Eli tensed. That hand on his, the subtle pressure pushing him forward, pulling him back—for so long, he’d assumed it was God, but doubt was a slow, insidious force, wearing away at solid things. Eli still wanted, more than anything, to believe, knew that to demand proof, to ask for a sign, was not the same . . . but he needed something.

And so he told himself, if God willed it . . . if the mission failed . . . if it was meant to be—

And if it wasn’t? If Eli was truly on his own?

No—he had seen his opportunity, and he had taken it. And now he had to wait.

Had to have faith.

“You know what you have to do,” said Eli.

Stell nodded. “We have to find them again first.”

“That shouldn’t be hard,” said Eli. “Marcella doesn’t strike me as the type to run from a fight.”

IX

THREE WEEKS AGO

DOWNTOWN

MARCELLA’S steel heels clicked across the lobby of the National building.

June followed a step behind, her steps muffled in her gladiator flats. She had taken on a new aspect—that’s what she called them—this time, as a lanky girl with shoulder-length black hair and wide, dark eyes, spindly legs jutting from a pair of white shorts. She was barely sixteen by the looks of it, and when Marcella had asked, June had simply said, “I heard he likes them young.”

“Can I help you?” asked the man behind the desk.

Marcella settled the sunglasses in her hair, blue eyes and long lashes on full display. “I certainly hope so,” she said in a breathy voice.

She had long ago learned how to turn men into puppets.

It was simple, no special powers needed.

She smiled, and so did the man behind the desk.

She leaned in, and he leaned in to meet her.

“We’re here to see Tony.”

Marcella didn’t have an appointment, but June was right: Hutch had been looking for her—he’d left a dozen voicemails on her cell since the card game. Half a minute later, they were on their way upstairs.

June slumped back against the elevator wall. She had gone suspiciously quiet, her mouth now pressed into a grim line. Her earlier humor had vanished, her gaze flicking nervously between the number pad on the wall, and her own reflection, and the gold trim on the ceiling.

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open onto an elegantly appointed foyer, bookended by a pair of men in dark suits, their holsters visible beneath their tailored jackets. Beyond them, frosted glass doors led into the penthouse.

“Gentlemen,” said Marcella, stepping forward.

Her outfit left little room for concealed weapons, but one of the suits still insisted on patting her down, his hands lingering on her hips and under her breasts. When the other guy reached to search June, she just sneered, and Marcella cleared her throat. “I’m pretty sure there are laws against that.”

The suit huffed but stood down, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth the fight. He tapped a code into a wall panel, and the frosted doors slid open. The space beyond looked more like a living room than an office. Broad white sofas and low glass coffee tables, decanters arranged along a sideboard.

Tony Hutch sat behind a glossy black desk, reading a paper, the city gleaming in the floor-to-ceiling windows at his back. Beyond the glass, a slate patio gave way to a shimmering blue pool, steam rising where the heated surface met the cool spring air.

Tony looked up from his paper and smiled.

They say people grow on you, and maybe that was true, because every time Marcella saw Tony, she felt the need to scrub him off her skin.

He rose and circled the desk, arms wide.

“Marcella, if beauty were a crime . . .” he said, reaching for her hand.

“Then I’d be running this city instead of you,” she said dryly.

Tony laughed, even as his attention flicked sideways. “And who’s this?”

“My niece, J—”

“Jessica,” cut in June, holding out her hand, her accent smothered to a soft edge.

Tony took it, his eyes wandering over her. “Good looks clearly run in the family,” he said, brushing his lips against her knuckles. With his head bent, he didn’t see June’s eyes narrow to slits. Marcella wondered, again, what June had meant by personal business.

The two suits were hovering by the glass doors, hands resting on their holsters, but Tony waved them away. “Stand down, boys.” A wink. “I think I can handle things here.”

Amazing, thought Marcella. Hutch had obviously seen her handiwork at the poker game, and still he treated her like a prop, a pretty but powerless bauble.

How many men would she have to turn to dust before one took her seriously?

