Her words are final. No appeal. No escape. Dante’s eyes lock on mine across the table. Heat coils low in my gut, part fury, part something I don’t want to admit.
10
DANTE
Iadjust the cuff of my sleeve, hating the feel of it. It’s too smooth, too tight, cut for a man who’s never scraped his knuckles bloody in a ring. I tug it down, reminding myself this mask is the only way inside Serrano’s showcase and busy myself looking around. This is the first time I’ve really had the chance to look at the Royal Harlots Clubhouse without someone breathing down my neck. The ground floor stretches wide, a converted brewery that feels like both a sanctuary and a battlefield. Concrete floors catch the low light, and exposed brick walls rise around me. Half of those bricks are layered in graffiti murals. I stop in front of one where the club members’ names blaze in neon against the grit.
Impatience grinds at me. My hand flexes inside the sleeve, restless, before my gaze drifts to the opposite wall, a shrine of club colors, framed photographs of women grinning over bikes, arms slung around shoulders, fists raised high at rallies. I lean in closer to one frame squinting. If I’m not mistaken, that’s a Senator hiding under a baseball cap, right in the middle.
Next to the photos are trophies only the Harlots would claim. Bent road signs, a busted helmet with a spiderweb crack throughthe visor, a license plate scarred with bullet holes. I drift toward the far corner dragging my hand over the front fork of a 1947 Knucklehead. The steel’s cool beneath my palm. A low whistle slips out before I can stop it.
“What did you expect, a crafting room and sewing machines?” Katana’s voice comes from behind me.
I turn and it slams the air from my lungs. My stomach tightens. I bury it deep, clenching my teeth behind my smile to keep my jaw from dropping but it doesn’t stop the heat crawling up my neck.
Katana isn’t in boots or leather, or coiled to strike the way I’ve come to expect. Her hair is down, brushed loose around her shoulders, catching the light. The charcoal pantsuit she’s wearing hugs her hips before breaking into a flare over sharp black heels that make her long legs longer. The jacket pulls tight at her waist, plunging into a deep V to reveal a lace-trimmed camisole. The sleeves are sheer lace, trailing down her arms and hooking around her middle fingers, delicate but dangerous.
It hits me in the gut and I hate how fast my pulse spikes when my eyes catch on the curve of her breast beneath the fabric. She looks expensive, lethal, untouchable.
Her stare catches mine, sharp as ever. Her gaze dips for half a second, skimming the line of the suit on my shoulders, then snaps back up. I hate how much I want to test it again and for one stupid heartbeat, I forget we’re supposed to be playing pretend. It’s a line I’m already too close to crossing.
She doesn’t look away. Neither do I. The air stretches tight between us, charged with what neither of us is saying. Until the door swings open and snaps it. We break apart spinning as Lolita slips inside. Her hair is a little mussed, lipstick smudged at the edges. There’s an undertone under her perfume, the sharp spice of expensive men’s cologne clinging to her. I cock my brow and she drops a velvet envelope into my palm.
I crack mine open and slide out tickets, and ornate masks that look like something from a masquerade ball.
My brow tightens. “What’s this?”
Lolita’s mouth curves, “Identities are secret,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Good thing, because tonight you’re Mr. and Mrs. Hale.”
Katana shifts her weight just an inch, lingering closer than she needs to be, the lace of her sleeve brushing against my knuckle.
I grind out, “And the real Hales?”
Lolita’s smile sharpens. “I don’t know about Mrs. Hale, but Mr. Hale..” She shrugs, coy. “He’s indisposed.”
Lolita doesn’t explain, and no one asks.
My anxiety is growing by the minute, I’m ready to get this damn thing over with. It doesn’t matter that I’m part of this op, the Harlots still don’t trust me. They feed me crumbs, enough to keep me useful but never enough to let me off the leash. I can’t blame them. There’s no guarantee that I won’t strike if Serrano gives me the opportunity.
Quinn’s voice cuts in, “You’re a couple tonight. Watch the room. Don’t break cover.”
Lolita’s lips twitch as she slides a gold wedding band from her finger and drops it into my palm. Blood crusts the outer curve.
“Katana’s sleeves cover her hands,” Lolita says, “so no one will notice she’s missing hers.”
I wipe it clean with my thumb, and slip it on. I let the ring bite into my skin and remind myself that this is just another mask.
I catch Katana’s reaction out of the corner of my eyes. Her gaze lingers on the band circling my finger, lips pressed together in a line that’s too controlled to be casual. Not annoyance exactly. It’s restraint, sharp and deliberate, like she’s holdingsomething back she doesn’t want me to see. And that flicker alone tells me more than she meant to.
When she finally looks at me, her gaze is cool but I know what I saw.
There’s not a minute to breathe before Vex shoves a slim com device into my hand and another into Katana’s. “Push-to-talk only,” she warns. “No open mics.”
I nod, slotting it in the cuff of my suit. Katana slips hers between her cleavage and I swallow hard.
Katana’s eyes flick down my body, slow and unapologetic, before locking back on mine. “You clean up better than I expected."
I angle closer just enough to test her. “Careful. Keep talking like that and I might start to think you like me.”
