"Caviar, miss?" The starchy waiter blocks my path through the milling crowd, thrusting the silver tray forward.

I made the mistake of accepting once. It was my first assignment for Korsakov, and I was nervous, eager to blend into my high-society surroundings, so I accepted the ceramic spoon of tiny black balls that other guests were flocking toward like ducks to strewn bread. It took every ounce of my strength to force the slippery mouthful down my throat.

Offering a curt head shake as I snake past him, I head to the bar in the corner. My heart beats with the steady rush of adrenaline that always accompanies me on these nights. "French 75," I order, settling in to survey the landscape of lavish floral topiaries and designer dresses. Precious jewels wink at me from every angle. For a charity event intended to raise funds to combat hunger, it's ironic that the amount of money hanging off wrists and encircling fingers could likely feed the country's starving for years.

These people have no clue how the other side lives, but they'll take any opportunity to pat themselves on the back for a good deed while sipping their flutes of Moët & Chandon.

My mark stands twenty feet away, the black tuxedo he chose for tonight flattering on his trim stature, his graying hair freshly cut during his afternoon visit to the gentlemen's club on 57th.

He smiles as he watches the violinist draw her needle across the taut string, weaving a haunting tune. To the unaware, it would appear he is merely a connoisseur of fine classical music. I've been casing him for the last few weeks, though, and I know better.

The young musician’s eyes are closed, lost in the melody, but in between each piece, she always makes a point of meeting his steady gaze and adjusting herself in her seat, as if she can’t bear the wait until she can straddle his lap in the SoHo apartment he rents for her later tonight.

How his wife, standing ten feet away, hasn’t picked up on her husband’s taste for the doe-eyed college student, I do not understand. Or maybe she has and considers it a fair trade-off for their Upper Eastside life and the digits in her bank account.

“It is a lovely instrument, no?” A female voice laced with a smooth accent fills my ear.

“Hmm.” I hum my agreement but otherwise pay the woman no heed. I don’t talk to people while I’m working. Conversation leaves a trace, which leads to a trail, and trails that lead to me could end in a visit to the bottom of the Hudson River with a concrete block tied to my ankles.

I collect my drink, noting with disdain the smudge of graphite on my index finger. I did a poor job of washing my hands after my art class, but that is unimportant. What is important is moving to a safer vantage spot, one where no one feels compelled to talk to the solo woman by the bar.

“What is it that Viggo Korsakov is paying you to steal from that man?”

I freeze. A sinking feeling hits my gut as I turn to meet the owner of such a careless and dangerous statement. A striking woman with emerald eyes and hair the color of a freshly minted penny watches me intently. She’s unfamiliar to me. I’ve never seen her at one of these events before, and she is someone I’d remember.

It takes me a few heartbeats to gather my wits and plaster on a baffled look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her painted red lips twist in a knowing smile, as if she can hear the alarms blaring inside my head. But then she dips her chin. “I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

“Yeah. Definitely.” I shrug it off with a wooden laugh while I steal a glance around. Whoever this woman is, she’s polished and regal, and attracting curious looks from every direction. She’s the last person I should be standing next to tonight while I’m trying to remain unnoticed. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“Was it not you who took that diamond necklace at the gala in the summer?” She leans in to whisper conspiratorially, her eyes flickering with mischief. “I heard you plucked it off that woman’s neck without her notice.”

My heart hammers in my chest as I struggle to school my expression. That heist made headlines here in Manhattan. She could be guessing. “Sorry, no.”

Her brow pinches. “And was it not you who made off with that actress’s million-dollar diamond bracelet last spring?”

“Who the hell are you?” I can’t keep the shake from my voice. That she would peg me for the Cartier robbery in Chicago is far too coincidental. She can’t be a cop. Korsakov has too many of them in his pocket for us to not hear about an investigation.

Her head falls back with husky laughter. “I am not with the authorities, if that is what you are thinking. I am, how do you say … an admirer?”

She’s crazy, is what she is. And she speaks oddly, like she belongs in another era. “I’m flattered, but you’ve got the wrong girl.” I down half my drink as I scan the ballroom for the two security guards on Korsakov’s payroll. They’re supposed to be within a head-nod’s reach in case of emergency, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

As much as I want to run, I need to know how big a threat this woman is to me. Leaning into the bar, I match her coolness. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Sofie,” she offers without hesitation. Fake, I’m sure. But even fake names can become real if they’re used enough. Everyone on the street knows me only as Tee, short for Tarryn—the name of a grifter I met at a shelter when I was fifteen. She took me under her wing and taught me how to steal and not get caught. At first, it was food, books, clothes—necessities. Eventually, that turned to nail polish and hoop earrings, and then wallets stuffed with credit cards and cash. When Tarryn got busted for grand theft auto and locked away, I assumed her identity.

But I’ll play along with this act. “So, do you live in New York, Sofie?”

“No. My husband and I reside in Belgium presently. It has been some time since I’ve been here. Almost a decade, I believe.” A tiny smirk curls her lips. “Elijah has yet to visit this city of yours, but I imagine he would be beguiled by it.” She takes a long, leisurely sip of her wine. If she was at all wary or nervous about approaching me tonight, it doesn’t show. Every inch of her exudes fearless confidence. Normally, I would envy that.

Now, I’m deeply unnerved.

The violin music has ended. The brunette musician is in the corner, tucking her instrument into its case. Nearby, my mark is in conversation with another man, but the frequent glances at his watch tell me he’s trying to cut away. I’m going to miss my window if I don’t make a move soon, and I cannot miss this one.

“What would you say if I offered you double what your employer is paying you for tonight?”

Sofie startles me yet again, pulling my attention back to her. It’s pointless to keep denying that I’m the thief she has pegged me for. Someone has been feeding her solid intel, and I’ll get more information out of her if I play along. “And what is it you think I’m going to steal?”

She shrugs, her astute gaze locked on the mirror’s reflection behind the bar. “I have no idea, and I care not. But if I were to hazard a guess, I would say those cuff links would be of significant value.”

Those cuff links are worth four hundred grand based on what the rich prick forked over at auction last year, not that I’m about to confirm her suspicions. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to decline.”

Her impeccably sculpted eyebrow arches. “Triple, then?”

I falter. While I didn’t start out earning much, now that I’ve proven my worth, the bundles of cash after a job well done more than pay for my living expenses. Triple that amount? Most thieves in my line of work would bite on that lure. But they’d be idiots, because no one crosses a guy like Viggo Korsakov and gets away with it.

