drifting to his gun. "Make it look like a mugging gone wrong. Queens is dangerous at night."
"No."
I stand up and walk to the window. The city lights are blurred by the rain, smears of red and gold against the black.
"If a decorated detective vanishes two weeks after Nikolai Sokolov disappears, the NYPD won't just investigate. They’ll declare war. They’ll bring the Feds. They’ll tear this building apart brick by brick until they find something."
I press my hand against the cold glass.
"Kane wants to be a hero," I murmur. "He wants to be the knight who slays the dragon."
"So what do we do?"
"We don't kill him," I say, turning back to the room. A cold, cruel smile touches my lips. "We ruin him."
I find Ivy in the studio.
It is the room she asked for—the one with the lock only she can open. But true to our agreement, the door is ajar.
She is standing in front of a massive canvas, covered in paint. She’s wearing one of my old shirts, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and nothing else. Her legs are bare, the platinum tracker on her ankle gleaming under the studio lights.
She is painting fire.
It’s a chaotic, violent swirl of orange and black. It looks like the explosion at the shipyard. It looks like the inside of my head.
I watch her for a moment.
She is so focused she doesn't hear me enter. She attacks the canvas with the brush, her movements sharp, aggressive. She isn't painting to create; she is painting to destroy.
The memory of yesterday flashes through my mind. Her body bent over the marble bar. Her wetness. Her confession.
I’m wet for the game.
She is corrupted. She is mine.
But Kane... Kane thinks she is a bird with clipped wings.
"It’s angry," I say.
Ivy jumps, spinning around. A smear of orange paint lands on her cheek.
"Silas," she breathes, lowering the brush. "You scared me."
"Good."
I walk over to her. I take the brush from her hand and set it down. I grab a rag and wipe the paint from her cheek. My touch is gentle, but possessive.
"We need to talk about your friend," I say.
"He’s not my friend," she says instantly. Her heart rate, which I checked on my phone before entering, jumps slightly. 90 BPM. Not fear. Anticipation.
"Detective Kane," I say. "Luca ran a full background check."
"And?"
"He’s clean. He’s a crusader. His sister died because of a man like me. He thinks you are her reincarnation."
Ivy frowns. She leans back against the worktable, crossing her arms. "So he has a savior complex. That makes him predictable."
"It makes him relentless," I correct her. "He won't take a bribe. He won't be scared off by threats. He believes he is on a holy mission to liberate you."
I step into her space, caging her against the table. I place my hands on the wood on either side of her hips.
"He is going to come for you again, Ivy. He is going to try to get you alone. He is going to offer you a wire. He is going to offer you Witness Protection."
"I won't take it," she says. "You know I won't."
"I know," I say, brushing my thumb over her bottom lip. "But he doesn't know that. And that is his weakness."
I look deep into her eyes. I need to see if she is ready. I need to see if the wolf is awake.
"I can't kill him," I say. "Not without bringing the entire justice system down on our heads. I need him discredited. I need him stripped of his badge, his gun, and his credibility. I need him to look like a lunatic who is stalking an innocent woman."
Ivy’s eyes widen slightly. A slow, dark smile spreads across her face.
"You want to trap him."
"I want you to trap him."
I pull back, giving her space to breathe, space to think.
"He wants to save you," I say. "So... let him try."
"You want me to act like the victim," she realizes. "You want me to feed his delusion."
"I want you to call him," I say. "Use a burner. Tell him you’re scared. Tell him you found something—evidence that I killed Nikolai. Tell him you want out."
"He’ll want to meet."
"Yes. He’ll want to meet somewhere quiet. Somewhere private. To 'extract' you."
I walk to the window of the studio, looking out at the skyline.
"We’ll pick the spot," I say. "We’ll rig the room. Not with explosives this time. With cameras. With microphones."
I turn back to her.
"You are going to offer him everything he wants. You are going to cry. You are going to beg. And then... you are going to make a move."
"A move?"
"You’re going to seduce him," I say. The words taste like ash in my mouth. "Or make it look like you are. You’re going to offer yourself as payment for his help. And when he touches you... or when he hesitates... we will have it all on 4K video."
"A corrupt cop soliciting sex from a victim in exchange for protection," Ivy muses. "Or a stalker obsession turning violent."
"Exactly. We send the footage to Internal Affairs. We send it to the press. He becomes a predator. He goes to prison. And we walk away clean."
Ivy looks down at her hands. She is thinking.
I watch her closely. I am asking her to use her body—the body that belongs to me—as bait. It goes against every instinct I have to protect her, to keep her hidden. But this is war. And in war, you use your sharpest weapons.
"What if he doesn't hesitate?" she asks quietly. "What if he touches me for real?"
The question hangs in the air.
I cross the room in a blur of motion. I grab her face, forcing her to look at me.
"I will be ten feet away," I vow. "I will be behind the wall. If he puts a hand on you that you don't invite... if he hurts you... I will forget the plan. I will tear his throat out with my teeth and deal with the Feds later."
My thumbs stroke her jawline.
"Do you trust me?"
She looks at me. Her eyes are clear. The fear is gone.
"I trust the monster," she whispers.
"Good."
I kiss her. It is a hard, bruising kiss. A seal on a devil’s bargain.
"Get dressed," I say, pulling back. "We need to buy a burner phone. And you need to practice your crying."
Two days later, the stage is set.
We chose a motel in Queens. The Golden Hour. It’s a dive—flaking paint, neon sign buzzing with a dying fly sound, rented by the hour to junkies and adulterers.
It is exactly the kind of place a terrified woman would run to.
I am in Room 104.
Ivy is in Room 105.
The wall between us is thin. I drilled a hole through the plaster behind the mirror earlier today. I threaded a fiber-optic camera through it. I have audio feeds planted in the lamp, under the bed, and in the smoke detector.
I am sitting on the edge of the stained mattress in Room 104, wearing a headset. My laptop is open on my knees, showing the feed from Room 105.
Ivy is sitting on the bed.
She looks pathetic. We chose her outfit carefully. An oversized hoodie. Jeans. No makeup. Her hair is messy, as if she’s been running. She is twisting her hands in her lap, looking at the door.
She is acting.
But watching her on the screen, seeing the tremble in her lip, I feel a spike of irrational rage. It looks too real. It reminds me of the first days at the penthouse, when she really was that scared girl.
I hate that I put her back in that box, even for a show.
"He’s here," Luca’s voice crackles in my ear. "Ford Taurus. Just pulled into the lot. He’s alone."
"Copy," I whisper. "Hold position."
I watch the screen.
A knock on the door of Room 105.
Ivy jumps. It’s a perfect flinch.
"Who is it?" she calls out, her voice trembling.