"Atara?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you ever going to go back to New York?"
I look at the puzzle, the half-finished dessert, and then at her. She's waiting, dark eyes solemn.
Honestly, I’ve been trying my best not to think about that. I don’t know the answer to this very simple question.
"I don't know, Maeve. Things are… complicated right now."
"Daddy says complicated things are just problems that need a good map," she says, fitting the cloud piece into the sky.
Before I can answer, the double doors swing open.
Lorcan comes in dressed in a tailored charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled, all wrong for a lazy morning. He stops a few feet off, his gaze moving from Maeve to me.
"Good morning," he says.
"Morning." I keep it neutral and stay on the puzzle. My heart's already doing the stupid, frantic thing it does whenever he walks in. "You're early."
"I have news." He steps closer, his shadow falling over the table. "The investors are hosting a gala in three days. They've specifically asked for you. They were taken with your work in the boardroom."
I look up. A gala. A high-society mafia event full of tuxedos and diamonds, where I'll be on display like something they're proud to own.
"The investors asked for me," I say, lifting an eyebrow. "Or did you tell them I was the best thing you had?"
He gives me the slow half-smile, the one that never reaches his eyes but changes the whole set of his face. "Let's say they're very interested in the person who cleaned up the mess they couldn't."
"Is Silas going?" The name sits sour on my tongue.
His expression flattens. "He'll be there. It's important enough that he can't afford to stay away. It's a target-rich room, Atara. Which is exactly why I'm bringing you."
"A trap," I say, and feel a pull of something that isn't only fear.
"A trap," he agrees. "And I need your head for it. We're building the layout this afternoon. War Room, two o'clock."
He turns to go, then pauses and looks at Maeve, his eyes softening. "Behave."
"I am, Daddy!" she says, indignant.
He walks out, and I'm left with the blue sky pieces. A gala. A trap. A chance to see Silas in the light. And, low in the back of my mind, the sense that my life is about to get a great deal more complicated.
The War Room at two o’clock is a whirlwind of tactical maps and digital schematics. Lorcan is at the head of the table, his fingers moving across the touchscreens with a speed that shouldn't be possible for a man his size. I’m on the other side of the table, my notebook open, my brain mapping the logistics of the event.
"The eastern flank is exposed," I say, pointing to the architectural layout of the ballroom. "If Silas moves in from the side entrance, your security detail will be trapped between the buffet and the terrace. You need a buffer zone."
Lorcan looks at the map, then at me. His eyes are dark, intense, and completely focused. "The buffer zone is already accounted for, Atara. I’m pulling three men from the perimeter."
"And leaving the exit vulnerable?" I shake my head. "No. That’s a mistake. You’re overestimating the defensive perimeter. You need to pull the men from the kitchen. It’s a service corridor, they won't expect it."
Lorcan stares at me for a long beat. "That’s risky."
"It’s efficient," I counter. "And it’s exactly what Silas wouldn't expect. You’re thinking like a Don, Lorcan. I’m thinking like an auditor. Give me the flaw."
He laughs, a short, sharp sound. He leans back, his eyes tracking my face. "You really are a dangerous woman."
We go through the plan, layer by layer, trap by trap. It’s a strange, electric process. Our minds move at the same speed, snapping pieces of the strategy into place as if we’ve been working together for years. I find myself forgetting, just for a second, that he’s the man who kidnapped me. I’m just focused on the win.
