Page 61 of Lethal in Pink

I turn and walk toward the parking structure. My sneakers hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, taking me further from the steps where he’s still standing, hands shoved into his pockets, watching me go. I don't look back. I don't have to. I can feel his gaze on my shoulders like a physical weight.

I unlock my car, slide into the driver's seat, and shut the door. The quiet inside the cabin cuts off the noise of the quad instantly.

Before I even put the key in the ignition, I pull out my phone and open our text thread.

Amiyah: At my car. Better delete that backup before I book a ticket to Seoul.

My screen lights up almost instantly with three animated dots typing back.

Jae: Threat received. Have a safe drive, hotshot.

I toss the phone onto the passenger seat, a quiet smile tugging at my lips, and start the engine. As I drive down the ramp and pull out onto the main street, Blackthorn recedes in my rearview mirror—shrinking until it’s just a memory waiting for autumn.

Chapter twenty

Amiyah

My phone screen glows with a thread of Jae’s texts. He flew out to Seoul two weeks ago—the morning after we said goodbye—and his messages arrive with the unhurried rhythm of someone managing a seven-hour time jump. When it's late afternoon in Florence, he’s already stepping into midnight. A photo of the moon over Mapo-gu. A quick text complaining about his sleep schedule.

Me: lol go to sleep then, dork.

I set the phone face-down on the hotel nightstand and turn back to the cream linen blazer laid flat across the narrow bed.

I arrived in Florence yesterday afternoon, and the city is already a mouthful of hot marble and trapped humidity. My window is cracked exactly two inches—not enough to invite the oppressive heat in, just enough to let the whine of Vespas and the distant tolling of church bells filter through the gauzy curtains. The air conditioning unit hums at a high, mechanical pitch designed specifically to fray human nerves. I’ve been sweating through my silk camisole for twenty minutes, and I haven’t even put the jacket on yet.

Claudette Moreau does not sweat.

Claudette Moreau is a senior associate at a Milanese luxury goods firm with a graduate degree from Bocconi and a skincare routine that costs more than most people’s rent. Claudette’s business card sits on the nightstand—thick cream cardstock, deep embossed lettering, the kind of card that makes a quiet, authoritative snap when you press it into someone's palm.

Tonight isn't for the kill. Tonight is Phase One: landing in Renato Caruso’s field of vision and letting his vanity do the rest of the work. The lethal compound from the Underground's Procurement Division stays locked in the room's hidden safe until the deployment window opens.

I pick up the kitten heels from the desk chair and run a thumb along the buckles. Polished. No scuffs. The gold hardware is the precise shade of muted brass—not too bright, not too pale—the kind of quiet luxury that screams generational wealth.

My secure laptop pings. Penelope’s avatar—a purple-haired cartoon fox—pops into the corner of the encrypted display.

“Testing, testing, one two, is this thing on—oh, there you are. Jesus Christ, your hair. Did you actually style it or did you just threaten it into submission?”

Penelope’s voice fills the hotel room, crisp and clear through the micro-earbud nestled in my right ear. On screen, she’s slouched in her gaming chair in LA, an Aperol Spritz clutched in one hand, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder to reveal a faded band tee underneath. Her dark hair is piled into a messy topknot, purple highlights catching the late afternoon light. She takes a long, theatrical sip through her straw.

“It’s ninety-five degrees outside,” I say, dabbing a bead of sweat from my collarbone with a tissue. “My hair is exercising its constitutional rights.”

“Your hair has a job, and its job is to look expensive while you convince a fifty-something Italian billionaire with more vanity than sense that you’re the answer to his midlife crisis. Speaking of which—the rooftop gala at the Palazzo Corsini is tonight's target zone. Caruso’s RSVP is confirmed. Camera wipe schedule is locked. Building security runs on a twelve-hour rotation. The front desk guy takes his smoke break at 2:17 AM exactly—lasts seven minutes. Keep it clean.”

I slide my arms into the blazer. The cool linen touches my shoulders for approximately three seconds before the Florentine heat claims it.

“Caruso’s digital footprint?” I ask.

“Wide open, and his ego is paper-thin,” Penelope says, swirling the ice in her glass. “Claudette Moreau’s profile is fully active. I’ve seeded six hundred verified LinkedIn connections, a Bocconi alumni history that holds up under deep scrutiny, and a taste for Barolo that matches his exactly. I even gave her a gluten intolerance so you have a built-in excuse to skip the bread basket.”

“Thoughtful.”

“I’m a professional,” Penelope smirks. “Pro tip: let him find you. Don’t approach. Men like Caruso think every beautiful woman who glances their way is a stroke of fate. Let him believe he’s the hunter.”

I stand and face the mirror above the desk. Muted gold hoop earrings. A delicate gold chain resting against the hollow of my throat, thin enough to be understated, heavy enough to be genuine. The dusty rose silk blouse catches the dim light, softening the sharp angles of my shoulders. My blonde hair is swept into a low, immaculate chignon, not a single flyaway escaping despite the humidity.

Claudette Moreau stares back at me—cool, elegant, lethal.

“Go get him, bitch.”