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Without looking too closely at my motives, I move toward the woman in red, prepared to do anything to get her alone.
CHAPTER3
Lacey
Wes is down the street, a block over, waiting. He’s parked a safe distance from the swanky event in a discrete white van with blacked out windows and the logo of a fake plumbing company across the side.
He’s also in my ear the entire time.
“Keep your breathing regulated. Nothing raises suspicions like a woman hyperventilating in the middle of a party,” he says. “And don’t forget to smile for the cameras.”
His voice reverberates through my skull. I’m not even close to hyperventilating, but he’s got a point. The more I draw attention to myself, the harder it will be to make it through the night undetected. The hardest part, I know, will be to enter without the earbud or the gun in my purse being detected.
This is why I don’t do undercover work anymore.
I force a smile, lips painted the same deep crimson as the dress clinging to every nook and cranny of my body. It shows more skin than I’d like, and the extravagantly tall shoes still only make me shoulder height on most people, but I do feel beautiful. After wearing mostly suits at work or sweats while at home, it’s a nice change of pace.
Still, feeling confident in an outfit and being able to do my job well are different beasts.
Two guards stand at the entrance, looking discreet enough as doormen, holding the thick glass door open for guests as they approach. Inside, there will be more guards and…a metal detector.
Ah, shit.
These kinds of places always have top notch security. We expected the place to be swamped with guards and muscle men—Wes scoped everyone out before I even got dressed—but the metal detector is a new touch, something I’ll have to figure out on the fly.
I’ll add that to my mental list. First, I have to come off inconspicuous as my new persona. Lacey Matthews no more; I’m born anew as Natasha Moretti.
One guy holds the door open for me, and I flash each of them a coy look under my heavy eye makeup. Natasha is averydifferent person from Lacey. Natasha is well known within the criminal underworld, a vibrant and seductive woman, the mistress of high-ranking mafia member Gerardo “Mad Dog” Fante.
Natasha is a real person, and I’m assuming her identity.
I clutch my purse tighter as I approach three more men by the entrance to the ballroom, their metal detecting wands scanning the guests ahead of me.
No weapons—one of the only rules for entering the party today. Everyone comes in peace with goodwill toward man, while I came to arrest someone.
What these people don’t know about Natasha Moretti is that she’s been missing for a while, and for a different reason than what they’ve been told. While the rumors say she’s been driven underground after a deal gone wrong, she’s really been taken into custody after flashing her boobs at a police officer one night. One drunken nipple slip led to an arrest for public indecency and during booking, the arresting officers found way more than a dimebag of cocaine shoved up her crotch.
With how powerful Natasha is, I doubt they’ll be able to keep her long on those charges. Someone will be more than happy to make or take a deal, which means my time as Natasha is short for this job.
The clock is already ticking.
This is where Wes’ skills really shine. He found out that there are only a few people who know what Natasha really looks like. Apparently, Gerardo keeps her well-hidden as his mistress, and because of some bad blood between him and Stefan, he’s been kicked off the guest list for this event. His loss, my gain. At least we both have red hair, so there was no reason to dye mine to match. That’s about as far as it goes in the looks department.
Wes and I matched me against her mugshot before coming out, and the differences are way more apparent than the similarities. Natasha, even on her worst day, strikes you as the type of person to cause a scene when she walks in a room, as though she thrives on the drama and the attention. I’m happier in sweats with a little hood, watching Netflix on the couch, or a nicely tailored suit, taking my team through a debrief.
A throat clears, and I stare straight ahead, having to remember to soften the surprise on my face. The guard gestures for me to step forward, and I stride ahead confidently, without the waggle of trying to get my balance in these ridiculous shoes.
For me, three inches is ridiculous. These are double.
The convention center is decked out in a Christmas explosion. Someone set off a bomb, and seasonal cheer went everywhere, the room completely draped in garlands and lights and fake snow. Even the glass has been frosted, making it impossible for the uninvited to peek inside.
I take another step toward the guard, another. There’s security everywhere, and there is no way I’ll be able to get through.
My stomach drops.
My hand starts to shake on my black clutch.
No. I’m not giving in to the nerves. I’ve been trained to keep my cool in situations like this, and the gun is a prototype, designed to be undetectable. But what if it’s not? What if something goes wrong and the sensors start shrieking? My cover is blown, and then I’m as good as dead, just like the other agent who tried to get close. Did they even make it through the door?
