My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out carefully, checking the screen.
A text from Charles:Morrison making moves on Castellano territory. Get details.
Right. Work. The actual reason we’re here.
I show the message to Jace and Silas. Jace nods, already scanning the crowd for Morrison. Silas shifts position, moving to get a better angle on the senator’s group.
And I try—really fucking try—to focus on anything other than the woman in storm-grey and steel-blue and amber who’s currently laughing at something Charles said while Ryan Matthews hovers nearby like a vulture waiting for his chance.
An hour passes. Then another.
We work. Making observations, cataloging conversations, building the intelligence Charles needs. It’s muscle memory at this point—years of practice making it almost automatic.
But every few minutes, my eyes find her.
Parker talking to Maria Ramirez, the two women clearly sizing each other up with mutual respect.
Parker being introduced to the McCoy family head, her expression carefully neutral despite the fact that Silas stabbed his son two weeks ago.
Parker accepting a glass of champagne from a waiter, taking a sip, her lipstick leaving a mark on the rim.
Parker with Ryan’s hand on her back again, his mouth close to her ear as he whispers something that makes her nod politely but doesn’t change her expression.
Every interaction. Every touch. Every moment she’s down there and we’re up here, watching, unable to do anything but observe.
The orchestra transitions to something slower, more romantic. Couples move onto the dance floor—a polished marble section near the center of the gallery. I watch as Ryan leans in to say something to Parker, offering his hand.
She hesitates. Just for a fraction of a second. Then she takes it, letting him lead her onto the floor.
Ryan’s hand goes to her waist. Parker’s rests on his shoulder. They start to move, swaying to the music with the kind of practiced ease that comes from good breeding and cotillion classes.
But her body language is all wrong. Too stiff. Too distant. Like she’s dancing with a stranger instead of a date.
“I can’t watch this,” I mutter.
“Then don’t,” Silas says. “Go cut in.”
I look at him. “What?”
“You’re Cal fucking Morgan. The charmer. The one who can talk his way into or out of anything.” Silas’s storm-grey eyes are sharp. “No one’s going to think twice about you asking to dance with Charles’s sister. Just another one of the guys being friendly, showing support for the family. Completely innocent.”
Jace considers this. “He’s not wrong. You’re the only one of us who could pull it off without raising questions.”
My heart is pounding. “Charles?—”
“Knows you’re charming and friendly and would absolutely ask his sister to dance at a public event.” Jace’s expression is carefully neutral. “It’s expected behavior. Normal.”
“Do it,” Silas says. “Before I decide to do it myself and blow the whole thing.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I descend the stairs, keeping my pace casual, my expression pleasant. Just Cal being Cal—charming, friendly, completely non-threatening.
As I approach the dance floor, I catch Parker’s eye. She sees me coming, and something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or hope, or something I can’t quite identify.
Ryan has his back to me, still swaying with Parker like he has all the time in the world.
I tap his shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”
