“Go talk to Margaret,” he said. “She is waiting for you in the kitchen.”

“We have a lot of work to do to prepare the staff for the changes.”

I stood up, my legs feeling slightly unsteady.

The heavy wool carpet muffled my footsteps as I walked to the door.

I looked back once before I left.

Julian was already looking at another file, his glasses perched on his nose, looking more like an executive than a boss of the underworld.

I walked down the long, quiet hallway of the mansion.

The portraits of past Mercers stared down at me from the paneled walls.

For the first time, they did not feel quite so intimidating.

The kitchen was warm, filled with the rich scent of roasting garlic and rosemary.

Margaret Bell stood by the stainless-steel island, slicing root vegetables with methodical precision.

She did not look up when I entered, but the rhythm of her knife slowed.

“He offered it to you, then,” she said.

“He did,” I replied, leaning against the counter.

“And did you have the sense to accept?”