Then again, if I don’t show up in his office tonight with those diamond-studded cuff links in hand, it’ll be my second miss in as many months. My worth to him is already on shaky ground.

“Who sent you?” Everything about this situation screams of a trap. If I weren’t literally in the middle of a take, I’d think Korsakov himself was behind this, a way of testing my trustworthiness.

Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Malachi.”

“Never heard of him.” But I’ll definitely be asking around.

She studies my face, as if I’m an object worthy of scrutiny. “I can see that you are terribly wise for your youth. And loyal. I appreciate that.”

“More like I like breathing,” I mutter through a sip. The drink was meant as a prop, but I’ll be ordering another to fill my sweaty palm soon.

“So, it is fear that keeps you with him. A need for self-preservation.”

The last decade of my life has been all about self-preservation.

Despite my veil of suspicion, I pity this woman. Whoever Malachi is, he sent her here on a fool’s errand. I lower my voice. “Maybe you should take some lessons, then, because dropping Korsakov’s name around the city like this? It’s a bad idea.”

“Mais oui, I understand he is a dangerous man.” She waves her hand dismissively, and my eyes catch the gold ring on her finger. The band is chunky and ornate, the finish antique, and the sizable white stone held within the claws holds no sparkle. I might dismiss it as a bubblegum-machine prize if this woman weren’t wearing it.

“You don’t want to get mixed up with him, believe me.” Maybe she thinks her beautiful face will buy her grace, but Korsakov is an equal-opportunity killer when someone threatens his empire.

She peers at me again with that measuring stare. “And why are you mixed up with him, then?”

“Because I don’t have a choice.” The words come out unbidden. I quietly chastise myself for allowing them to slip so easily. It makes me appear weak and fearful—nothing more than a pawn, a piece to play in someone else’s game. And I suppose I am, to some degree, though I have my own game in play too. An endgame out of this life.

“You have a binding agreement with him.” Sofie’s eyes don’t reflect any pity. If anything, I see genuine interest.

“More like a debt I’ll never be able to pay off.” I was eighteen when I lifted that diamond bauble off the wrong hand at a nightclub. I took it to the pawnshop the next day, where I hocked everything I stole, knowing Skully would pay me a fraction of its worth, but he wouldn’t ask questions. That bulky wad of cash in my pocket had me literally skipping out of the shop. It would keep me afloat for months if I was thrifty.

The next day, three men tracked me down and dragged me into a black SUV. Turns out the ring I stole belonged to Viggo Korsakov’s daughter.

I still remember standing in the warehouse office in front of the Viggo Korsakov himself, a man with pinched eyes and a cruel smile. One of the fluorescent lights above blinked, ready to give out, making the whole scenario more ominous. It took every ounce of composure to keep my limbs from trembling and my bladder from letting loose as I sang apologies and excuses, begging him not to use the meat cleaver that waited idly on a nearby table. How would I survive without my hands? Stealing was what I was good at—and I was excellent at it.

He offered me a deal instead. Skully had told him about my eye for quality, that the “merchandise” I’d been delivering over the years far outvalued the typical trinkets and trash he bought from others. Korsakov had need of a thief of my talent and profile—young, pretty, unexpected, and most surprising, without fingerprints in the criminal system. If I agreed to work for him, he would forgive me for my grievous mistake.

I’d heard enough whispers on the street about the man to know it wasn’t a choice, not if I wanted to walk out of that warehouse with my hands, so I accepted his offer.

That was three years ago, and while I don’t have my freedom, my life hasn’t been bad. Gone are the days of sleeping in youth shelters and vans, on couches, or tucked into an alcove at the public library when a night guard took pity. I now have a quaint studio apartment in Chelsea, with an exposed brick wall and south-facing window where basil and rosemary grow in pots on the sill, and my fridge is always filled with fresh fruit and meat that I paid for.

Korsakov tasked his daughter—the very one I had stolen the ring from—with transforming me from a scrappy street kid who loitered in dark corners to the pedigreed woman who could stroll into high-society charity events without earning a blink of suspicion. I no longer spend my days in search of valuables left in cars and careless fools who don’t guard their wallets and purses. Now, I lead a relatively typical life, relying on my talents only when Korsakov taps my shoulder with a ticket to one of these parties, where I blend in like a chameleon long enough to appropriate well-insured jewels from rich assholes. That’s what he calls me: his chameleon.

But in the end, I’m still a thief, one who feels more indebted to Korsakov now than I did three years ago. Short of disappearing into the night and spending the next however many years watching over my shoulder, I don’t have options. I’m stuck with him until he’s six feet under or he no longer sees value in me—which could mean I’m six feet under.

Sofie tips her glass to polish off the last of her wine before gingerly setting it on the counter. “Forgive me. I can sense that you are anxious. I shall not keep you from your task any longer. Do not do something silly, like get caught.” She winks, and as quickly as she appeared at my side, she vanishes into the crowd, leaving me rattled to my core.

“He’s pissed.” Tony drums his thick fingers against the passenger door to the tune of the sweeping windshield wipers. “Two major screw-ups in a row. My brother’s little lizard isn’t worth his trouble anymore.”

I roll my eyes at the back of the big oaf’s head, knowing he’s watching me through the side mirror and will catch it. Tony is enjoying my empty hands far too much for someone who’s supposed to be on the same team. I’m not surprised, though. He was the one safeguarding Anna the night I stole her ring. It earned him a smashed nose that healed crooked and three broken ribs, as well as a demotion in rank that he hasn’t gained back yet. He has despised me ever since, made worse on nights like tonight when he’s assigned to babysitting duty.

Tony’s opinion doesn’t matter, but I know Korsakov will not take lightly to a second miss—especially not this one. He already had a buyer lined up, and he hates reneging on a deal.

I’ve learned not to show fear around these guys, though. Assholes like Tony will feed off it like a rabid coyote until there’s nothing left of me but bones. “It’s late. Drop me at home and I’ll go talk to him tomorrow.” Korsakov’s temper is scalding, but it cools quickly. It’s best not to be around him until it does.

“Nah.” Tony’s grin is wide and obnoxious. “He called before you came out. Said to bring you in tonight.”

“Fine. Whatever.” I feign indifference but my stomach roils. That doesn’t bode well for me. He couldn’t have known I’d failed by that point. But maybe he’d made a decision about my fate in case I did.

