Page 47 of Pretty Little Assassin

“How are you planning on doing that?” I turn to Viktor. “You don’t exactly have the most blending-in aesthetic going for you.”

“Can’t he just attend as a guest too?” Alley Cat likes to chime in when she’s interested, tune out when she’s not. “He’s an alpha. He’s invited.”

“Not smart. The Primacy agents will clock me at first sight, including the new Director. He’ll be watching to see if we both show up. We’re still under a double mirrored contract. I need to slip in undetected.”

“How about a waiter?”

We all look at Alley Cat.

“One of those ones who carries the drinks around on little silver trays. You’d fit that part, all tatted up and looking like you just came off your regular bartender shift to pick up a fancy side gig for the night.”

She skips over, stopping abruptly in front of Viktor, and lifts her fist up to give him a bump.

“Well?” Alley Cat pouts as her fist hangs in the air between them.

I watch Viktor gingerly bring his massive hand to hers and give her a fist bump in return.

“Waiter it is, сумасшедшая кошечка.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Zero asks.

“Crazy little kitten.”

“Cool,” Donnie laughs. “Apparently everyone is getting nicknames now.”

“Sure, хакер, поедающий пиццу.”

Donnie doesn’t notice, but Zero narrows her eyes. “What is that one?” she asks.

“Pizza-eating hacker.” Viktor folds his massive arms and looks around at the den littered with equipment and pizza crusts.

“And mine?” Zero asks suspiciously.

“I have zero to say about that.”

I see his eyes flick to Mr. Pickles’ new sweater, and I hear what he doesn’t say: “Sweater Knitter Killer.” Yeah, safer to leave Zero out of the nickname game unless he wants to tangle with her katana. I barely restrain myself from stabbing him when he calls me “pretty little assassin.”

Though at this point I might be starting to like it.

And the best part is, I don’t have to restrain myself. That crazy psychopath handles every knife I pull.

I take my phone out into the hallway where the light is bad, and nobody follows me.

The message is still sitting there, unanswered since yesterday, which is the longest I have ever left Madam waiting for anything.

COMPLETE THE CONTRACT ON VIKTOR PETROV, A.K.A. THE WRAITH

HE’S A LIABILITY.

YOU CANNOT TRUST HIM.

I look at the message again.

This order came down a channel I have never once had reason to doubt, from the woman who gave me a purpose and has not missed a birthday since.

In eight years, I have never left one of her directives sitting for two hours, let alone a day and a night.

This time it’s wrong.