Ben’s expression stops me cold. It’s not the gentle gaze I got lost in minutes ago when I was dancing in his arms. His jaw is tight, lips pressed together. His eyes are dark and unreadable and sending me a warning that coils tight in my stomach. He knows I heard something I shouldn’t have.
My breath shudders. I need to get out of here.
Backing away from the mess, I leave Ben and Rook in the hallway and step back into the main restaurant. The glow of the chandeliers, the murmur of conversation, the clinking of glasses—it all feels like a cruel illusion of normalcy.
But there is nothing normal about what’s happening around me. I’m surrounded by a roomful of individuals who have the power, money, and connections to make me disappear. I scan the room, my eyes darting from face to face. Every look lingers too long. Every whisper sounds like my name. My fingers tingle with the need to grab my keys and make a break for it.
Just act normal. Get your purse. Get out.
The jazz trio is playing something slow and brooding, the kind of tune you hear in a mob movie right before someone ends up in an oil barrel. The ominous melody curls around me like smoke, seeping into my already frayed nerves.Sothis is the soundtrack to mydeath—awesome.
Sliding between guests, I weave my way toward the coat check. Every few steps, I steal a glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Ben, Rook, or—worse—Ramirez closing in. But they’re nowhere in sight. Instead, I notice something even more unsettling—Ramirez’s men.
They’re everywhere—like a mafia flash mob, except their only choreographed move is tossing people into the back of a van.
And if they suspect me, if Ben or Rook has put them on alert, that’s exactly what they’re going to do to me.
“My bag, please,” I say, handing my ticket to the clerk. My palms are damp, and my pulse is pounding so hard I feel it in my throat. Unfortunately, the clerk doesn’t sense my urgency and moves at a glacial pace.
The moment she hands over my purse, I turn—only to crash into a solid wall of muscle.
No. Not a wall.
Milosh.
His hand clamps around my arm, his grip hot and unsteady. “Leaving so soon, beautiful?” His breath reeks of alcohol, his words slurred but his hold firm. “Stay a little longer. Dance with me like you dance with little man.”
Under normal circumstances, Milosh referring to Ben as “little man” would’ve made me laugh, but his tightening grip on my arm has my stomach twisting. I try to step back, but he follows, backing me against the wall.
“I really need to go,” I say, putting as much authority in my voice as I can.
He doesn’t let go. His fingers curl tighter, his other hand drifting lower, brushing along my arm. My skin prickles with fear.
“Let me go,” I say sharply.
Milosh’s lips curl wickedly like we’re playing a game he’s always won. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. Marcos made sure I had self-defense training, but Milosh is at least a hundred pounds heavier than me, and if I engage him, it’ll ruin my attempt at a quiet escape.
Hmm, quietly accept a handsy Russian oligarch or take him out and accept my fate in a woodchipper?
A smooth, authoritative voice slices through the tension and my decision. “Are you okay, Cybil?”
Mr. Edmond.
Relief rushes through me as I turn my head. He stands a few feet away, his presence steady, unmoving. Behind him, Sebastian watches Milosh with the kind of detached boredom that barely hides his disdain.
Milosh hesitates, sways slightly, then releases me with a muttered curse.
I step away fast, my skin crawling. “I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a grateful smile. “I just don’t feel well.”
Mr. Edmond studies me, his expression unreadable. “Go home, then,” he says simply.
I nod quickly.Almost there.
Clutching my purse, I leave Milosh with Mr. Edmond and Sebastian and head down the dark hallway leading to my escape. I’m nearly there when a shadow steps into my path.
Rook.
“Leaving already?” His voice is casual, but his gaze pins me in place. “I was hoping we could chat.”
