Chapter 2 2

The glass door of the Silva Art Gallery wouldn't budge. Kate shoved it again, panic rising in her chest, before she realized the lock had been changed. She pounded on the glass.

"Open the door!" she screamed, her voice hoarse.

Inside, men in cheap suits were moving boxes. Chloe, her assistant, came running to the door, fumbling with the latch. When the door finally swung open, the smell of dust and defeat wafted out.

"Kate, thank God," Chloe said, her face pale and streaked with mascara. "They froze everything. The credit line, the operating accounts. The bank says there's an irregularity."

Kate walked past her, stepping over a pile of files dumped on the floor. The walls, usually adorned with promising contemporary pieces, were half-empty. The spots where the paintings had hung looked like missing teeth.

A man with a clipboard stepped in her path. "Ms. Silva? IRS audit. We have a report of money laundering through offshore accounts linked to this business."

"That's a lie," Kate spat, her hands balling into fists. "This is a family business. We barely break even."

"We're just following protocol based on the evidence provided." The man handed her a piece of paper.

Kate snatched it. The complaint itself was sterile bureaucracy, but stapled to the back was a list of alleged shell companies. One of them was an obscure holding company with a name only she and Lucas would recognize-the private joke name they'd given to an account he used to hide his gambling wins from his father years ago. It was Lucas. He was using his connections in finance to suffocate her.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out, expecting another taunt from Lucas.

It was Nate, her younger brother.

"Kate..." His voice was a wet gurgle. "Don't... don't come to the warehouse."

The world tilted on its axis. "Nate? What happened? Where are you?"

"They're here," he gasped. Then the line went dead.

Kate dropped the IRS notice. "Chloe, call the police. Send them to the Brooklyn warehouse. Now!"

She didn't wait for an answer. She sprinted out of the gallery, ignoring the pain in her feet. There were no cabs. She ran toward the subway entrance, her high heel catching in a metal grate. She yanked her foot up, hearing the snap of the stiletto. She kicked the shoes off, running in her stocking feet down the concrete stairs.

People stared. A woman in a torn evening gown running barefoot through the subway station. Kate didn't care. The train ride felt like it took a century, every stop an agonizing delay.

When she burst out into the Brooklyn sunlight, she ran toward the old industrial park where they stored the overflow art. The roll-up door to their unit was half-open.

The sound of crashing wood echoed from inside.

"Stop!" Kate shrieked, rushing into the dim space.

Nate was curled on the concrete floor, clutching his right hand. Blood masked half his face. Two men in black leather jackets stood over him. One of them had his boot raised, poised to stomp on Nate's fingers.

The fingers of a painter.

Kate grabbed a loose 2x4 leaning against a crate and swung it with everything she had. "Get away from him!"

The wood connected with the man's shoulder with a dull thud. He barely flinched. He turned to look at her, a lazy, cruel smile spreading across his face.

"Mr. Sterling sends his regards," the man said. He didn't attack her. He didn't need to. The message was delivered.

The thugs walked past her, bumping her shoulder, and strolled out into the daylight as if they were leaving a grocery store.

Kate dropped the wood and fell to her knees beside her brother. "Nate, oh god, Nate." She pulled a handkerchief from her purse, pressing it to the gash on his forehead.

Nate hissed in pain, his eyes squeezing shut. "Kate... look." He pointed with his good hand toward the corner.

Kate turned. Her breath left her body.

The Ashes. Her father's final painting. The piece that was supposed to be their retirement fund, their safety net. The canvas was slashed to ribbons. It hung from the frame like flayed skin.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

An hour later, Kate stood in the hallway of the ER, watching the red "Surgery in Progress" light. She went to the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Her dress was ruined, her feet were black with grime, and there was a smear of Nate's blood on her cheek.

She looked like a victim.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Lucas.

He answered on the first ring. "Did you like the redecorating?" His voice was smooth, rich with satisfaction.

"What do you want?" Kate asked. Her voice was ice.

"Tonight. My engagement party at The Pierre. Come and kneel in front of Estelle. Beg her forgiveness for trying to seduce me five years ago. Do that, and I might let Nate keep his fingers."

Kate hung up. She looked at her reflection again. The fear in her eyes was hardening into something else. Something brittle and sharp.

Begging wouldn't work. Lucas was a shark; blood only made him hungrier. If she wanted to survive a shark, she needed a bigger monster.