9. Jamison #2
The Crow crest burned in gold above the entry to the west lounge, reflected in polished marble underfoot.
People saw me and moved.
Good.
I moved through my own empire with blood on my hand. That was the difference between being a dynasty heir and being a syndicate king.
Heirs were placed. Kings took the room and made everyone grateful to survive being in it.
I showered in the private suite upstairs. Blood ran pink over black tile. The tux was waiting when I came out.
Black.
Of course.
I got dressed. Black jacket. Black trousers. Black shirt. No tie. Cufflinks with the Crow crest. Watch. Rings. I looked at myself in the mirror and saw exactly what Harlan wanted to see.
Monster.
Fine.
Let them have him.
The car ride to the benefit took eighteen minutes.
I spent all eighteen on the phone.
“Freeze the account.”
A pause.
“I didn’t ask if the judge likes it. I asked if the judge has a daughter at St. Mercy with unpaid stimulant charges.”
Another pause.
“Then he’ll like it.”
Next call.
“Move the east house. No, not tomorrow. Tonight.”
Next.
“If Harrington has a man inside my casino, I want him alive long enough to regret ambition.”
Next.
“Tell Marcel I’m attending his fucking benefit, so he can stop sending messages like an anxious wife.”
By the time the car stopped outside the benefit Parkington House, I had a headache behind one eye and three new names on my list.
None of them were the name I needed yet.
That made the night worse before I entered the building.
Parkington House had been built by some dead philanthropist with more taste than sense.
It sat on the edge of the old river district, pale stone, black iron balconies, and arched windows glowing amber from inside.
Tonight, the front steps were lined with white roses. A string quartet played somewhere near the entrance, because apparently rich people could not donate money unless violins supervised.
I got out of the car.
The rain had stopped, but the pavement still shone. Press cameras flashed, for the private society feeds. Veil-approved optics. Harlan wanted proof I had shown up unburned.
I gave them nothing but my face.
Men stepped back.
Women looked away, then looked again.
A staff member at the top of the stairs greeted me by name.
I walked past him.
Inside, the benefit was exactly the kind of beautiful I hated.
High ceilings. Champagne towers. A central hall full of donors pretending the restoration of old medical libraries was the reason they had gathered and not because Crow instability made everyone hungry for proximity.
Marcel found me immediately.
He wore black, naturally, but with a white shirt because Emmie had probably forced him to look less like a funeral director.
“You’re late,” he said.
“You’re alive. Be grateful.”
His eyes dropped to my bandaged hand. “Tell me that isn’t from tonight.”
“It isn’t from tonight.”
“Is that true?”
“No.”
He sighed. “Try not to terrify the benefactors.”
“They’re already terrified.”
“Try not to make them wet themselves.”
“Your ambitions for me are suffocating.”
Marcel’s eyes narrowed, reading my face too well. “How bad?”
“Harrington money touched the fire.”
His expression chilled. “Confirmed?”
“Enough.”
“Who in Harlan?”
“Pending.”
“You came here anyway?”
I looked around the room. “If someone picked my birthday launch for a fire, someone in this room might enjoy seeing whether I look damaged.”
“And do you?”
I smiled.
Marcel’s mouth tightened. “Right. Stupid question.”
Emmie appeared beside him, eyes sharp with concern she tried to hide the second she saw my face.
“Jamison.”
“Emmie.”
“You look awful.”
“Your husband already tried to charm me.”
She ignored that, gaze moving to my bandaged hand. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“That means yes.”
“It means stop asking questions you won’t enjoy the answers to.”
Her expression hardened. Emmie was one of the only people in Harlan who could look at me like that and keep all her bones arranged correctly. Marcel loved her for it. So did I, though I’d rather chew glass than say it.
“She’s here,” Emmie said softly.
I didn’t ask who. My body knew before my mind allowed it. I turned my head.
And there she was.
Sienna stood across the hall, speaking to an older woman in silver. Smiling faintly.
My first thought was that I hated the dress.
My second was that I wanted to kill whoever sent it.
My third was that I couldn’t breathe properly.
Champagne silk.
Halter neckline.
Fitted close enough to make my hand flex at my side and my temper turn abruptly, violently silent. The fabric skimmed over her waist and hips, falling clean to the floor. Her shoulders were bare. Her hair was pinned up, exposing her neck.
Breathtakingly beautiful.
Her eyes were lowered politely while the older woman talked at her, but I knew she wasn’t listening fully. Sienna listened with her whole face when she cared. This was performance.
She had not seen me yet.
For one selfish second, I watched her without being watched back. Three years, I had told myself her voice annoyed me.
Now I stood in a room full of powerful men with business burning under my feet and realized I had not heard her laugh properly in weeks.
Because I had taught her to stop.
My phone buzzed.
I looked down.
Reeves.
One name confirmed. Family tie: Parkington board.
My gaze lifted slowly. Somewhere in this beautiful room, under lanterns and restoration speeches, sat a person who had helped choose the date my hotel burned.
The syndicate king in me woke again. Focused. Grateful for a target. Across the hall, Sienna finally looked up.
Her eyes found mine. The polite smile on her face disappeared. For one second, she looked at me with no performance at all. She gave me a small nod.
I stood there in my black tuxedo, war waiting in my phone, and watched the most beautiful girl in the room greet me like I was a dangerous stranger she had been trained not to upset.
Then she looked away.
And for the first time all day, I wanted to hurt someone for something I had done.