“She’s a Mizer.”
The bullet hit him between the eyes, and he slumped over into the noose. Even so, the executioner pulled the lever, dropping the trapdoor below him, so that his already dead body fell, jolted, and then hung limply from the gallows.
A spectacle.
Enne had made a promise—a pointless, pathetic promise—not to die here, and so, as the eyes in the crowd turned to find the Scar Lord’s killer, she jumped off the bench and raced to the street corner, where Levi stood waiting, his gun also raised.
But it didn’t matter how fast she ran—they’d seen her.
It didn’t matter how precisely she’d shot—her secret was known.
It didn’t matter that she’d escape today—from now on, she’d always have to run.
The City of Sin had asked Enne to play another game, and this time, she wouldn’t have her mask or a false name from an old life to hide behind. And after facing countless villains and repeated betrayals, the only thing Enne knew for certain about the game was that there were infinite ways to lose.
But even broken and exposed, this was not the end.
Her gang was out of volts—she would make more.
The North Side was a kingdom conquered—she would take it back.
The Families and the Scarhands had fallen—she would rise.
If Levi believed the city had stolen Enne’s conscience, then so be it. For the first time since she’d come to New Reynes, Enne wasn’t merely playing to survive. She was playing to win.
And in order to do that, she needed to become what history feared most.
She needed to become queen.
EPILOGUE
Harrison Augustine was sworn into office with one hand on the Republic’s constitution, and the other over his heart—or, more specifically, over the pistol concealed in his breast pocket.
Hours later, he sipped a Snake Eyes and stared out his window at the City of Sin. It was late evening, and of course, like any compassionate politician, he’d canceled his victory party in light of the despicable and shocking assassination of his opponent.
It was unfortunate that Jonas Maccabees had been caught and hanged. There was no way to pardon the North Side now, as he’d planned. Harrison still had appearances to keep up after all.
Black smoke smothered the skyline of the North Side, and Harrison knew the city well enough to pinpoint the exact location of the fire: Luckluster Casino.
Harrison smiled to himself. He and Sophia had both gotten what they’d wanted. Vianca Augustine and Charles Torren were dead. Luckluster burned, and soon St. Morse would, too. Harrison had even won the election fairly, but slimly enough that he didn’t regret the fact that Worner Prescott now lay in a mausoleum, dead from Harrison’s own gun.
He didn’t like close calls.
But as much as Harrison wanted to celebrate, he wasn’t drinking this Snake Eyes to reward himself. He was drinking because he needed to think, and thinking about the House of Shadows was best done at least partially inebriated.
The bell on his door rang. Harrison startled—he wasn’t expecting anyone tonight. He downed the rest of his drink and answered it, raising his eyebrows when he saw who was waiting for him.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” Harrison told her. “I thought we were done with each other.”
“Not quite,” Sophia Torren answered, unrolling a piece of saltwater taffy.
“I was just admiring your work across the river.” He moved to let her in, and she took a seat on his living room sofa. She smelled of smoke and candy. “Where’s your partner?”
Something dark passed across her face. “You should lock the door,” she said flatly. Harrison pursed his lips, but he did as instructed. “I’m going to get right to the point—Luckluster is burning, and I have new plans.” She popped the taffy in her mouth.
“Not even going to congratulate me?” he asked.
“Does that really work on you? Flattery?” She met his gaze coolly.
