Eli eased the body back onto the seat.

It had been a long time since he killed a human. But forgiveness would have to wait.

He returned to Stell’s side, and presented the director with the stolen gun, low and easy, as if it were a handshake among friends. Stell looked at him with bald surprise. They both knew that Eli was the one holding the weapon, Eli the one with his finger near the trigger. But he spun the weapon in his hand, offering Stell the grip instead of the barrel.

After a pause, Stell took the gun, and Eli turned and plucked a champagne flute from a passing tray. He might as well enjoy the party.

* * *

“LAST call for second thoughts,” murmured June. “Or second call for last ones.”

Rain drummed on the roof of the town car as it pulled up outside the Old Courthouse.

“Don’t be somber,” said Marcella. “It’s a party.”

“It’s madness,” countered June.

Marcella’s lips twitched. “Good thing there’s method in it.”

It was a gamble, of course. A risk. An ambitious play.

But she used to tell Marcus, the world wasn’t made for the faint of heart.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

And if Marcella’s plan went up in flames, well, she’d take the whole damn city with her.

As she stepped out of the car, the broad umbrellas appeared again, ushering her to the waiting bronze doors of the Old Courthouse.

From inside, Marcella could hear the clink of ice and crystal glasses, the murmur and melody of an eager crowd. She brought her hand to the polished metal, splayed her fingers across the surface, gold nails gleaming, as June and Jonathan took their places behind her.

Marcella smiled.

“Showtime.”

* * *

MITCH’S car screeched to a stop in front of the Old Courthouse.

Pain lanced through Victor’s side as he got out, but he didn’t dare turn it down, not with the episode building in his bones.

“Victor—” started Mitch.

He glanced back. “Remember what I said. Find Syd, and leave.”

Victor climbed the short stone steps, pushed open the bronze doors, his free hand wrapped as casually as possible across his ribs. He handed his invitation to the suit at security, who hesitated at the blood flecking the cream paper.

He looked at Victor, who stared coldly back, leaning on the man’s nerves as he did until the discomfort registered on his face.

The security waved him through.

Victor headed for the atrium, doubling back at the sight of the coat check. His eyes trailed over the jackets and shawls that had already been checked in, landing on a black wool trench on the left, with a high collar and black leather trim.

Victor flagged the clerk. “I lost my ticket,” he said, “but I’m here to claim my coat.” He nodded at the trench.

The kid—and he really was just a kid—wavered. “I . . . I’m sorry . . . I can’t return a coat without a valid claim—”

Victor forced the kid’s mouth shut, watched his eyes widen in surprise, confusion, horror as he pinned him still. “I can break your bones without lifting a finger,” he said smoothly. “Would you like me to show you?”

The kid’s nostrils flared in panic as he shook his head.

Victor released his hold, and the clerk stumbled back, gasping, fingers trembling as he pulled the trench from the rack.

He shrugged on the coat. He felt in the pockets and found a twenty. “Thanks,” he said, tucking the cash into the short glass jar.

The atrium was crowded, full of bodies and noise. Victor made a slow circle of the chamber, hugging the outer edge as he wove between guests, scanning the crowd.

And then, across the hall, through the crowd, a familiar face.

One that hadn’t changed in fifteen years.

Eli.

For a moment, the gala seemed to fade into the background, the details and sounds retreating until only the singular man stood in sharp detail.

Victor didn’t realize his feet had begun to move until a hand pulled him back, dragged him sideways behind the nearest marble pillar. Victor was already reaching for the assailant’s nerves when he saw the familiar tattoos spiraling up the man’s broad arm.

“I told you to drive,” said Victor, but then he noticed a sly gleam in Mitch’s eyes, the strange set of his mouth, that familiar lilt present beneath Mitch’s casual hello.

June.

“Get off me,” ordered Victor.

June didn’t let go. “You have to stop her.”

“I’m not here for Marcella.”

“You should be,” said June. “She’s got her sights on Sydney.”

“Because of you.”

