I'm laughing at a banker's wife's story about charity galas and fundraising committees when I see her.
Jelena. Standing near the far wall beside a marble pillar. Wearing a black cocktail dress. Her posture tense in a way that makes every nerve in my body fire warning signals.
She catches my eye. Deliberate. Makes a small gesture with her hand. Discreet. Silent. The signal we use when we need to talk privately. When urgent information needs attention.
I feel my smile freeze on my face. My pulse kicks up. Adrenaline floods my system.
Why is Jelena here? At the opera. Making contact signals like we're on an operation instead of at a social event.
The wrongness of it crawls up my spine.
I glance at the men. They're engaged in conversation with a group of businessmen. Discussing shipping routes and import regulations and tariff implications.
"Excuse me," I murmur to no one in particular. Stepping back from the circle. "I'll be right back."
No one objects. Maksim nods slightly, already turning back to his conversation. Zakhar's eyes follow me for a moment before returning to scan the crowd. Alexei is too busy charming a senator to notice me leaving.
I slip through the crowd. Weave between clusters of people. Move toward where Jelena is waiting near the exit to the main lobby. She doesn't acknowledge me until I'm close. Then she turns and walks. Expects me to follow.
My heels click on marble floors as I trail behind her. Through the ornate lobby with its soaring ceilings and gilded details. Pastclusters of people admiring architecture and each other. Toward a side exit not meant for guests.
"Jelena," I say quietly when we're far enough from others that we won't be overheard. "What's going on?"
"I need to show you something." Her voice is tight. Strained. Not her usual controlled tone. "We don't have much time."
"Show me what?"
"Just follow me. Please."
Her tone makes my skin prickle. This isn't normal Jelena. This is Jelena under pressure. Jelena afraid. And Jelena doesn't scare easily.
I should go back. Should tell the men. Should not follow her into the night wearing an evening gown and heels that were never designed for running or fighting.
But she's my friend. My sister in arms. The woman who's stood beside me through operations that could have gotten us killed. If she needs me, I go.
We exit through the service door. Step into cool night air that makes me shiver in my strapless dress. Goosebumps rise on my bare shoulders. The sounds of the opera house fade behind us. Traffic noise replacing music. The smell of the city replacing perfume and champagne. Exhaust and asphalt and rot from the dumpsters nearby.
Jelena leads me around the building. Her heels clicking rapidly. Into a narrow alley between the opera house and the office building beside it. Dark. Shadowed except for a single streetlight at the far end. The kind of place women know better than to go alone.
A car is parked halfway down. Engine off. Lights off. Dark sedan. Anonymous. The kind that doesn't attract attention.
Jelena moves to the trunk. Opens it with hands that shake slightly. Visible tremor even in the dim light.
"You need to see this," she says, barely more than a whisper.
I step forward on unsteady heels. Look into the trunk.
And my world stops.
Vitor lies there. Still. Pale. Eyes open and unseeing. A bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Small. Dark. Final. Blood dried on his face in rust-colored streaks.
Vitor. Who drove me places. Who protected me. Who was loyal to the Severyns.
But that's not what freezes my lungs. What makes sound tunnel down to nothing but the hammering of my own heart.
His shirt is open. Torn and pulled aside deliberately. Exposing his chest.
And there. Over his heart. Impossible to miss in the streetlight filtering into the alley.
