Page 116 of Twisted Enemy
“You would.”
“I’m not big on second chances,” Prince says.
“I’ll never ask you for a third.”
“What did you drive up here today?”
The question takes me by surprise. “A Land Rover. It had room for the paintings.”
“If you ever take that Mercedes onto freeport grounds again, I’ll feed you your motherfucking cock.”
Of all the things I did that day, parading that car in front of Alix was the worst. “Understood,” I say.
Prince looks at the paintings. “Tell the bank manager we’ll send a truck over for these,” he says.
“I’ll wait with?—”
“Alix and Kate can wait. You need to get your ass over to the freeport. Set the biometrics on your new gallery. Our men can transport whatever you’ve got in the vault here. If you trust them.”
I nod. It’s a generous offer.
Prince pauses a long moment before he holds out his hand. I’m surprised, because I know his aversion to touch. I have to walk around the table to shake. His grip is a hell of a lot more forceful than it needs to be, but that’s part of my punishment too.
“Don’t fuck up,” he says.
“I won’t.”
He opens the door to tell Alix and Kate we’ve made peace.
45
KATE
Three Weeks Later
Summer humidity presses down on the hotel balcony like a blanket that’s been dragged through lamb stew. Granny leans back in the chair Cole brought outside for her, sipping contentedly on heavily sugared iced tea. Breagha leans so far over the railing that I have to fight my urge to haul her back by the belt loops on her jeans.
“When will they start?” she asks. “Are you certain we can see them?”
As if in response, a dozen stars explode in the air before us, blue and red, green and gold. A massive cheer goes up from the National Mall, audible even though the crowd is twelve floors below and four blocks away. We’re in the penthouse suite at the Hotel Washington, one of the most exclusive addresses in the entire city of DC, with the best possible vantage point for Fourth of July fireworks.
Breagha claps. “We can see them!”
I slip my mobile into my pocket. I can wait till after the fireworks to get back to CampFire and the house Carlotta and I are building for Ariadne’s Daughters. Smoke begins to drift from the initial volley, and more explosions fill the air. Some of the fireworks crackle. Some boom. Shapes mix in with the more standard displays—hearts and rings and perfectly formed stars.
I turn to find Cole standing in front of the sliding glass door. His shoulders are loose, his face relaxed. Hazy moonlight reflects off his sleek black T-shirt.
“Thank you,” I mouth as another volley fills the sky.
He gives me one of his rare toothy smiles as my mobile buzzes. Cole must receive a message at the same time, because he also reaches for his phone.
It’s a text, from an unknown number.
Pyotr Tarasov sends his regards.
I tilt my screen toward Cole at the same moment he shares his. We’ve received the same message. An illuminated rectangle sits beneath the words, a website waiting for our attention.
A string of fireworks breaks in the air, sizzling like snow-white ice cubes striking a cast iron pan. Cole reaches behind him for the door. I follow him inside, to the air-conditioned living room of the suite.
