My jaw flexes beneath the tattoos that crawl up my neck. “Fine,” I agree, already turning possibilities over in my mind. Someone pretty. Someone smart. Someone who owes me.
Instead of sitting around and debating candidates, Remus announces that he’ll leave it to me. Then he leaves, his footstepsheavy with authority as he slips through the door. Enzo’s digital face blinks out a moment later, the screen going black like an eye closing.
It leaves just me and Rafe in the room, the silence between us thick with unspoken questions. I watch my cousin’s reflection on the tablet screen, his expression calculating as he leans back in his chair.
He’s thinking—always fucking thinking. That’s what makes him dangerous. “You already have someone in mind,” Rafe observes, voice casual like he’s commenting on the weather instead of reading me like an open book.
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I push away from the table and move toward the glass overlooking the club floor below.
Bartenders stocking bottles, dancers warming up on the side stage, early patrons already settling into corner booths with drinks that cost more than most people make in a day.
My kingdom of controlled chaos and never ending sin.
“Don’t pretend you don’t hear me,” Rafe grunts, coming to stand beside me at the glass. “I know that look.”
“What look?” I ask innocently.
“The one where you’ve already set the fire and you’re just waiting for everyone else to smell the smoke.” His eyes track a blonde waitress moving across the floor below, trays balanced on her palms.
Not her. Not my blonde thief. But similar enough to twist something in my gut.
“I do,” I finally admit, the confession burning less than I expected.
Rafe waits. Patient fucker.
“Holston owes me a favor,” I say, more to myself than to him, watching the dancers below begin their routines. Bodiesbending, twisting, selling the illusion of availability. “And his employee owes me for the lighter she stole.”
Rafe’s head snaps toward me, interest sharpening his features. “Someone stole from you? And got away with it?” The disbelief in his voice would be insulting if it wasn’t so justified. Nobody steals from a Russo. Nobody steals from me and walks away with all their body parts intact.
Yet she did.
Good thing I know for a fact—after studying, biting, and licking every inch of her delicious naked body—that she doesn’t have a black circle tattoo. Because if someone else told me about the theft and attack happening the way it did, I’m not sure I’d believe it was a coincidence.
“The woman from last night,” I elaborate, letting the anger simmer rather than boil over. “She ran the Holston PR event I attended to help Holston out with something. She was sexy as sin, smart enough to notice details, and bold enough to steal from me right under my nose.”
“And you let her live?” Rafe’s eyebrow arches, a rare display of genuine surprise.
I crack my neck, feeling the tension settle into my shoulders. “I didn’t say that was the plan long term.”
“I see,” he says. “So you’re going to use her. The thief becomes the spy.”
Below us, a cocktail waitress drops a tray, glass shattering across the floor. From here, it’s silent—just pretty destruction without the sound.
“She’s perfect,” I continue, gaze fixed on the scene below. “Working for a man who can’t refuse me. Has the skills for the job. And already has my attention.”
“Your attention or your vengeance?” Rafe questions, studying my profile.
I smile, feeling the scars pull tight across my cheek. “Is there a difference?”
He considers this, head tilting slightly. “With you? Probably not.” There’s a note of something like a warning in his voice. “Just remember what we need. Information. A mole hunt. Not a blood feud.”
“I can multitask,” I retort.
Rafe sighs, checking his watch. “I have a meeting uptown. Keep me updated on your… recruitment efforts.”
I nod once, still watching the floor below as he leaves. The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the one-way mirror and the plans taking shape in my mind.
Raven Carter; the blonde who moved through the Parkview like she owned it, who looked at my scars without flinching, who rode my cock like she was born for it, who stole my father’s lighter from under my nose while I was still washing her taste from my skin.
