“I’ve never understood art,” mused Marcella, loud enough for Victor to know she was addressing him. “I’ve been to a hundred galleries, stared at a thousand paintings, waiting to feel inspired or awestruck or enamored—but the only thing I ever really felt was bored.”

As Victor watched, she reached out and pressed one gold nail to the surface of the painting. Under Marcella’s touch, the canvas rotted, and crumbled, pieces drifting to the floor.

“Don’t worry,” she said, turning on one metal heel. “I own the building, and everything in it.” She raised a brow. “Except for you, of course.” She gave him a cursory look. “Do you like art, Mr. Vale? My husband did. He always had a fondness for beautiful things.” Marcella lifted her chin. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

Victor considered her—the willowy limbs, the red lips, the blue eyes framed by thick black lashes. He glanced from her, to the ruins of the painting on the gallery floor, and back. “I think you’re powerful.”

Marcella smiled, clearly pleased with the answer.

Victor sensed a ghost of movement at his back, and glanced over his shoulder to see another man enter the room, one with a goatee and a mischievous smile.

“I believe you’ve already met June,” said Marcella. “In one form or another.”

The man winked, that telltale light in his eyes.

“And this is Jonathan,” said Marcella, flicking her fingers in the direction of the thin man against the wall.

Jonathan didn’t answer, beyond the slight nod of his head.

“So,” said Victor, “instead of art, you’re collecting EOs.”

Marcella’s red lips split into a smile. “Do you know what I wanted to be when I grew up?”

“President?”

Her smile widened. “Powerful.” Her steel heels clicked against the marble as she came toward him. “When you think about it, it’s really all anyone ever wants. Once upon a time, power was determined by lineage—the age of blood. Then it was determined by money—the age of gold. But I think it’s time for a new age, Victor. The age of power itself.”

“Let me guess,” said Victor. “I’m either with you or against you.”

Marcella tsked. “Such black-and-white thinking. I swear, men are so busy looking for enemies, they rarely remember to make friends.” She shook her head. “Why can’t we work together?”

“I work alone.”

Marcella raised a knowing brow. “Now, we both know that’s not true.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Marcella seemed more than happy to hold the stage.

“Money in the right hands can get all kinds of things. Knowledge.

Insight. Eli Ever’s files from his time with the Merit PD, perhaps. He and Serena Clarke made quite a pair, but I think you got the better deal with her little sister, Sydney.”