She looks so fucking good it almost startles me.
Shame needles through my chest as I glance down at myself, at the sweat-damp fabric clinging to my skin, at the mess I’ve become sitting beside her.
“It’s easy for you to talk,” I mutter. Her expression tightens, and even through those oversized lenses, I catch the ghost of a frown. “You’re a professional. You know what to do better.”
“I travel the globe and kill people,” she replies calmly. “I’d be damned if I didn’t look good doing it.”
A warm amusement ripples through me, and the flush climbs my neck. I fucking hate how reactive my skin is, but at least with the scorching sun pouring through the SUV’s roof, I can hide behind the heat.
“It doesn’t restrict your movements?” I ask. “You don’t ever get annoyed?”
“No. I feel perfectly fine.” Her eyes travel down and up my body in one slow, merciless sweep, a flicker of mockery sharpening her features. “You need to start worrying,Dante,” she adds, drawing out my name with deliberate precision. “If you want to actually survive in this field.”
I tilt my head, pretending her jab lands softer than it actually does. “I can’t figure out whether you like my name or not,” I say, nudging the subject sideways.
“What makes you think I care about your name?”
My lips press together, more heat curling in my chest. “You always emphasize it,” I say quietly. “I can’t tell whether you’re mocking me or savoring it, like you enjoy saying it.”
“Wow,” she drawls, shaking her head slowly. “You’re also so full of yourself. Which means you’re doomed.”
A sudden, fragile light sparks in my chest, and I immediately try to shove it aside, but it refuses to fade. Instead, it blooms, warmth spiraling through me and settling beneath my ribs, amplifying the oppressive heat pressing down from every side.
Any other day, I’d stop and examine the feeling, turn it over, figure out what the fuck it means. But right now, under this murderous sun, I can barely think straight.
“Whatever you say, boss,” I shoot back, my tone balancing between a joke and a provocation.
A sharp sting explodes across my shoulder. I jerk, hand flying up on instinct.
She just slapped me.
“You can joke when you’re home,” she begins, her voice flat, “with a fat stack of cash in your hands. Right now, I need you focused, because so far? I’m not impressed.”
For some reason, amusement flickers through me again, sharp and ill-timed, and I bite down on my lip to stop it from spreading. The woman beside me could kill me the moment I lose focus, and I can’t afford even a second of distraction.
I lift the binoculars again, sweeping the camp in the distance. Evening seeps across the sky, the bright blue dissolving into dense, layered shadows. Without the faint glow of the watch on my wrist, I wouldn’t even register the passage of time—the air here is heavy, thick enough to twist thoughts into loops, tangled and slow.
A truck rumbles up to the entrance, and before I can focus on it, Estella snatches the binoculars from my hands. She rips off her sunglasses with sharp impatience, squinting as she peers through the lenses.
“See all those water bottles?” I ask. “It took no effort to tail the van, distract the driver, and swap in bottles laced with a heavy dose of midazolam.”
She lowers the binoculars with slow, deliberate disdain, one eyebrow lifting into a perfectly calibrated scoff. The small, triumphant smile I’d felt rising dies instantly, crumbling before it ever reaches my mouth.
“Seriously?” she snaps, the second brow arching to meet the first. “You had all that time to plan, andthisis your execution?” She lets the binoculars fall onto her lap with a theatrical sigh, the sound slicing through the thick desert air. “Did you at least handle the driver?”
“I did,” I admit, careful to keep my voice steady. I truly did—but not in the way she imagines.
The driver had nothing to do with oil deals. A little distraction, a dart coated in sedative to the neck, and he passed out almost instantly. He woke later, jittery and more concerned about being late than anything else. He checked the goods, shrugged, and drove off, none the wiser to the swap I had orchestrated.
Maybe, once people discover the mix-up, they’ll pin the blame on him, but that isn’t my problem. My job was simple—just swap the goods.
She studies me, eyes narrowing as if measuring my words against the truth written on my face. After a long pause, she shakes her head. “Is this the same brand they were expecting?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, frustration bubbling like molten steel. It stings, that quiet pang of wounded ego. To her, I feel like a child she has to drag along, a liability rather than a partner, and the thought refuses to settle.
And for some reason, a stupid, stubborn feeling blooms inside me, pushing me harder, forcing me toprovemyself to her. “I’m not stupid, Estella. It took time, but I did everything clean.”
“But the sedative won’t?—”