I focus on my breathing as our SUV meanders along the city streets, the hazy glow of brake lights and relentless blast of taxi horns oddly therapeutic. My target left before I could make my move, but it would’ve been too risky, anyway. I have to assume Sofie is somehow tied to the feds, and if those cuff links went missing tonight, my studio apartment door would be the first they kicked down.

“What’s with the souvenir?” Tony asks.

He means Sofie’s glass that I swiped off the bar before the bartender could come by to collect, smuggling it out beneath my wrap, careful not to smudge her fingerprints. “You use it to drink wine.”

“You know, one of these days, that smart mouth of yours is gonna get you into real trouble. Why’d you lift it?”

“Because I needed a new one.”

He snorts. “Idiot.”

I took it thinking I’d give it to Korsakov when I told him about her, as a way of buying myself a pass for tonight’s failure. But the more I consider that plan, the more I realize it’s likely that he’ll decide I’ve been compromised. Last year, when Rolo was caught having a cozy chat with the DEA, Korsakov set him free with a bullet to the back of the skull. At least that’s the rumor—Korsakov is not dumb enough to murder with an audience. But no one, including Rolo’s wife and kids, have seen him since.

Tony is right. I am an idiot, for not slipping out the back of the venue while I still could.

My insides are churning when I spot the familiar vendor cart up ahead. “Stop here for a minute?”

“Seriously?” Tony twists his massive frame around to scowl at me.

“I’m starving,” I lie. I doubt I could manage a bite.

“You just left a penguin-suit party full of food!” He groans loudly—he always complains when I ask to stop—but then he nods at Pidge. “Fuck, yeah, whatever.” He adds under his breath, “Considering it’s probably your last meal.”

“I’ll even eat it outside,” I offer, my voice dripping with phony sweetness. The only thing Tony despises more than me is the smell of hotdogs and sauerkraut.

“Yeah, you will. You’re not stinking up this leather for the next week.” He shakes his head. “Can take the girl out of the street, but can’t take the street rat out of the girl.”

“There’s an umbrella under my seat,” Pidge offers as I gingerly set Sofie’s glass down.

“Thanks.” He’s quiet and the nicest of the bunch, but he’d still sell his own sister for the right price. I hop out, my clutch tucked under my arm. The dress I’m wearing is a sleek black satin halter style that pools around my feet—the least flashy of the designer lot the guys procured in their latest heist. Neither it nor my wrap offer any protection against the bone-chilling November air, but in my present state of mind, I barely notice.

I want to believe Korsakov wouldn’t end me, not over this. Ironically, the man has shown me more kindness than he does to most, albeit in his own way. Once, one of his goons took the “do not touch my pretty little thief” law as mere guidance and tried to force himself on me. Korsakov had the skin flayed off his back with a whip. I know because Korsakov made me watch the spectacle, smiling as proudly as a cat presenting a massacred bird at its master’s feet. Only Korsakov isn’t an ordinary cat. He’s a tiger who occasionally lunges at those who feed him.

But the phone call, the demand to see me with or without the cuff links …

Does he already know about the red-haired woman sniffing around me?

Or has he somehow learned about the discreet inquiries I’ve been making into securing a passport? About the cash I’ve been squirreling away in my vent and the apartment in London that I’ve looked at renting? If he has, would he see that as anything other than what it is—an escape plan?

My instincts are telling me to run.

I pick my way along the sidewalk, trying to avoid the puddles as I scramble to devise my strategy. Do I just kick off my heels and bolt? Do I wait until I’m a safe distance away to give myself a head start? I could cut through the park and jump into a taxi on the other side. Going back to my apartment to grab my stash bag would be a risk, but there’s no point going to the train station without it. It has money, clothes, a fresh ID—everything I need to disappear.

I’m only partly surprised Tony let me out. He’s stupid and arrogant enough to assume I won’t take off. Or maybe he wants me to, so he has an excuse to give his brother when he delivers me battered and bruised.

I’m still weighing my best course of action when I reach the stand. Alton is hunched in front of the grill, turning a sausage over the flame. “Yeah?” He grunts before glancing up. Instant recognition touches his face. “Haven’t seen you around in a bit.” I’ve come a long way from the gangly kid with heavy kohl-lined eyes and bleached hair who stole a hotdog from him. But he once said that it doesn’t matter how much makeup I hide behind or what color my hair is; all he needs to know it’s me are my blue eyes. They remind him of his childhood summers by the Adriatic Sea.

It’s been a few months. “I’ve been busy.” I dare a glance over my shoulder at the waiting SUV, its blinking hazards earning angry horn blasts from vehicles coming up behind. Tony can’t climb a flight of stairs without wheezing by the time he reaches the top; I could probably outrun him, even in my heels. But Pidge is smart enough to drive around and catch me on the other side of the block.

Alton opens his mouth to say something but promptly shuts it. I already know what he’s thinking. It’s what all my street acquaintances think: that I’m thriving as a high-end prostitute. I’ve never bothered to correct them. It’s more honorable to peddle what you own than what you’ve stolen. “Glad to see you still kickin’ around,” he offers.

Not for long, possibly.

If I head for one of the benches in the park to eat, I’ll have the best shot at slipping away without immediate notice. It might give me just enough time.

“The usual?” He holds up a foot long in his metal tongs.

I smile. “Yeah.”

“One for him too?” Alton nods to his left, his eyebrows raised in question.

I follow his direction to the lump of blankets on the sidewalk fifty yards away, and surprise pushes aside my escape planning for the moment. “Is that Eddie?” Has it been six months already?

“Yup. He’s been hanging around here for a few weeks now.”

“And?”

Alton shrugs. “Hasn’t scared away my customers yet. I think his eyesight’s gotten worse, though.”

Maybe Eddie’s time in prison has helped where nothing else ever has. “Give me two dogs. Please.” I always buy an extra meal when Eddie’s around. Alton has guessed that he’s someone to me, but he’s never pressed for details.

I tuck a twenty under the napkin dispenser on the counter and wave away the change, as always. I’ve lost track of the meals the kindhearted street meat vendor has given me over the years, when I was starving and couldn’t pay for them.

Gripping both in one hand while I huddle under the umbrella’s shelter, I make my way over, ignoring the horn that blares of warning from the curb. The closer I get, the more potent the stench of stale urine and body odor becomes. “Hey, Eddie.”

