“I don’t understand.” Marcus falls into step behind me as I head for the elevator. “You seem… unusually calm about this.”
I pull out my phone and open a tracking app. “Last night, I dropped a tracker in her bag while… visiting her room.”
“You—” Marcus stops, processing this, his eyes widen slightly—the closest he comes to showing surprise. “You knew she’d run.”
“Eve’s not the type to stay caged for long.” The elevator doors close, and I watch the little blinking dot on my screen. “She’s predictable in her unpredictability.”
“You don’t seem worried,” Marcus observes as we head for the elevator.
I’m not worried. I’m intrigued. Something changed in the last few hours—something significant enough to make Liv abandon her carefully crafted plan of staying close. The question isn’t where she’s going but what she learned that made her run.
Chapter 10
I approach Mighty Dragon Restaurant like any other tired customer seeking a late dinner. My shoulders slouch just enough, my pace matching the weary shuffle of the few pedestrians still out at this hour. The neon sign flickers overhead, casting intermittent red shadows across the cracked sidewalk.
Three cab changes, six deliberate wrong turns, and two hours of circular routes have brought me here. Each step closer to the restaurant’s entrance requires suppressing the urge to check over my shoulder. Amateur move. Instead, I study reflections in store windows, tracking movements in my peripheral vision.
The restaurant’s greasy windows offer natural camouflage, steam condensing in rivulets that distort the view inside. Perfect. Through the clouded glass, I count four customers scattered across the dining room. The dinner rush has dwindled to elderly regulars nursing cups of tea. No one pays attention to yet another woman seeking cheap Chinese food.
Roberto chose well. Mr. and Mrs. Hueng’s debt to him runs deep—the kind of loyalty bought not with money but with justice. When corrupt officials tried squeezing protection money from immigrant businesses in the area, Roberto’s exposé shut them down. The weathered restaurant stands as a testament to that victory.
I pause at the corner, pretending to check my phone while scanning the street one final time. No sign of Remy’s security team, but that means nothing. He’s too good to be obvious. My skin prickles with the familiar sensation of being watched, though logic tells me I’m clear.
The restaurant’s faded red awning flutters in the evening breeze.
No one watches the door.
I twist through the cramped aisles, navigating between closely packed tables. The familiar scents of garlic and ginger mingle with sizzling oil, creating that distinct aroma that clings to everything in Chinese restaurants. My heels click softly against the worn linoleum, each step measured and deliberate.
Mrs. Hueng’s weathered face shows no recognition as I pass the register, but her quick glance toward the kitchen speaks volumes. Clear path. No watchers.
“Going to use your restroom,” I say with a tired smile, just another customer. Mrs. Hueng barely nods, focused on her calculator.
The back storeroom hits me with a wall of different scents—star anise, dried mushrooms, and the earthiness of rice. Roberto’s bulky silhouette emerges between towering shelves, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by tight worry lines around his eyes.
“Are you all right?” His voice is barely above a whisper as he slides a basic flip phone across the scratched folding table. “I’ve been worried sick since your message.”
I pocket the phone smoothly, calculating my response. Remy’s face flashes through my mind—his knowing smirks, the heat of his touch, the calculated way he watches my every move. None of which Roberto needs to know.
“Had a few issues,” I keep my tone light, casual. “Nothing serious.”
Roberto’s eyes narrow slightly. He knows me too well—knows when I’m editing the truth. Eight years of working together builds that kind of insight. But he also knows when not to push.
I take the metal folding chair, positioning myself to watch the door while appearing relaxed.
Roberto’s fingers drum silently on the table, a nervous tell I’ve never seen from him before. His usual eager energy is replaced by something tenser and darker. When he leans forward, the overhead fluorescent light catches the sweat beading on his forehead.
“It’s worse than we thought,” he whispers, and my stomach clenches at his tone.
The color drains from Roberto’s face as he leans closer. “Two journalists working similar angles—both dead in the past week. Car accident in Milan. Gas leak in Prague.”
My throat constricts. I know those names. Maria Kovac had been helping investigate shipping manifests. Thomas Reid was tracking money trails through Eastern Europe as a side job for me.
“Accidents?” My voice catches.
Roberto’s head shake is barely perceptible. “Professional hits. Your father’s hired cleaners. Ex-military types who specialize in making problems vanish.”
The familiar metallic taste of fear floods my mouth. I’ve seen this pattern before—the systematic elimination of threats, the closing of loose ends. But this time, it’s different. This time, it’s personal.
