The Devil of Downtown (The Kings of New York #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Ivy

“Okay, Elsie, on the count of three. When your legs line up with that bunny-shaped cloud, you jump. Got it?”

“I’ve got it, Auntie Ivy.” Her brow pinches in concentration, little legs pumping hard.

“Ready? One... two... three!”

The swing groans, the wind whips at our cheeks, and then we’re airborne—laughing, shrieking—crashing into the grass in a tangled heap.

“Again, Auntie Ivy!” Elsie beams, gripping my hand as I haul us upright, brushing grass from her dress.

Our laughter barely fades before my twin radar pings, a half second before the inevitable voice arrives.

“Ivy Rose Vale. I saw that.”

And there she is.

My perfect twin sister. I love her, but she has a real talent for being a giant pain in the ass.

I smooth my expression into something approaching innocence as Sloane strides toward us, heels sinking into the turf, dark hair catching the last scraps of daylight.

In her tailored suit, she looks like she’s mid-corporate video, about to slide into frame and start talking about leadership and vision.

“Uh-oh, Elsie,” I whisper. “Here comes the fun police.”

Elsie covers her mouth to stifle a giggle as my better half glares down at us, arms folded, foot tapping in the exact way she’s been doing since we learned how to walk.

Sloane is five minutes going on ten years my senior. We’re identical in looks, but that’s where the similarities end. She plans; I improvise. She plays it safe; I leap first and figure out the landing later. I guess you could say, we balance each other out.

“You’re late,” I say quickly, before she can launch into a lecture about playground safety and inappropriate swinging techniques. “Dr. Evil chaining you to your desk again?”

Immediately, her shoulders sag as if every last bit of energy has drained out of her.

“Ivy,” she chides. “You can’t call him that.”

“Fine, he’s not technically a doctor, but the evil part is negotiable.”

Her lips twitch, the closest thing she gets to a laugh after a fourteen-hour day.

“It's crazy. We’re totally swamped. Dane is in overdrive, preparing for next week’s meeting. It’s...a lot.”

I arch a brow.

“Translation: Dane Black is a lot.”

Yeah. He’s a lot, for sure.

The kind of man who gets under your skin and doesn’t leave quietly.

“Don’t,” she warns, but there’s no real fire behind it.

Before she can spiral into work talk, I crouch low and scoop Elsie onto my back. “Alrighty, munchkin, hang on tight. Auntie Ivy Express is pulling out of the station. Race you home, Sloane!”

Elsie squeals, little arms squeezing around my neck. I take off down the path at a half-run; her giggles spilling into my ear. Behind us, the sharp click of Sloane’s heels is replaced with the slap of her bare feet as she abandons her shoes and actually chases us, laughter bubbling out of her.

We tumble into our modest Washington Heights apartment, breathless and laughing. Elsie slides off my back, still giggling.

“You’re impossible,” Sloane says, smoothing down her hair, but she’s smiling as she scoops up her daughter and ushers her toward the bathroom.

“Okay, Missie,” she says. “It’s way past your bedtime. Bath and bed for you.”

“Goodnight, munchkin,” I say, planting a peck on her nose. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night, Auntie Ivy,” she says, yawning, eyes already half-closed.

Elsie clings to Sloane’s neck, her small arms locked around her like a baby koala. In the hallway light, I catch the shadows under Sloane’s eyes before she turns away. She won’t say it, but I know it’s hard.

Sloane’s single act of recklessness resulted in my five-year-old niece, Elsie—a one-night stand in her final year of college that rewrote everything.

Until then, Sloane had her life mapped with meticulous care: a coveted internship at a Fortune 500, a clean ascent through glass towers and corner offices.

Then diapers replaced boardrooms, and her polished blueprint went up in smoke.

While Sloane traded spreadsheets for sippy cups, I chased a different discipline.

After graduating dance school, I lived in studios and auditions, in aching muscles and mirrored walls.

Our lives spun in opposite directions, but Elsie stitched us back together when we might have drifted.

Our schedules tangle together out of necessity now. It’s messy but it works.

I hum under my breath as I fling open the fridge, rescuing a half-drunk bottle of wine. I grab a couple of glasses, and it’s not long before Sloane appears in the doorway.

“Emergency provisions,” I say, handing her a glass. “Don’t ask about the vintage.”

“I’ll take anything right now.” She takes the glass, shoulders easing as she lifts it in a small, grateful salute.

She follows me through to the living room, collapsing beside me on the sofa, tipping her head back against the cushion with a groan.

“Elsie was out in seconds tonight,” she says. “I hadn’t even got through half her story.”