The man peers up from beneath his soiled quilt, squinting against the rain. Or perhaps it’s to make out what’s in front of his failing eyes. They cut his hair and beard while he was inside, so he doesn’t look nearly as straggly as he did when I last saw him, and he’s put on a few pounds. He’s lost another tooth to decay, though. “Is that you?”

A painful lump stirs in my throat. “Yeah.” At least he’s aware tonight. “How are things?”

“They won’t let me in at St. Stephen’s anymore,” he grumbles.

“That’s because you threatened to kill a volunteer there. That’s why you went to prison.” It brought me comfort, knowing he had a warm, dry place to sleep and three meals a day, even if it was courtesy of the county jail.

“He tried to poison me. I saw him do it with my own eyes.”

I bite my tongue against the urge to remind him that it was fresh parsley that the man—a schoolteacher volunteering at the soup kitchen—sprinkled over the shepherd’s pie. Forget his weakening eyesight, Eddie’s so far gone to delusion, he won’t hear any version of the truth other than his own. “Here. I brought you something.” I hold out both hotdogs for him.

His eyes narrow as he studies them, not making a move.

I sigh heavily. “Come on, Dad, it’s me, Romy. You need to eat.”

After another long moment, he accepts them with a grimy hand. Tucking one under his quilt for later, he scrapes the toppings off the other with a swipe of his dirty thumb. Sauerkraut and mustard splatters on the sidewalk beside my heel, a few yellow drops hitting my hem.

“So? Things are okay? No aches or lumps or anything that you should get checked out by a doctor?” He’s a forty-nine-year-old man who could easily pass for seventy, the decade of living on the street aging him far beyond his years.

“Watch out for the demons. Especially the ones with the twisty horns. They’re here, walking among us, wearing our skin.”

The foolish shred of hope I held coming over here evaporates. Nothing has changed.

“I will. Definitely.” It used to gut me to see this version of my father—perched on milk crates and park benches, ranting about monsters who lurk in the shadows and feed on human souls. That was back when the memories of our old life were still fresh in my mind.

Once, long ago, we lived in a two-bedroom apartment in East Orange, New Jersey. My dad was a line supervisor at a factory that made bolts and screws, and my mom was a grocery store clerk. I took swimming lessons and played soccer. We ate dinner at six p.m. sharp and would drive to a farm every fall where we would spend hours searching for the perfect pumpkins for jack-o’-lanterns.

I lost that version of my father the night he witnessed a woman’s brutal murder in the parking lot at work. He claimed a shadowy monster with wings and curly black horns was the culprit, tearing her apart with its talons, and that a witch channeling flames from her fingertips banished it back to Hell.

He was never the same after, spiraling down a tunnel of hallucinations and paranoia that no medications or doctors were able to treat or explain. He lost his job, we lost our apartment, and eventually, it became unsafe to be around him.

We tried to get him help, but we had no money, and the system for people with no money is made from safety nets riddled with holes. My dad slipped through every last one until he landed on the street where he’s been ever since.

I spent years angry and pretending he didn’t exist, and then years weighed down by guilt and attempts to help him—arranging doctor’s appointments he refused to go to, housing he wouldn’t stay in, buying clothes he’d lose.

Now, all I have left to give him is a hollow heart, a cheap meal, and a few kind words when I run into him on the street. I have my own problems to deal with.

“I’ve got to go.” A narrow path lies ahead, cutting into the bushes next to a trash can. If I pretend I’m disposing of the wrappers, it should buy me a small lead. Pidge and Tony will go straight to my apartment once I don’t return, but if I wait them out a few days, I should eventually be able to slip in, get my things, and run.

“Your mother came by,” my father says through a bite. “She asked about you.”

Hearing mention of her always stings, but I quickly harden my heart. I know she still looks for me occasionally. “She still with them?”

He nods.

My molars gnash against each other. “Stay far away from her.” I no longer fault my father for the illness that stole him from us, but my mother chose to abandon her own daughter for monsters. I’ll never forgive her for that. “Take care of yourself, okay?” I perch the umbrella on the hedge next to him so it will offer some protection. Running will be easier without it, anyway. “Go to St. Vincent’s and ask for Sam.”

“Sam?”

Sometimes my dad listens to me and seeks out shelter. He never stays long, but it’s something. “Yeah. Sam. Tell him you’re Tee’s friend. Okay? Tee. Not Romy. He doesn’t know Romy.” No one knows her. “He’s one of the good guys. He won’t try to poison you, so don’t threaten him, okay? I’ve got to go now—”

My father’s hand shoots out, grasping my calf with surprising strength. “Beware of the demon with the flaming hair. She hunts for you,” he hisses, bits of bun and meat spraying from his mouth.

A shiver of unease skitters down my spine. I’m used to my father’s raving, but they’ve always been anchored by the same figure—a shadowy monster with black, twisty horns. This is new, and it instantly stirs thoughts of a mysterious red-haired woman in a green dress. “What do you mean by flaming—”

“What the hell?” Tony barks, startling me. I didn’t hear him approach. “We’re sitting there waiting for you, and you’re chatting it up with this bum.” He sneers at my father.

But Eddie pays him no attention, his eyes boring into mine as if pleading with me to listen. His grip tightens. “The gilded doe has been here. She knows what you are—”

Tony’s black boot connects with my father’s jaw, sending him tumbling backward with a sickening crack.

“What the hell!” I don’t think twice; I swing wide. My fist lands squarely against Tony’s nose. The feel of bones crunching beneath my knuckles is satisfying.

“You bitch!” He seizes me by my biceps with one hand while cupping his face with the other. Blood trickles down around his mouth.

I kick at his shins, trying to yank myself free so I can check on my father. He’s lying on the cold, wet sidewalk, moaning. His jaw is surely broken. “You’re hurting me!”

“I haven’t begun to hurt you.” Tony squeezes harder as he tugs me toward the curb where Pidge has edged the SUV forward to collect us. “My brother just called. He wants us there now,and he ain’t messin’ around.”

Years on the street have taught me how to defend myself, but none of it will help me break free of Tony’s viselike grip. He has at least two hundred pounds on me, and he’s too strong. I have no choice. I reach into the slit in my dress and slip the small knife I keep strapped to my thigh from its sheath.

“I don’t fucking think so.” Tony moves fast for a large and injured man, roping his brawny arm around my body, pinning my back against his chest. “You think I don’t know about your little butter knife? What are you gonna do with that? Huh?” He squeezes my wrist with his bloodied hand.

