Then, I see the guest list.
It’s displayed on the main monitor, scrolling in a neat, alphabetical list. I scan through names. Senators, regional capos, a couple of tech CEOs.
And then —what the fuck?!
Mark Sterling. Sterling & Hunt.
My heart stops. My vision blurs for a heartbeat.
Mark?
What the hell is Mark doing at a mafia gala? Did he get the job? Is this the "optics" he was talking about? Is this the "different phase" of his life?
I keep my face perfectly blank. I don't breathe. I don't look up. I just scroll past his name, my thumb hovering over the tablet screen until the text moves on.
My brain is screaming. Mark. The spreadsheet-obsessed, cowardly little worm who traded our five-year relationship for a desk at a firm that—wait.
If he’s at this gala, he’s working for someone here. And if he’s working for someone here...
"Atara?"
I look up. Lorcan is watching me. His eyes are observant, sensing the shift in my energy. "You stopped scrolling. Is there an issue?"
"No," I say, my voice steady. "Just thinking about the guest list. There are a lot of people here who have absolutely no businessbeing near a man like Silas. It’s going to be a bloodbath if we’re not careful."
"We’ll be careful," he says. He stands up and walks around the table toward me. He stops just behind my chair, the heat from his body calming me softly, and his scent clouding my brain in ways that I should hate but can’t. "Is there anyone on that list who concerns you?"
"Only the ones who don't know who they’re dealing with," I lie.
He leans down, his hands resting on the back of my chair, trapping me in place. "I can handle the guests, Atara. You just focus on the trap."
"I am," I say, turning in the chair to look at him. "I’m focused."
He stares at me for a long, heavy beat, his eyes searching mine as if he’s looking for a hidden account number. Then, he leans down, his mouth inches from mine.
"You’re a terrible liar," he says, his voice a low, raspy hum. "But for now, I’ll let it slide."
He moves away, toward the weapons locker. "At the Gala, you’re going to be a target. Silas wants to show me he can get to you. You need to be able to protect yourself."
He pulls a small, black-handled blade from the rack. It’s light, balanced, and sharp as a razor. He walks back to me and places it on the table.
"It’s a concealment knife," he says, picking it up. He shows me the mechanism, a quick, fluid slide of the thumb. "It’s small enough to hide in your clutch. Discreet, but effective."
He moves behind me, his hands reaching around to guide mine. He holds my hand, his palm warm against the back of my fingers. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off his chest, his breath hot against my hair.
"Hold it here," he says, his voice a low, rough rumble. He guides my hand, his grip firm and steady. "The balance is in the handle. Don't fight the weight. Let it work for you."
He moves my hand, sliding the blade in a quick, precise arc through the air. "It’s not about strength. It’s about speed. And it’s about where you aim."
He guides my hand, his thumb resting over mine on the hilt. Every touch is agonizing. Every time his skin brushes against mine, I feel a jolt of electricity that makes my stomach turn. He’s showing me how to kill, and he’s doing it with an intimacy that makes me want to scream.
"Like this," he says, and he pulls me back against him. His chest is hard behind me. He takes my hand and guides the blade in an upward motion, aimed at an invisible throat. "You catch them off guard. You don't ask. You just end it."
He stops, his hand lingering over mine. He’s pressing against me, his body heat seeping into my back.
"Atara," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave.
"Yes?" I breathe.
