The office smelled like leather and lemongrass, nothing like the turpentine-and-blood stench of the garage. Ivy's fingers twitched toward the switchblade in her boot, but Sylvie was already circling her, the click of Louboutins mapping her territory. "You have interesting skills, Ms. Lowe." She plucked Ivy's forged resume from the desk, letting it flutter to the carpet between them—right beside a newspaper clipping of River's obituary. "Breaking and entering. Grand theft auto." Her heel ground the paper slowly, the sound like a bone snapping. "Though your references are... deceased."
Ivy's pulse hammered against the fresh tattoo as Sylvie stepped closer, close enough to see the scar Cole's teeth had left on her collarbone. The CEO traced it with a manicured nail, her other hand sliding something cold and metallic into Ivy's back pocket—River's missing dog tags. "Starting bonus," Sylvie murmured, her breath hot against Ivy's jaw as she pressed a keycard into her palm. "The penthouse elevator. Midnight." The card had a single word embossed in black: *CONSEQUENCES*.
Down in the lobby, the security cameras whirred ominously as Ivy passed, but it was the reflection in the polished marble that stopped her—Jax leaning against the concierge desk, grinning around a toothpick with his serpent tattoo peeking from beneath his cufflinks. He tossed her a mock salute before vanishing into a service elevator, leaving behind the faint reek of gasoline. Ivy's fingers clenched around the keycard until the plastic creaked; she knew a trap when she saw one. But traps worked both ways.
The penthouse smelled like Sylvie's perfume and gun oil, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a god's-eye view of the city's underbelly—the auto shop's neon sign flickered three blocks east like a beacon. Sylvie stood by a glass display case where River's motorcycle key dangled from a velvet cushion like a museum piece. "You want answers," she said, not turning as Ivy's boots left damp prints on the imported silk rug. "Or you want blood?" Behind them, the elevator pinged—Cole's laughter preceded him, his suit expensive but his knuckles still crusted with someone else's dried blood.
Ivy's switchblade was out before the elevator doors fully opened, pressed against Sylvie's throat hard enough to dent the CEO's diamond choker. Cole froze mid-step, his grin slipping when Sylvie didn't even flinch—just leaned into the blade until a ruby bead of blood welled against the steel. "She's learning," Sylvie purred, her hand sliding into Ivy's back pocket to retrieve the dog tags with a slow, deliberate drag of fingers. Cole's jaw tightened as Sylvie dropped them into a tumbler of bourbon, the metal clinking against ice like a dare. "Now," she sighed, plucking the blade from Ivy's grip to slice open her own blouse, baring the scar Jax's belt buckle had left that night. "Are we even?"
The bourbon bottle shattered against Cole's temple when he lunged, glass and liquor spraying across the Persian rug as Ivy ducked his wild swing. Sylvie's stiletto caught him behind the knee—the same move Ivy remembered from the bar bathroom—and they went down in a tangle of limbs and designer fabric. Ivy scrambled for the fire poker, but Sylvie was faster, driving the pointed end through Cole's palm with a wet crunch that pinned him to the hardwood. His scream was cut short when Ivy stomped on his throat, her boot grinding down until his face turned the same shade as the wine-dark rug. "Blood," she panted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Definitely blood."
Sylvie's laugh was warmer than the bourbon she swirled in her glass as she stepped over Cole's twitching body. "Congratulations," she murmured, pressing the tumbler into Ivy's shaking fingers along with a business card embossed with a viper emblem. "You're hired." The cardstock smelled like gunpowder and jasmine, the ink still damp where Sylvie had scribbled a six-figure salary. Outside, dawn painted the city in bruise-purple light, the auto shop's neon sign finally flickering out below like a dying witness. Ivy's reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows showed a stranger—lips swollen from biting back screams, hair matted with sweat and someone else's blood, the serpent tattoo pulsing at her throat like a second heartbeat.
Sylvie's bare feet made no sound on the marble as she circled Ivy, her silk robe parting just enough to reveal the scar Cole's teeth had left on her inner thigh—a twin to the one on Ivy's collarbone. "Duties start now," she purred, pressing the detonator remote into Ivy's palm before guiding her fingers to squeeze. The explosion shattered the auto shop's windows three blocks east, orange flames licking at the dawn sky like Sylvie's nails tracing Ivy's spine. "First rule," Sylvie whispered against Ivy's ear as Cole's phone vibrated with Jax's frantic calls in the puddle of bourbon at their feet. "I come first. Always." Her teeth grazed Ivy's pulse point just as the second blast rocked the building, showering them in champagne-sparkle glass.