I cry out as pain shoots up my arm, and I lose my grip. The blade falls to the sidewalk, out of reach, leaving me defenseless as Tony hauls me toward the passenger door.

Alton rounds the side of his cart, the baseball bat he keeps tucked away for protection hanging from his grip. “Tee? You need some help?”

Tony snickers. “You’ll go back to your hotdogs if you know what’s good for you.”

Alton pauses, looks at me, conflict in his eyes, and I know what he’s thinking: he has a wife and two kids he wants to go home to. But he also can’t stand idly by while I’m dragged into the car, kicking and screaming.

Tony isn’t posturing—he will shoot him with the Glock he has under his jacket.

I go limp and shake my head, warning Alton away. “I’ll be fine.”

“Wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Tony shoves me into the back seat of the SUV, climbing in beside me to keep me in place.

The last thing I hear before he slams the door shut is my father’s garbled cry: “Find the gilded doe!”

Korsakov’s main import-export operation runs out of a boxy, steel-gray warehouse at the city ports where containers loaded with cargo come and go, and the palms of the port authority are greased so well, everything slides past notice. The property is secured behind fencing, perimeter cameras, and at night, a lot of guys with guns.

I’ve always hated coming down here, but tonight feels unnervingly similar to three years ago when I was certain I wouldn’t be walking out, at least not with all my body parts still attached.

The asshole lumbering ahead of me, whistling an ominous Kill Bill tune, isn’t helping.

Tony pauses long enough to turn back and flash a vicious grin, though it ends in a grimace of pain that pleases me. His nose has stopped bleeding, but it’s red and swollen. If he were smart, he’d head to the hospital and get it set properly this time.

If he were smart.

I ignore him and the throb in my arm where he gripped me too tight, and concentrate on the explanation I crafted on the way over. It’s best I keep my story vague and simple, and focus Korsakov on why he values me in the first place. He has always praised me for my gut instincts.

There were eyes on me. It wasn’t safe. I would have gotten caught.

I’ll only play the Sofie card if I absolutely must.

“Who is that?” Pidge frowns at a white SUV parked by the door. Two stone-faced men sit in the front seats, watching us pass. The feel of their eyes on me makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.

Tony shrugs, unconcerned. Whoever owns that vehicle must be inside, and they wouldn’t be there unless Korsakov allowed it. Plus, the armed guards surrounding this warehouse surely have their sights trained on them.

Tony punches in the security code that releases the door lock on the steel door.

I hold my breath, bracing myself for Korsakov’s voice. When he’s angry, he only has one volume, and you can hear him all the way from the other side of this cavernous space.

Instead, silence greets us.

“Where is everybody?” Pidge’s keys jangle from his fingertips as we march along the corridor. On either side of us are aisles of towering pallets full of product, the forklifts sitting idle.

“In the office,” Tony says, calling out louder. “We’re back, and we brought your little lizard with us!” An echo of his booming voice is the only response. He slows. Finally, the big dumb lout must sense the eeriness that climbed over my skin the second we stepped inside.

Tony juts his chin toward Pidge, and they both draw their guns. Pidge instructs me to get behind him with a nod of his head. I don’t argue. I’ll happily use him as a shield as I look for any opportunity to run.

My heart pounds in my ears as we proceed to the back of the building, where the door to the office sits ajar. Pidge gives it a push, and it swings open with a moaning creak.

A soundless gasp escapes my mouth.

Korsakov’s office is a long, narrow, windowless room, lined with filing cabinets that hold decades of paperwork. Normally it smells of burnt black coffee and smoldering tobacco.

Now, it reeks of death.

Bodies are scattered, their gaping wounds weeping into the cheap blue industrial carpet. Blood splatter decorates the drab beige walls in sweeping arcs like a sinister artwork exhibit. Four men lay dead, including Korsakov himself, sprawled on his back, his neck slashed from ear to ear.

And in the center of the carnage, seated cross-legged in Korsakov’s chair, is a woman with copper-red hair, observing us with a taunting smile.

Both Tony and Pidge make to raise their guns.

Sofie moves so quickly, my mind doesn’t register the flying objects until the men drop their weapons in unison and grip their forearms, howling in agony.

My eyes widen at the twin daggers that protrude from their wrists.

“Do not,” she warns simply.

Do not fight, do not run … Just do not.

I couldn’t if I wanted to. I am frozen in place.

A feeble groan pulls my eyes to the floor. Korsakov is still alive, though barely, and I doubt for long. He always seemed an unstoppable force, beckoning people to do his bidding with a few commanding words, a threatening squint. Now, he’s nothing more than a helpless man, carved by the sword that lies atop his desk, staining stacks of paper in crimson.

People still use swords?

“Who the fuck are you?” Tony manages through gritted teeth. The dagger landed precisely in the center of his right wrist, just below his palm. Severing important nerves, I’m sure.

“Someone your employer was unwilling to negotiate with.” As with earlier at the bar, Sofie remains calm and collected, unafraid. She’s swapped her emerald gown for head-to-toe black. It amplifies the intensity of her hair color. “I hope you are more intelligent than he was.”

Both Tony and Pidge scan the office. I assume they’re looking for proof that she didn’t slaughter four armed men on her own with nothing other than a sword. Maybe the two men sitting in the SUV out front were the ones to do this. But the speed and precision with which Sofie threw those daggers suggests her fully capable of it, and more.

My insides stir as I survey the bodies more closely, their guns on the floor beside them. All had drawn their weapons, and they’re all dead.

Even that last shred of life in Korsakov’s eyes is now gone.

“What were you negotiating for?” Tony’s attention lingers on his older brother. Does he feel any sorrow for the loss?

The weight of Sofie’s eyes as they shift to me stalls my heart. “Her.”

Beware of the demon with the flaming hair. She hunts for you.

I shove my father’s mad rants from my mind.

“You want her?” There’s disbelief in Tony’s voice. “For what?”

“That is none of your concern.” A tiny, knowing smile curls her lips as she regards me. “Let’s just say it’s something only she can help me with.”

What could Sofie possibly need me to steal that would be worth all this? My mind rifles through our early conversation. Did she leave the charity event knowing she would be coming here to slaughter Korsakov? She must have. If I had accepted her offer and left with her, would she have let them be?

Who is this woman?

Tony licks his lips. “How much are you offering me for her?”

