“That’s Reverend Clive Osman,” I began. “He leads a congregation of roughly two thousand believers every Sunday morning. He runs five community outreach programs in the south district, including food banks and after-school initiatives, et cetera.”
She glanced back at me.
“That’s what the public knows,” I continued. “What theydon’tknow is that he launders approximately five million dollars through his church’s account for the Mexican Cartel.”
Her brows rose in disbelief.
“Reverend Osman found a way to the Lord’s work and the devil’s at the same time.” I let out a quiet laugh. “A man of many talents, if you ask me.”
She drained her glass of champagne in a single shot, as if my revelation had disturbed her. But I wasn’t done yet.
“The woman in the green dress,” I said. “Near the east window, speaking with the senator.”
It took a moment, but she located her. “That’s Erika Croft of the Croft Foundation. She’s a humanitarian. She’s appeared before the UN twice to advocate for the protection of vulnerable populations.”
“At least you know who she is.”
“Something tells me I don’t,” she mumbled under her breath.
Indeed, you don’t.
“She owns a trafficking ring that exploits young girls. Turns them into sex workers.”
“Oh, God,” she exclaimed softly, rubbing her eyes.
“They’re all wolves, Miss Hendy,” I said. “Every last one of them. They wear their clothing so well they forget it isn’t their real skin.”
She heaved a sigh. “You’re one to talk. You’re no better than them.”
“I am.” I turned to face her. “Because I don’t pretend to be what I’m not. I don’t hide behind a mask to do evil.” My eyes bore into hers. “I’m the devil everyone knows.”
She straightened, setting her empty glass onto the tray of a nearby waiter. I did the same. And the waiter dematerialized.
“I don’t care what you say,” she began. “Good people still exist, and justice isn’t an illusion.”
I paused, watching her closely. “Your optimism is either your greatest strength or the very thing that will kill you.”
She smoothed out the invisible wrinkles on her dress, her gaze sweeping across the floor below. My eyes caught movement near a pillar on the upper floor. A cluster of three men had arrived separately but were now operating within the same radius.
To my left, a man who’d been watching me for about three minutes now was on the phone, his gaze constantly flicking in my direction. Below, I spotted four more men communicating through secret hand signals across the hall.
One of them looked up, and the moment he met my gaze, his expression darkened. I noticed all four of them were looking past me, as though I wasn’t the target at all. I glanced back, and there she was, Ellie, helping herself to another glass of champagne.
The phoenix tattoo these men all shared—on the right side of their necks—told me who they were. The Sokolov Syndicate, a ruthless Bratva rival group with unresolved tensions.
Why were they watching Ellie?
I helped myself to glass from a passing tray and didn’t change my pace or expression. My hand found the small of her back, and I began moving us toward the stairs.
“What’re you doing? I like it up here,” she grumbled.
“Just follow my lead.”
As we descended the stairs, my eyes scanned the room, and I withdrew my phone. My fingers rattled across the keyboard, and my focus shifted to one thing: making sure I got her out of here in one piece.
She noticed the sudden change and slowed down. “What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”
“No,” I answered, shoving my phone back into my pocket.
