The fire didn’t roar; it hissed, a hungry, rhythmic sound that ate through the aged lath and plaster of the Dearborn brownstone. Smoke, thick with the scent of vanilla and melting plastic, swirled around us like a physical shroud. Roman stood at the edge of the jagged window frame, the glass shards glinting like diamonds in the orange glare. Below us, the Chicago night was a blurred abyss where my sister—my shadow, my successor—had just vanished with the only record of our shared damnation.
"The book or the girl, Brielle?" Roman’s voice was a low, jagged rasp, barely audible over the crackle of the flames. He didn't look at the fire. He looked at me, his eyes two shards of grey ice reflecting a choice that would define the rest of our lives. "The ledger is the only thing that keeps the Co