Korsakov’s Italian suede loafers aren’t even cold, and Tony is already trying to jam his sweaty feet into them. With everyone else gone, he’s likely to inherit the operation. If he makes it out of here alive, and the way Sofie is examining him, I have reason to doubt it.

“For her?” Sofie cocks her head. “She is not a mule for purchase. Clearly, you’ve misunderstood. I offered to spare your employer’s life if he released her from her debt to him, which he foolishly refused. Now he is dead, and she is no longer bound to him. I am simply giving you the choice to either allow us to leave peacefully or forfeit your lives.”

Tony glowers at her and for a moment, I think he’s going to lunge. A part of me hopes he does.

“Don’t be stupid,” Pidge pleads under his breath, cradling his injured arm.

“Fine.” Tony sneers at me. “She’s a worthless bitch, anyway.”

Sofie’s face hardens, her eyes narrowing as they drop to where dark bruises matching meaty fingers have started to form on my biceps. “Perhaps I should not be the one to choose your outcome.” She stands and rounds the desk, her delicate hand curling around the hilt of the bloodied sword. “Should we or should we not leave them breathing, Romeria?”

My stomach drops. She knows my real name. How the hell does she know my real name?

“What will it be? Life”—Sofie presses the tip of her blade against Tony’s neck—“or death?”

He grimaces as a drop of blood swells against his skin where the sharp point nudges. His blue eyes dart to mine and mixed in with the usual medley of hatred and anger is fear.

I look away, unable to digest the latter. Tony’s a degenerate and an asshole. He hurt a helpless man tonight for no good reason. He wanted to see me suffer, even be killed. He deserves to lie in a heap next to the rest of these lifeless bodies.

My attention drifts to them. Irving has a pregnant girlfriend at home. Gavin’s twin sons giggle as they hide behind their fence and shoot unsuspecting neighborhood passersby with their water guns. Mark just closed on his first house with his wife. Korsakov leaves behind a daughter who will be devastated. They’re men who I would never label “good,” but they’ll be mourned all the same.

While I may be a thief, I’ll never be an executioner. “Let them go.”

Sofie waits a few beats but then lowers her blade with a heavy sigh. “She shows mercy where I would not. I’ll admit, that’s a quality I admire and abhor equally.”

Both men release the slowest exhales.

“If you two have an ounce of intelligence, you will remain here until we have departed.”

Tony’s bearish body shakes from rage but for once, he has the sense to keep his mouth shut.

She strolls past them without a hint of wariness. “Shall we?” It’s as if she’s inviting me out for a drink. As if she didn’t slaughter four men, and there’s no need to ask if I’d be willing to work for her now that Korsakov is dead. I guess there isn’t, because it’s obvious she’s intent on getting what she wants.

I have no more of a choice now with Sofie than I did three years ago with Korsakov. I have traded one murderer for another, and I must go along with it until I can get away from her.

We leave Pidge and Tony, daggers jutting from their wrists, standing in the office filled with corpses. My legs feel like they belong to someone else as they propel me forward, step by step. Every few seconds, I steal a glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Tony there, aiming his gun at my back. But the doorway remains empty.

Sofie doesn’t look back once. “I did warn them. I wish they had listened.” She shakes her head. “But men like them never do.”

“Tony is going to call the guys outside,” I hear myself say, my voice hollow. “They’ll shoot us the second we step out that door.”

“My guards will have taken care of them by now. They are no longer an issue.”

Right.The two scary men in the SUV. I eye the sword in her grasp and the trail of blood it leaves along the concrete. “And who took care of the guys in the office?”

She flashes me the briefest of looks. “Which answer would you prefer?”

“The truth?”

“I have yet to lie to you.”

“How would I know that?”

“You are a clever girl, Romeria. I think you know a great many truths.” Quietly, she adds, “More than you realize.”

“How do you know my real name? Did Korsakov tell you?” I didn’t think even he knew, but there isn’t much he can’t find out. Couldn’t find out.

“Malachi told me. He told me many things before he sent me for you.”

Do I know this Malachi person? Did I meet him on the street? And why has he sent Sofie for me?

I’m about to ask that question out loud when Sofie says, “I will not harm you, but do not try to run.”

There it is, the not-so-subtle threat. I can go willingly—or not—but go with her, I shall.

“Why all this effort? Why didn’t you just force me to leave with you from the hotel?”

“I considered it,” she admits. “We haven’t been given much time to dally. But I would prefer you come with me of your own volition, and it was clear that you felt trapped by that man.” She sighs, as if speaking of a daily nuisance that she has gladly put behind her. “I thought if I helped you with your problem, you might be keener to help me with mine.”

I wouldn’t call this of my own volition.

Maybe it’s because my brain is muddled with shock, but none of this makes any sense. I’m a thief. A highly skilled one, sure, but nothing more. I couldn’t even defend myself against Tony. Meanwhile, Sofie and her men wiped out a major crime syndicate within minutes, without earning a single scratch. “It’s clear you can get your hands on anything you want without my help, so what do you want with me?”

“It is not a matter of want, but of need.” Sofie turns to meet my eyes, and that confident veil she hides behind slips for a moment, long enough that I catch a glimpse of the raw desperation behind it. “I need you to save my husband.”

“I’m sure there is a suitable change of clothes for you among my things.”

“I’m good.”

Her eyebrow arches at the mud and mustard splattered on the hem of my dress. I’m sure I wouldn’t have to look hard to find smears of Tony’s blood too. “Suit yourself.” She shifts her attention back to her newspaper. She unfolded it as the plane’s engines revved for takeoff and is working her way through, page by page. Korsakov was the only other person I knew who would take the time to read a whole paper like that, rather than skim for interesting headlines.

When we emerged from the warehouse, the armed men were missing from their posts and the two guards with Sofie were waiting in the SUV, their hands drenched in blood. Any thoughts I might still have had about escape evaporated.

They exchanged no words, simply nodding at Sofie when she gave orders to take us to the airport. Now, they huddle in the pod of seats beside us, the sleeves of their black dress shirts rolled up, quietly cleaning and polishing an arsenal of blades with methodical precision.

There are daggers and swords of various lengths and shapes—some with a simple, functional hilt like the knife I lost tonight, and others with gilding and jewels that gleam under the light and would make Skully salivate. Propped up against the side of the cabin wall is a crossbow, a bundle of sleek quivers next to it.

“You don’t use guns.” It’s an internal thought that I don’t mean to blurt out loud.