“She was running wild at the park,” I say. “Perhaps she wore herself out.”

Her head lolls toward me. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. With your schedule, and all the help you give with Elsie—”

“Don’t,” I cut in. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I still can’t believe you didn’t tell them about Elsie. Pretending you didn’t have a kid just to land the job?” I shake my head. “That’s a lot to carry on your own.”

Sloane winces, lifting her wine for a sip. “You know I didn’t plan it. HR kept harping on about how brutal the hours were, how it wasn’t a job for anyone with commitments. And before I knew it, I told them I was free.”

“You’re not free,” I murmur. “And Elsie is the best attachment you’ll ever have.”

She smiles faintly, but the exhaustion on her face says she doesn’t believe she has the luxury of choice.

I swirl the last of my wine, hesitating. “Speaking of attachments... Brody texted me.”

Her head snaps up. “Please tell me you didn’t answer.”

“I did.” I wince, my gaze dropping. “Just once.”

Her mouth hardens. “Ivy. That man love-bombed you into oblivion for two years. Then he went on one stupid guys’ trip and came back a stranger. No explanation, nothing. You deserve better.”

“I know,” I murmur. “But he’s... he’s been struggling. In and out of rehab. I can’t just—”

“Please,” she bites back. “He’s a cokehead who pulls in tens of thousands as a DJ. That’s not struggling.”

She sweeps her hand across the room, heat rising in her face. “This is what struggling looks like, Ivy.”

Before I can reply, a cry splits the air.

Sloane bolts upright, and I’m right behind her as she rushes down the hall to Elsie’s room. She’s curled in on herself, face pale, tears streaking her cheeks. Sloane presses a hand to her forehead and goes rigid.

“She’s burning up.”

“Shoot,” I say. “Don’t worry, I’ll get some medicine.” I dart for the bathroom, yanking open the cabinet and dragging everything out until I find a half-used bottle shoved at the back.

But as the evening drags into late night, Elsie’s temperature keeps climbing, her skin burning hot beneath our hands. When she vomits, it comes out of nowhere, her small body jerking forward before she slumps, drained and shaking, against Sloane’s chest.

Sloane doesn’t hesitate. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

The taxi ride seems endless. Elsie curls into Sloane’s lap, feverish and nauseous, her breathing going shallow every time the car jolts over a bump. My thumb traces slow circles along her shin. I keep my face calm for her, but the fear sitting in my stomach refuses to budge.

The taxi jerks to a stop outside the ER.

The automatic doors slide open and Elsie flinches against Sloane, her fingers digging into her mother's coat as the ER noise erupts around us. She buries her face into Sloane’s neck, like the world is suddenly too loud, too big for her small body to handle.

“She’s burning hot,” Sloane says to the triage nurse, the words tumbling over each other. “She’s been vomiting. She’s shaking. I—I can’t get her temperature down.”

The nurse takes one look at Elsie’s flushed face and nods. “Okay. Let’s get her through. Room three.”

The exam room is small, too bright, the bed already being adjusted as we step inside. A doctor follows us in almost immediately.

“Hi,” she says, already moving closer. “I’m Dr. Murphy. What’s her name?”

“Elsie,” Sloane says, her voice tight. “She’s never been this sick. She was fine earlier. And then she just—”

“You did the right thing bringing her in,” Dr. Murphy says, not unkindly, but brisk. “How long has the fever been high?”

“A few hours. We tried paracetamol, but it barely touched it.”

Dr. Murphy makes a small note on the chart, then turns her attention to Elsie. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m going to listen to your breathing, okay? You’re doing really well.”

Elsie nods weakly, her fingers still fisted in Sloane’s shirt.

The doctor’s touch is gentle as she listens to Elsie’s chest, presses lightly at her stomach, checks her pulse. The nurse is already moving beside her, snapping gloves into place.

“This looks like a viral infection,” Dr. Murphy says, glancing back up at Sloane. “A nasty one. She’s dehydrated and her temperature’s high. Kids can tip fast at this age.”

Sloane’s face goes pale. “Is she—is she in danger?”

“We can treat it,” Dr. Murphy says firmly. “But I want to keep her in so we can bring her fluids up and monitor her closely. We’ll get the fever down and make sure she stabilizes.”

She softens slightly as she looks back at Elsie. “We’re going to give you some medicine through a tiny straw in your arm, okay? It’ll help your body feel better.”

Elsie nods, though her mouth trembles.

Beside me, Sloane’s posture stays calm on the surface, but her fingers slip to the chain at her throat, winding it twice around her finger before she stills her hand. She’s done that for as long as I can remember. It’s how I know she’s holding it together.