My stomach turns, but Nocturne's smile doesn't waver. Prague. Where my world shattered. The Iron Choir claimed credit for that and now one of their inner circle is complimenting me on it as an accomplishment to be proud of.
"Thank you," I say, because that's what Nocturne would do. Accept the praise. Wear the blood. Pretend the nightmares don’t still wake me up at night.
Archer's hand tightens against my spine. Barely there pressure through silk. Acknowledgment. Support. A reminder that he knows the difference between what I've done and who I am.
The conversation continues, a careful dance of innuendo and veiled threats disguised as pleasantries. Angelique introduces us to others in her circle. First an Italian financier who specializes in offshore accounts and shell corporations, then a Turkish mercenary who specializes in making political problems disappear, finally a Belgian tech specialist who designs untraceable weapons. Each introduction more loaded than the last, each set of eyes assessing whether I'm peer or competition.
Archer stays at my side the entire time, his presence steady at my shoulder. When men's gazes linger too long on exposed skin or the slit in my dress, his fingers press more firmly against my spine. The message is clear to anyone paying attention:She's mine.
I don't mind. After years of weaponizing my body, of letting men think they could own me while I cataloged theirweaknesses, this feels different. Real. Like he's not claiming property but declaring allegiance.
"You seem distracted, chérie," Angelique says, her gaze sharp. "Is something troubling you?"
"Just admiring the estate," I lie smoothly. "The architecture is remarkable."
"It belongs to one of the Conductor's associates," she says. "Very old Moroccan nobility. The family has ties to this region going back centuries. Perfect for gatherings such as these where privacy is paramount."
The Conductor. There's that title again. I've heard whispers for years, seen the name in intelligence reports, but never confirmed an identity. The Iron Choir's leader remains a phantom, pulling strings from the shadows while operatives like Koval and Angelique handle the visible operations.
Except I think I saw him. At the monastery, watching from the gallery—a figure who didn't belong, whose presence felt deliberate. But even that was just a glimpse, a moment that could mean everything or nothing. No confirmation. No proof. Just instinct telling me something was off.
But tonight, apparently, the phantom becomes flesh.
"I look forward to meeting him," I say, letting curiosity color my tone.
"Oh, you will," Angelique promises. Her smile has teeth. "He's been very interested in your recent activities. Not everyone survives years undercover without losing themselves entirely. He admires that kind of discipline."
My pulse spikes, but I keep my expression neutral. Does the Conductor suspect I'm Interpol? Or does he think I'm exactly what I appear to be: one of his most effective operatives?
"Nocturne is exceptional at maintaining focus," Archer says, his voice carrying that edge of dominance that makes every head turn toward him. "It's why we work so well together."
"I can imagine," Angelique says, gaze flickering between us with knowing amusement. "The chemistry is quite evident."
Movement near the far end of the courtyard draws everyone's attention. Conversations pause mid-sentence. People turn toward the main archway. The air itself seems to shift, tension coiling through the gathered crowd.
The Conductor enters through an archway draped in silk. Distinguished, with silver threading through dark hair, wearing a suit that probably costs more than the villa where Archer and I first met. Handsome in the way old money and older power always is. His presence hits with physical force. Charisma and menace wrapped in charm, the kind of man who could order your death with a smile and make you thank him for the privilege.
Guards flank him, but they stay back, letting him move through the courtyard alone. People part for him, everyone vying for acknowledgment while pretending not to care. He stops to greet a few, exchanges words that make them laugh or bow or both. And with each interaction, he moves closer to where Archer and I stand near Angelique's circle.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it. The moment I've been building toward for years. Face to face with the man orchestrating Amelie's kidnapping, the man responsible for countless deaths, the head of an organization I've sworn to destroy.
And he doesn't know that I'm the weapon pointed at his throat.
His gaze finds mine across the courtyard, and something flickers in his expression. Recognition? Interest? I can't tell. But he changes direction, heading straight for us, and beside me, Archer goes absolutely still. Every protective instinct in him fires at once. His hand against my spine becomes steel, tension radiating through the contact.
The Conductor stops in front of me. Up close, his eyes are gray and calculating, missing nothing. His smile is warm, but there's something beneath it that makes my skin crawl. Something patient and amused, watching me pretend I'm not prey.
"Nocturne," he says, voice smooth and cultured. British accent, expensive education, everything polished to a mirror shine. "I've been waiting to meet you properly, my dear. We have so much to discuss."
He extends his hand, and my stomach drops. This is the test. Take his hand, and I commit fully to the performance. Refuse and suspicion blooms. But taking it means touching the man responsible for Prague, for Elena's death, for everything that turned Marissa into Nocturne.
Beside me, Archer tenses further. I feel the shift in his body, every muscle coiled tight—the stance of someone calculating threat vectors and exit strategies. His fingers dig into my spine hard enough to bruise. The message comes through clearly: if this goes wrong, he'll torch the entire estate to extract me. Even in our short time working together, I've learned to read when he's mentally cataloging weapons, distances, and body counts.
But we both know I have to take the Conductor's hand. We need this. The mission depends on it. Amelie's life depends on it. Everything we've worked toward hinges on this moment.
So I reach out, and the Conductor's fingers close around mine.
His grip is warm and dry, practiced. The kind of grip that's ended lives with a signature. And every person in this courtyard is watching me hold hands with the man who killed Elena, my mentor.
