“Yes—no,” Nikos said, but his tone held doubt. “I don’t know. I don’t see how; she’s too young. I’ve run live drills with black ops teams who didn’t move that clean. I’ve trained with people who spent years in covert units. Hell, we both have. I’m telling you—she moved like one of them—only better. Like she knew ahead of time what they were going to do. It doesn’t make any sense. Jose said she’s been playing there once a month for only a year. Sometimes against entire teams—solo. And she wins.”
Markos’s brow furrowed. “Do you think she learned how to move like that from paintball? Like an elite sport thing as a kid?”
“…No.” Nikos set down his glass, his fingers drumming against the table. “There was a moment… I saw her face, and it was like she’d forgotten that it was a game. And afterward, she wasn’t acting like she’d won a game. She was… afraid, angry. I think she’s been afraid this whole time. She’s hiding something.”
The thought settled between them like a stone dropped into a still pond. Ripples of suspicion. Fascination. Worry.
Nikos stared into the swirling bourbon in his glass.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. He could taste her on his lips. Feel her in his arms. See her lying against that damn floral couch of hers. It was there, on the tip of his memory one moment and gonethe next.
Something about Kiki Reese was carved from shadows. And she was hiding more than just a love of chocolate and tactical precision.
Much more.
The air in the VIP lounge felt thicker now, like it had turned to smoke. Nikos rolled the glass between his fingers, watching the amber liquid catch the light in fractured gold. Something was wrong. He could feel it, tightening in his chest like a vice.
Markos tilted his head. “So, how are you going to find out what she’s hiding?”
“I don’t know,” Nikos admitted. “It’s just a feeling. Like there’s this wall between us. She lets me get close, but then she pulls back.”
Markos shrugged. “She could be married. Or seeing someone. Hell, maybe she’s gay. It’s not exactly unheard of.”
“I asked her that,” Nikos said quickly—too quickly.
Markos’s brow rose. “And?”
Nikos’s frown deepened. He stared at his brother for a long beat before lowering his gaze to the swirling bourbon. “I think I asked her… but I can’t remember the answer.”
He searched his memory, trying to pinpoint the moment—but there was nothing. Just shadows. Smudged edges. A sense of having asked, but no anchor to prove it.
The heat in his chest shifted. Unease. No—something colder. Violation.
He downed the rest of his bourbon in one long swallow, the burn barely registering. Her scent lingered in his memory—something like cinnamon and cocoa and danger—and along with it came flashes.
Brief. Blistering.
Her hands were in his hair.
Her lips.
The weight of her legs locked around his waist.
Her back arched beneath him on that ridiculous floral couch.
And just as quickly, the images dissolved, then vanished like smoke through his fingers.
He clenched the empty glass.
He needed answers.
He needed to call Andri, see if he’d found anything else. He also wanted to talk to Kiki.
He slid to the edge of the booth, about to stand.
“Where are you going?” Markos’s hand landed on his arm.
Nikos hesitated. “I have to take care of something.”