“Where is the sport in that?” the man on the left says, his voice low and raspy. He pauses to regard me directly for the first time, allowing me to see the predatory gaze in his golden irises.

Though I never witnessed it myself, I know Korsakov killed people. He would rage at their betrayal and blame them for forcing him to exact retribution. But for weeks after someone disappeared, there would be a solemness to his demeanor. Somewhere very deep down, despite his justifications, I think ending a life haunted the man.

I see no hint of remorse in the eyes that stare back at me now, and the way they drag over my neck and chest makes me shrink into my wool blanket.

I shift my attention to the small portal window next to me, absorbing the constant hum of the engines. Far below, the city lights fade in the distance. I’ve never been on a plane before, let alone a private one. I couldn’t help the stir of intrigue when the white SUV pulled up beside it. “Where are we going?”

“My home.”

Belgium, if what she told me earlier is true. Despite everything, I feel a smile touch my lips.

“This pleases you.” Sofie peers over her newspaper again, watching me intently. The sociable, mischievous woman from the bar is gone. She guards her expressions and her tone so well, I can’t begin to read her mood.

“I’ve never been to Europe. I mean, I planned on going, someday.” Korsakov demanded that I always be within an hour’s reach unless I was robbing someone for him, so escapes to London and Rome weren’t an option. Truth be told, I think he worried that if I left, I wouldn’t come back.

I can’t believe he’s dead. I never liked the man, but I cared that he found value in me. Who knows what I’ll feel when this shock wears off, if there will be anything beyond relief.

“Fear not. You will see many new places, soon enough.” Sofie peers out her own window. “I didn’t leave my home city of Paris until I was twenty-one. Same age as you are now. That was when I met Elijah. He wanted to show me the world.”

And yet he’s never been to New York?

She knows how old I am. Or rather, the man who sent her knows. “So, you work for Malachi?” Saying that name out loud doesn’t trigger any familiarity.

“I serve him, yes. It will all make sense soon.” She pauses. “Romeria is a pretty name. Unique.”

I swallow against my unease. It’s been years since I answered to my real name, another lifetime ago. “It’s Romy.”

“I wonder why your parents chose it,” she muses, in a way that suggests she already has an idea.

“They never told me,” I lie. My mother said it came to her in a dream one night, before I was born.

“Did you know it means ‘pilgrimage’ in Spanish?”

“No. I’m sure it’s coincidence.” I doubt my parents could put ten Spanish words together between the two of them.

“‘One who journeys to a foreign land,’” she recites as if quoting a definition, her attention still out her window.

“Like Belgium?”

Her lips purse. “Though, the Spanish version would likely refer to the religious connotation. There was a time when humans routinely took long spiritual journeys in search of truth and meaning, and to make offerings to their god.” Ridicule touches her tone.

But it’s her word choice that makes my eyebrows pop. “Humans?”

“It’s an interesting thing, what we do in the name of our gods and our own salvation. Did you know they used to burn women at the stake, claiming them to be witches and devil worshippers?”

My stomach constricts.

“Even today, there are still those who search for a truth they cannot see, a truth they fear. Who will kill in the name of their god and in doing their god’s work.” She peels away from the window to pierce me with her sharp gaze. “But you already know that, do you not?”

I sense where Sofie is so smoothly steering this conversation.

“Your mother—”

“Is dead.” My pulse pounds in my ears as I match her stare, daring her to challenge that.

Only the faintest twitch of Sofie’s eyebrow hints of a reaction to my lie. “I see I’ve found a weak spot in your armor. So, you do not support her cause?”

She knows about my mother. Of course, she fucking knows. I school my expression. Losing my temper will only reveal my vulnerability. “You mean, her psychotic cult’s cause?”

It began harmlessly enough—an invitation to a group grief-counseling session in a church basement, meant to offer solace to people who had suffered a loss. That’s what it felt like—the loss of my father, even though he was still physically here, wandering the streets. We’d had our entire world flipped upside down, and I was relieved to see my mom making new friends.

But within weeks, our conversations took an odd turn. She started questioning whether maybe demons and witches did exist, and that what my father saw had been real.

Talk soon shifted to whispers of creatures living among us—hiding in plain sight—while the government covered up the truth and witches masquerading as nurses stole newborn babies from maternity wards. She even claimed she had seen proof of magic, though when I pressed, her explanation sounded more like vague riddles than anything resembling fact.

Talk of conspiracies and witchcraft and monsters consumed my mother’s every waking moment. I was fourteen and didn’t understand what was feeding these growing delusions, but I’d already lost one parent to the demons in his head, and I was afraid I might lose another.

She would leave for days on end, spending her spare hours in the old Baptist church that this group who called themselves the People’s Sentinel had purchased. We were barely surviving as it was, relying on food stamps and soup kitchens for meals and secondhand shops for clothes, but still she gave them all our money. I wasn’t surprised the day she announced we were moving into a run-down building the Sentinel had purchased for their growing “community,” in preparation against the coming war against evil. I screamed and railed, told her I wouldn’t go, that I’d run away. She held strong. I’d see the truth, she promised me.

I wanted to believe her.

For weeks, I ate and slept under the Sentinel’s roof, listening to these people—all branded with a tattoo of two interlocked crescent moons on the fleshy part of the thumb, the mark of “a disciple”—talk of otherworldly power and the spread of evil, hiding in the skin of the human form.

It was so consuming that a part of me wondered if there was truth to it. It would explain what my father saw, though it wouldn’t explain what happened to him afterward.

For her part, my mother was in her element within those walls. She quickly moved up in rank. I didn’t know what her role was, but she no longer worked at the grocery store, and everyone referred to her as “Elder” when she spoke.

She’d promised I’d see the truth, and I did, the night she took me to a wooded area outside the city. I witnessed her and the others tie a “witch” to a post on a pile of dry kindling and strike a match.

That’s the night I ran.

In some ways, I feel like I’ve been running ever since, running from what my mother did.

From what I didn’t do.

I still sometimes hear that woman’s screams in my sleep.

“And your father? Is he also dead?” Sofie asks, her tone mocking.

Mention of Eddie reminds me of Tony’s assault on him. Alton would have called for an ambulance. “No, but he’s ill.”

“And what ails him?”

“Don’t you already know?” What is this game she’s playing?

After a moment, she nods, confirming my suspicions. “So, you grew up surrounded by talk of demons, and yet you do not believe in them.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I have a better grip on reality than both my parents.” And a healthy fear of becoming like either of them.

