All I can do is drift into this bone-deep, mortifying certainty that I’m more awake now than I’ve ever been.
Kirill’s waking me up. Breathing new life into me.
I have no idea what that means, but I’m simultaneously hopeful and terrified.
Chapter 29
Kirill
I trace my finger along the edge of the estate on the satellite image, searching for a weak spot.
Only I see none.
Cameras cover every inch. Precise patrols loop, never crossing or leaving a gap. The Hearst mansion squats at the center of its little kingdom, all pale stone and money, surrounded by armed men and protected by the most dangerous assets.
Wealth and influence.
The type of armor you can’t peel off with a knife or a code.
My bow tie hangs loose around my neck. Behind me, the bedroom breathes with quiet life as Jordan reapplies the layers of her “mask.” I catch the whisper of fabric, the click of fastening jewelry. She’s leaving me behind, bit by bit, as she becomes someone else. Someone who used to belong in that estate.
The glass coffee table serves as our command center now. Stacks of surveillance reports, blueprints, and photos litter the surface. These are slick, glossy society photos, the kind you can pluck off the internet. Focusing on people.
I stare at their faces. None of them are targets, at least not officially. But they are the walls I need to climb to reach my objective.
I analyze them, searching for habits. Weaknesses. Patterns. Openings.
I pick up a photo of Richard Hearst, Jordan’s stepfather.
Thin hair. Square jaw. Graying mustache. The body of a former golfer or tennis player. Industry giant, tech millionaire, and married to Eleanor. In every shot, he’s gripping a politician’s elbow, a drink balanced just so, his cufflinks flashing like signals. I don’t admire him. I look for the tell.
Vanity. Ego.
A man who built his empire and won’t let go. The sort who packs his home with cameras, guards, and locked doors. Who never expects someone like me to walk right through the front with nothing but charm and a fitted jacket.
Eleanor’s next. Jordan’s mother.
Perfectly styled brown hair, tailored pantsuits, and tanned skin that belies her mid-fifties age. She’s carved from ambition, all deliberate lines and that cold, gym-polished glow. Not a single smile brightens her green eyes. Not once.
Her weakness is control.
In photos with her husband, she stands with her hand on his sleeve like she’s anchoring him in place, every gesture rehearsed. She leaves nothing to chance. She’s the type of woman who’d rather destroy something than let it slip her clutches.
Alexei’s schematics from this afternoon are on the tablet, detailed enough to believe. I try to connect the dots and map out the backup plans. Weapons to grab, escape routes to run, in case our borrowed masks don’t hold.
I tap my fingers against the screen. “Which room has the safe?”
Jordan glides through the bedroom door while putting in her earring, as if this is just an ordinary night.
A deep burgundy long-sleeved dress with a high collar molds to her curves. A stunning yet tasteful gown she chose for herself. Her hair hangs in careless, beachy waves that took effort to create. She’s not just beautiful. She’s a whole new weapon. The old Jordan, the one with crystals and half-believed dreams, has disappeared.
The woman who walks out now belongs in rooms thick with wealth and power.
Still, she looks like fire. If we had time, I’d bend her over the coffee table and fuck her until she turned to mush. Then I’d throw her on the bed and fuck her again. Maybe I’d be nice enough to come down her throat this time. To let her feel a bit of control before I?—
“I don’t know where it is anymore.” Her fingers fall away from her ear and smooth the front of her dress in a small, nervy gesture. “But it was on the third floor. West wing. An unused space.”
I nod, trying to concentrate on the job and not picture her with my dick in her mouth as she screams out her orgasm.
