The Bastard's Blade

Chapter 9

didn't reach for the file. Instead, I let my hand hover over the silver revolver, the metal still radiating a faint, residual heat from the morning’s work. The weight of the Salvatore legacy wasn't in the name or the blood—it was in the pure, exhausting momentum of the violence required to keep it.

‎"London is cold this time of year," I said, finally meeting her gaze. "Vane won't be moved by terror alone. He’s a man of appetites. If I'm going to be your 'right hand,' I need more than a black file and a threat. I need the codes to the offshore accounts in the Caymans. If I’m the face of the transition, I need to be able to buy the loyalty I can't break."

‎Charlotte’s smile didn't delay, but her eyes narrowed, calculating the cost of my sudden ambition. She tapped the ivory handle of her knife against the mahogany. "You’re learning. Most girls would have asked for a plane ticket and a new wardrobe. You’re asking for the records."

‎She reached into the pocket of her silk blazer and produced a small, encrypted flash drive. She didn't hand it to me; she set it on top of the file, a digital dowry for a bride of chaos. "The codes are there. But remember, Vera: the moment you use them, the Global Financial Oversight G.F.O will have a digital trail leading straight to your throat. You aren't just buying Vane; you're tying the trap."

‎I picked up the drive, the plastic cold against my palm. "I’ve spent my life with a rope around my neck, Charlotte. I’ve just grown tired of someone else holding the end of it."

I turned back to the window. Below, the Vatican glowed under the rising sun, a reminder of older, more patient powers. I wasn't going to London to save my father's empire or to solidify Charlotte’s. I was going to find the one man Senator Vane feared more than a Salvatore—the liquidator who had been cleaning up my father’s messes since before I was born.

‎"The jet is fueled," Charlotte said, her voice already retreating toward the door. "Don't be late. Vane doesn't like to be kept waiting, and I don't like to be disappointed."

‎As the heavy oak door clicked shut, I picked up the revolver and checked the cylinder. One round left. A poet might call it fate; I called it an emergency plan.