The words hung in the stale, cigar-smoke-thickened air of the VIP lounge.

*Inmate 402. The Warden’s little Canary.*

Clara’s ears rang with a high-pitched, deafening whine. The opulent surroundings of the Obsidian Casino—the velvet drapes, the crystal chandeliers,

The crystal whiskey tumbler shattered against the brick wall of Silas’s private office, raining glittering shards onto the Persian rug.

"Boss, you need to calm down," Marcus, Silas’s head of security and right-hand man, said from his position near the heavy oak door

The silence in Silas Thorne’s sprawling penthouse was usually a heavy, suffocating thing, but this morning, it felt like a loaded gun.

Clara Vance kept her head down, her hands moving in rhythmic, mechanical circles as she polished the mahogany dining table. The rag in