The security retreated, and Tony turned toward the sideboard.

“Sit, sit,” he said, gesturing at the two chairs in front of the desk. “Can I get you girls a drink?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just started scooping ice into crystal tumblers.

Marcella sank into a chair, but June wandered the suite, restless, examining the art. Marcella turned her attention to Tony. “Did you know about Bethany?”

Tony tutted. “Oh, that,” he said, waving it away. “Look, I told Marc to get rid of her, but you know how men are. If dicks and hearts were in the same place—I mean, how many times have I tried to lure you away from your husband—but then, that’s not why you’re here.”

“Why am I here, Tony?”

He returned to his chair. “You’re here because you’ve got the sense to come when you’re called. You’re here to help me understand what the fuck is going on, because I’ve been hearing a lot of crazy shit, Marce, and all I know is three of my best guys are dead, and the other two seem to have the addled notion that it was you who killed them.”

“Because it was.”

Tony laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m not in the mood for games, Marce. I know you and Marcus had a spat—”

“A spat?” cut in Marcella. “He slammed my head against a table. He pinned my body beneath fifty pounds of iron, and set our house on fire with me inside it.”

“And yet here you are, alive and well, while my top enforcer is a pile of dust on Sam McGuire’s floor. So, you’re gonna help me understand what really happened.” He didn’t bother to say or else, only sat back. “Look, I’m not an unreasonable man. You help me, and I’ll help you.”

Her mouth twitched. “How will you help me?”

“You were always too good for Marcus. I could give you the kind of life you deserve. The kind you’re worth . . .”—that slimy smile—“if you ask nice.”

Ask nice.

Play nice.

Marcella was so fucking tired of nice.

Across the room June let out a short, derisive laugh.

The smile slipped from Tony’s face. “Something funny, kid?”

June turned toward them. “I asked you nice once, Tony,” she said flatly. “It didn’t make a bit of difference.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Have we met before?”

June leaned her elbows on the back of the empty chair, and pouted. “Oh, Tony.” This time, when she spoke, her accent was on full display, strong and sweet. “Don’t you recognize me?”

The color drained from his face. “No . . .” Marcella didn’t know if it was shock or a denial, but one hand went for the top drawer of his desk.

“Really?” June straightened, and as she did, the teen girl disappeared, replaced by a perfect replica of Tony Hutch himself. “What about now?”

Marcella watched as the Tony Hutch behind the desk drew a gun from the top drawer and fired three quick rounds into June’s chest.

June looked down as the blood blossomed, sudden and bright across her shirt, but she didn’t cry out, didn’t fall, just smiled. Behind the desk, the real Hutch gasped and clutched his chest as three perfect holes appeared, blood spilling down his front.

“What was it you said to me?” asked June, leaning on the desk. “Ah, yes . . . Don’t fight it, baby. You know you like it rough.”

His lungs hitched once, twice, body shuddering to a stop.

As the man died, June seemingly lost hold of her powers.

The reflection of Tony fell away like clothes that no longer fit, and for an instant Marcella glimpsed someone else—a girl with auburn curls and hazel eyes and freckles like a band of stars across her nose—but it was only for an instant, and then June was back again, as the skinny dark-haired teen she’d worn into the office.

Marcella watched it all in amazement as the true potential of June’s power settled over her.

The girl wasn’t just a mirror, or a mimic.

She was a living voodoo doll.

Marcella broke into a grin just as the frosted doors were flung open and the two guards barreled in, weapons drawn.

June whipped around, no longer the teen girl, but a perfect mimic of the man who’d tried to frisk her. He raised his gun but faltered at the sight of himself, and in that instant of hesitation, June swept a letter opener from the desk and drove it down into her hand. Which was his hand.

The man gasped and dropped his gun as blood poured between his fingers. The second guard wavered—the shock of seeing Hutch dead, of seeing his partner suddenly in two places—and Marcella took the opportunity to grab Tony’s gun from the desk and shoot the man in the head.