June turned and stumbled forward into the soldier, as if losing his balance, and as she did, a switchblade slid out from her fingers with a neat little snick. She drove the blade up into the soldier’s throat, then eased his body down against the alley wall.

One down.

How many more to go?

MEANWHILE, ACROSS TOWN . . .

MARCELLA sat on the patio of Le Soleil, sipping her latte as rain dripped from the awning and a hundred strangers passed beneath black umbrellas.

She couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched. She was, of course, used to being noticed, but this felt different. Intrusive. And yet there was no obvious source.

Despite her concern, Marcella wasn’t in disguise—lying low had never been her style. But she’d conceded to a more subtle aesthetic, with

her black hair in a simple high ponytail, her trademark stiletto pumps exchanged for more functional heeled black boots. Her nails, freshly painted gold, rapped against the side of her cup as she studied the subway station across the street. Marcella mapped out the station in her mind, envisioning the escalators that led down one level, and then two, terminating at the bank of storage lockers that ran along a white tile wall.

The locker in question was one of five they had, scattered across Merit. It had been Marcella’s idea, to skim off the funds, in case a situation arose. Admittedly, she’d never envisioned a situation quite like this.

A siren wailed, and Marcella’s fingers tensed on her coffee cup as the patrol car whipped around a nearby corner. But it surged past without stopping, and Marcella exhaled and brought the latte to her lips.

It was strange—in the days since her confrontation with Marcus, she’d been on edge, waiting for the cops to show up at any moment. She wasn’t a fool. She knew they were the ones who’d kept her survival a secret. Knew her departure from the hospital was anything but subtle.

And yet no one showed up, either to kill or to collect her.

She wondered what she would do when they did.

“Anything else?” asked the waiter.

Marcella smiled up at him from behind her sunglasses. “Just the check.”

She paid and stood, flinching a little as she did—the burns were healing, but her skin was still tender and tight, aching with every motion. A useful reminder of Marcus’s crime, and a shortcut to summoning this new power, if and when she needed it.

Marcella crossed the street and into the station.

She made her way to the lockers, found the number—the day they met—and spun the code Marcus had habitually used into the combination lock.

It didn’t open.

She tried a second time, then sighed.

Her husband continued to disappoint her.