I am sitting in the dark, wearing a headset, staring at a screen that shows the interior of the gala.
My hands are clenched into fists on the console. My knuckles are white.
On the center monitor, a woman is walking through the gold-and-velvet lobby of the event. She is wearing a severe black suit that buttons to her throat. Her hair—her beautiful, wild caramel waves—is hidden under a sleek, chestnut-brown wig cut in a sharp bob. She wears thick-rimmed glasses that obscure her eyes.
She looks like a graduate student. She looks like a mouse.
But I know the truth. Under that suit, strapped to her thigh beneath the wool trousers, is a ceramic knife. Around her ankle, beneath the boots, is the platinum shackle that binds her to me.
And in her ear, invisible to the world, is my voice.
"Breathe," I command softly into the microphone.
On the screen, I see her pause. She touches her ear lightly, pretending to adjust an earring.
"I’m okay," her voice comes back, tiny and tinny in my headset. It’s breathless.
I check the biometric readout on the left screen.
HEART RATE: 135 BPM.
"You’re running hot," I say. "Slow it down, Ivy. If you look nervous, the security at the checkpoint will pull you aside. You are Sarah Jenkins. You are bored. You are Arthur Sterling’s underpaid, overworked assistant who hates social events. Channel that."
"I’m trying," she whispers. "There are so many guards, Silas. They have submachine guns under their jackets."
"I see them," I say. "They are rented muscle. Amateurs. Ignore them. Focus on the door."
She steps up to the checkpoint. A massive bouncer in a tuxedo holds up a hand.
I hold my breath. My hand drifts to the Glock resting on the console next to the keyboard. If he touches her—if he so much as grips her arm too hard—I am out of this van and through that front door in ninety seconds.
Ivy hands him the laminated ID badge we forged this morning in the cabin using a portable printer and sheer desperation.
The bouncer scans it.
Beep.Green light.
He nods and steps aside.
I exhale. The sound is ragged in the small space.
"You’re inside," I say. "Turn left. The VIP elevators are past the coat check."
"Copy."
She moves through the crowd. The gala is a sea of diamonds, tuxedos, and fake laughter. It is the playground of the monsters who run this city. I recognize half the faces. A judge who takes bribes. A senator who likes underage girls. A hedge fund manager who launders cartel money.
And somewhere in there is Nikolai Sokolov.
"Status on the target?" I ask Luca, who is sitting next to me, typing furiously on a separate laptop.
"Nikolai is in the Penthouse Suite," Luca says, not looking up. "He’s meeting with the buyers. The Cartel representatives from Sinaloa. They’re waiting for the authentication before they release the funds."
"Time?"
"Ten minutes. If Ivy isn't in that vault in five, the deal happens without the inspection."
"Ivy," I say, my voice sharp. "Pick up the pace. Elevator. Now."