“Perhaps.” Again with that curious tone. She doesn’t pry further, but she also doesn’t offer condolences. “How did you find yourself in this career path?”

I shrug. “One thing led to another.” And I like not starving.

“You did not want a new family, a new home? A normal life?”

“My life was never going to be normal.” I considered going to the police after that fateful night in the church basement, but I didn’t have any faith in a system that had already failed my father. I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me, or worse, they’d force me to go back to her. I balked whenever the youth shelter workers asked questions—What’s your name, hun? Where did you used to live? What can you tell me about your parents? I knew they were only trying to help, but anonymity made me feel safer. And then I met the grifter Tarryn. We had big plans to move to LA and live in a van near the ocean, until she got arrested, and I was dragged into the back of an SUV by Korsakov’s goons.

These last few years I was on my way toward something that vaguely resembled “normal.” I earned my GED and enrolled in art classes. Just last week, I was eyeing programs at the local community college. That’s what normal twenty-one-year-olds do.

I keep feeding Sofie information about myself—that she somehow already knows—and gathering almost nothing in return. “So, is your husband in prison?”

“Of a sort,” she says cryptically.

“I don’t know the first thing about breaking a person out of jail, unless you need someone to steal a key, which I’m sure one of them can handle.” I nod toward her assassin squad.

“Perhaps you should present yourself as more useful rather than less? You will find it is in your best interest. People tend to keep those of value alive longer.”

I can’t tell if that’s a lesson or a threat. “I just don’t understand why you chose me.”

“I did not choose you. Malachi did.”

“But why?” And who is this man!

“I will admit that I do not entirely understand it myself. I am worried. But you have impressed me, especially for one of your age.”

“My ability to steal impresses you?”

“Is that the only value you see in yourself?” She cocks her head, her attention drifting over my lengthy black hair. It was as silky as a raven’s feather when the night began, but the drizzle has unraveled the stylist’s work. “You are proficient in that skill. So proficient, in fact, one might say you were blessed with a godly talent for it.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s a commandment against my talent.” Though sometimes I’ve surprised even myself with how effortlessly I’m able to separate people from their belongings.

She smirks. “I see a shrewd young woman who has learned to survive and adapt, despite being betrayed and abandoned by those closest to her, who is acutely aware of her surroundings and suitably wary of dangers, but who has the fortitude to keep her wits about her, even in the most perilous situations, who knows when she has no other choice but to make the best of her circumstances. All these things will serve you well.”

My cheeks flush. I’m not accustomed to someone doling out compliments in my direction. I can’t remember the last time it happened. But I don’t miss her underlying meaning—whatever she has planned for me, there is no escape. “Have I met him? Malachi?”

“You have not, but you may, eventually.”

Sofie is evasive, which means she has something to hide. Another question burns for an answer. “What about after I help you free your husband?”

“Your task will be complete.”

“And I won’t owe you? You’ll let me go?” I won’t be able to go back to my life in New York. Not with Tony alive. Maybe I should have let Sofie kill him.

Something unreadable flashes in her eyes. “It is I who will owe you a debt. One that can never be repaid.” It’s an echo of what I said to her earlier about Korsakov.

“But I’m not being given a choice.”

“You are not.” Her voice has turned hard. It’s as if the suggestion that I might refuse to help infuriates her. That makes sense, though, if her husband’s life is on the line.

The sound of a blade drawing across its scabbard pulls my attention to the yellow-eyed man. He is putting away Sofie’s sword after cleaning it, and yet I sense an unspoken warning.

I swallow against my rising nerves. “Can you at least—”

“All will be explained when the time is right. That time is not at present.” She shifts her attention back to her paper, giving the pages a shake.

As much as I want to push, the memory of Korsakov and his butchered men still fresh in my mind stays my tongue. I huddle deeper into my wool blanket and watch the world below slip into complete darkness, wondering how long I’ll have to bide my time before I can dodge these lunatics.

Somehow, I manage to drift off.

“You livehere?”

“Oui.”

“But it’s, like, a real castle.” Built on top of a hill that overlooks a charming old town, with a stone wall and iron gate to protect it, cobblestones beneath my shoes, and towers scaled with leafless vines and capped with spires soaring high above us.

“Oui. My chateau. Mine and Elijah’s.”

I know I should be sizing up escape routes, and yet I’m enthralled as I turn slowly, absorbing the vast medieval courtyard, empty of everything but the sleek black car we arrived in and a lone tabby cat that sits on a stair wall, lapping at its paw. The two assassin-guards have disappeared into a separate, smaller building with their duffel bags of deadly weapons.

I note the small door next to the gate that appears to be a walk-through exit to the town. For a place this size, there must be more. I don’t see surveillance cameras, but that doesn’t mean they’re not around.

Beyond the gate, the town bustles with midday activity, but within these walls, it’s silent, save for a few withered leaves scuttling across the stone on a breeze. “How old is this place?”

“The original building is from the fifteenth century.”

My jaw drops as I quickly do the math. That’s over six hundred years of history. And what does a place like this cost? I assumed Sofie and her husband were rich and powerful—the private plane and assassin bodyguards more than hinted at that—but to own a castle …

Sofie’s musical laughter carries in the eerie quiet. The simple act softens her features, making her appear less intimidating. “It is refreshing to see your reaction. Mine was much the same when Elijah first brought me to Montegarde and told me this would be our home. We had left Paris rather abruptly and—” She cuts herself off, her smile turning sorrowful. “Well, that was long ago. Hopefully, he will still appreciate its beauty when he finally sees it again.”

“How long has he been gone?” I’ve gathered almost no information since meeting her last night, but she did say she met her husband when she was twenty-one, and she can’t be more than thirty.

“Far too long.”

Another vague answer that offers me not even a single piece to add to the puzzle that is Sofie.

She squints upward, as if searching for something in the cloudless blue sky. It’s early afternoon and colder here than it was when we left New York, the wind carrying a blustering chill that makes me thankful for the sweater and jeans I found folded on the seat next to me when I woke.

“Follow me.” She strolls toward a heavy wooden door, her heels skillfully handling the uneven cobblestone.

“So, when are we breaking him out of this sort-of prison?”

Sofie has given me no more hints about what saving her husband means. I can only assume it’s not as straightforward as lifting a diamond necklace off a woman’s neck.

“Soon. Come, I must prepare you.”

“Oui,” I mimic under my breath, thankful for these slip-on boots as I chase behind her.