Page 26 of Blackwood

We come to a stop in front of a building, all black glass, steel, and sharp edges. Forty-one stories of pure flex. It looks like it whispers power and signs its emails with a kill count. It’s the kind of place that screams penthouse villain energy minus the fluffy white cat.

Zeke leans forward, voice low. “Top floor’s ours.”

I squint at him. “I’m sorry you own a Manhattan penthouse? You’re seventeen.”

“We,” he corrects. “And, I’m eighteen now. Happy birthday to me, remember?”

“Right,” I mutter. “Because that makes this way less insane.”

He just chuckles. “And this isn’t just a penthouse, Bells. This is a Daniel Barinov building.”

I blink. “Okay, two things. One—we? And two—what the hell is a Daniel Barinov building?”

Zeke sighs. “Yes, we own the penthouse, Bells.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And Daniel Barinov is only one of the biggest architects on the planet. Guys a certified genius. His buildings are fortresses with museum-level aesthetics. Security, structure, silence.”

I just stare at him.

He rolls his eyes like I’ve officially offended him. “He builds safe houses disguised as luxury, Bells. So, when a penthouse opened up in one of his properties, I had Nate wire the money and had the guys fix it up just how I wanted.”

I gape at him. “What money, man?! You keep saying that like you’ve got a checking account at the Bank of Vengeance.”

He lifts a brow. “I mean… you’re not wrong.”

I blink again. “Zeke.”

“I’ve been draining Carlos and his buyers since the first time I realized they were selling kids. I was twelve. Megan, my first little foster sister, was six.”

“Six?” I ask quietly. I shouldn’t be surprised. Carlos was always a fucking creep.

He nods, gaze steady. “Yeah. He listed her like property. I found the wire transfer. That’s when it started. Every account I hacked. Every deal I tanked. Every shell company I blew up from the inside. All of it.”

“You’re telling me you’re using stolen money from creepy children buyers to buy us a plane and an apartment in New York?”

“Poetic, right?”

I pause. “Dark.”

“Fair,” he agrees. “Also, it turns out my parents had more money than God. So that helped.”

My eyes narrow. “Wait, what?”

“Carlos had it hidden. Some secret account overseas. I hacked it last year. Took back every dollar.”

He looks at me, eyes steady. “It was never his to begin with. So yeah… this place? It’s ours now.”

I stare at him. “You bought a plane, a penthouse, and probably a small country with trafficker scumbag money and mystery inheritance cash?”

“Yep.”

“Jesus.”

“You’re welcome.”

When the doors slide open, I seriously forget how to breathe. Double-height ceilings. Floor-to-ceiling windows that swallow the entire skyline. The sun’s casting gold over the fog like it’s trying to impress us. A beautiful freaking spiral staircase, gleaming dark wood floors, and furniture that looks like the place dreams go to sleep.

The fireplace crackles low, filling the room with a cozy warmth. There is art on the walls. Real art. The kind that tells a story and not just fills a space.