“No,” protested June. “I never told her. But she knows, and now she wants her. And from what I’ve seen, Marcella—”

As if on cue, the crowd parted, and a golden figure ascended the stone dais in the center of the room.

Victor pulled free of June, looking to where Eli had been, but the man was gone. Shit. He scanned the crowd, searching the sea of dark suits until he caught movement. Most of the men and women were standing still, their attention transfixed on Marcella’s ascent. Eli slid through them like a shark, his own focus just as clear.

Victor mirrored Eli’s progress, the two of them cutting matching lines toward the dais, and the statue, and the woman in gold.

And then, at last, Eli noticed him.

Those cold, dark eyes slid past Marcella and landed on Victor. Surprise flickered across Eli’s face, and then sank away, replaced by a grim smile as the barrel of a gun came up against the base of Victor’s spine, and Stell’s gruff voice sounded in his ear.

“That’s far enough, Mr. Vale.”

* * *

MARCELLA had spent her life on display.

But tonight, she finally felt seen.

Every pair of eyes was focused on her as she took the dais, every pair curious and bright and waiting for the reveal, because they knew there was more. More than beauty, more than charm. Whether they knew it or not, they’d come to see power.

When Marcella spoke, her voice carried, buoyed by the marble hall and the stillness of the crowd, their faces upturned, like flowers hungry for the light.

“I’m so glad,” she said, “that you could join me tonight.”

As she spoke, Marcella made a slow circle around the dais, savoring her hold on the gathered audience, the most powerful people in Merit—or so they thought.

“I know the invitation was a touch enigmatic, but I promise you, the best things are worth the wait, and what I have to offer you is better shown than told . . .”

* * *

JUNE took the stairs two at a time.

She’d shed Mitch’s bulky frame for a slimmer one, and with the added quickness to her steps, she loped up to the balcony that overlooked the atrium with its sea of people. At their center, Marcella was making a slow circle around the base of the statue.

June found Jonathan tucked in a shadow, watching the show. He rested his elbows on the wrought-iron rail, all his focus on Marcella’s luminous form.

“Some of you have money,” Marcella’s voice rang out, “and some of you have influence. Some of you were born with power, and others built it from nothing. But you are all here because you are impressive. You are lawyers, journalists, executives, law enforcement. You lead this city. You shape it. You protect it.”

“Do you see that man?” said June, pointing to the pale blond head moving through the crowd.

“Victor Vale,” said Jonathan blandly.

“Yeah.”

If Victor wouldn’t help her willingly, June would force his hand.

He was a creature of self-preservation.

They all were.

“If he gets too close to Marcella,” she said, “shoot him.”

Jonathan drew his handgun from the holster under his suit jacket, his eyes never drifting from Marcella.

“Don’t kill him,” added June. “Not unless you have to. She doesn’t want him dead.”

Jonathan shrugged. His complacence had always annoyed her, but for once June was glad he didn’t ask questions.

“Thanks, Johnny boy,” she said, slipping back down the stairs.

* * *

“STELL.” Victor gritted his teeth as, across the gallery, Eli continued his slow, methodical approach to the dais, where Marcella still held court.

“You understand the importance of power,” she was saying. “What you don’t yet understand is that those ideas of power are outdated.”

Stell dug the gun into Victor’s back. “I’m not letting you get in the way.”

“Is that so?” Victor scanned the crowd.

“That is why I’m here,” continued Marcella. “To open your eyes.”

Eli was almost to the dais as her hand drifted up, coming to rest on the statue’s bronze robes. “To show you what real power—”

Victor chose a man at random, and twisted his nerves.

A scream split the air, and for an instant Marcella’s voice was washed out, the crowd’s interest diverted. In that same instant, Victor rounded, slamming his elbow back into the side of Stell’s head.

Stell’s gun went off, but Victor was already out of the bullet’s path, moving determinedly toward the platform, and Marcella, and Eli. At the sound of the firearm discharging, the tense crowd had shattered into panic. The guests surged away, a wave of bodies frantically pushing toward the exit. Only Victor and Eli still moved inward, toward the center of the room and the golden figure on her stand.