Page 73 of A Vicious Love

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?”