She shrugs, unbothered, and tosses her hair. “Next time, then. You’re buying coffee.”
“Deal.” I watch her go, her energy lingering even after she’s out of sight.
After the shoot, I linger in the dressing room, spinning my lip balm in my palm, pretending to hunt for something as the others file out.
I study myself in the lighted mirror: the glowy skin, the liner winged just so, not a hint of steel or sharpness left. Ifanyone were watching, they’d see a girl winding down from a long day, nothing more.
I text my mother—Campaign’s going great, see you this weekend—careful not to sound too eager, careful not to make promises I can’t keep.
I slide my burner phone deeper into the lining of my purse, push the lipstick down, zip it shut. One last look in the mirror, just in case. The face I wear is flawless, anonymous.
The city is all angles and late afternoon gold as I pull out of the lot, merging with traffic. The air in my car is cool, the radio turned low, a playlist I know by heart but barely register. I fall into the rhythms of normal: signal, merge, brake, check the mirror, again and again.
Halfway home, something shifts. A black SUV—sleek, not quite new, a little too careful—has been three cars back for the last seven blocks.
Another, just like it, shadows from across the intersection, moving slow when I slow, speeding up when I do. My pulse doesn’t spike, but I feel the focus sharpen in my chest, cold and clear.
I try the usual tests. A turn down an unfamiliar side street, a stop at a yellow light I could have made. They follow, casual but never casual enough.
I circle the block, then duck into the chaos of a supermarket parking lot, weaving through rows of minivans and delivery trucks. They keep their distance but never vanish.
I slip out of the lot, join the flow of rush hour, and they’re still there—one now, then two, then just one again.
My heart beats in time with the city, face never changing, even as I cycle through exit strategies.
At the next red light, I check my reflection in the side mirror. Eyes calm, hands steady on the wheel. The girl in the mirror is just a little tired, just a little too pretty to be bothered by traffic.
But inside, I’m counting: number of cars between us, possible choke points, every alley I could duck if I needed to. It isn’t fear that sharpens my attention; it’s the certainty that the game I played so well has finally circled back.
Rush hour presses in from all sides, glass and steel and the sour smell of asphalt baking in late sun. I nudge my car into the river of traffic, trying to disappear into its anonymous churn. My mind runs contingencies, every lane change and merge calculated to shake my shadow.
These men are good—too good. The black SUV behind me eases up, vanishes in the crowd for half a block. The other glides up in my side mirror, sliding forward so precisely it barely disturbs the air.
Then, with perfect choreography, they move. The lead SUV jumps two lanes and cuts in front, brakes blooming red. I have just enough time to register the make and the tint of the windows before my own path slams shut.
I could try to swerve, try to ram the curb or nudge into the median, but there’s nowhere to go.
The second SUV tucks up behind, boxing me in with surgical calm. My escape plan evaporates. These aren’t amateurs—they’re here to extract, not to make a mess.
I close my eyes, let my breath lengthen until my heart falls back into line. No point in struggling; this is the moment my father always said would come.
I let the world slow, then unbuckle my seat belt, pocket my keys, and check my phone one last time—no alerts, nocavalry, no missed call from anyone who might care. I smooth my skirt, collect my purse, and step out, calm as you please, heels striking the tarmac with a clean, practiced click.
Doors open in near-unison, but only one matters: the driver’s side of the lead SUV swings wide and a man steps out.
He’s not young, not pretty the way Nikola was, but there’s a gravity to his movements, a magnetism in the stillness that radiates control. His suit is sharp, but he wears it like armor, every line speaking of money and purpose.
The other men keep their distance, standing guard, but their eyes flick between us—waiting for a signal, alert to the smallest twitch.
He closes the gap in slow, measured steps. For a split second, he reminds me of my father’s men on their best behavior: power wrapped in patience, a performance designed to unsettle. He stops just shy of my personal space, so close I feel the heat rolling off his body, his cologne threaded with something metallic and cold.
His eyes are winter-clear, searching every inch of my face for a crack. He studies me with the practiced detachment of someone who’s seen a thousand people break and is always ready for one more.
He reaches out and tilts my chin up with the barest pressure. The gesture is intimate, almost gentle, but there’s nothing soft in his grip.
He wants to see the whites of my eyes, to measure the distance between defiance and surrender.
“Where is my brother?” he asks, voice flat as polished stone. No anger, just intent—a threat sharpened to the point of a promise.
