“I don’t like surprises,” I mutter, my tone flat. My fingers twitch at my side, a reflex I don’t bother suppressing. Hidden under the fabric of my suit jacket, the weight of my gun presses reassuringly against my ribs. A second blade is strapped to my ankle—small, discreet, sharp enough to get the job done if it comes to that.
The doors swing open with a soft hiss, revealing a space that feels worlds away from the grandeur of the gala outside. Dim lighting casts shadows across the room, the air cooler, carrying a faint hum of machinery. Her bodyguards fan out behind us, silent as sentinels.
Fiona strides in, her hand still loosely linked through my arm. The room is vast but designed to intimidate, not impress. Glass display cases line the walls, showcasing pieces that screamexclusivity: diamond necklaces that would bankrupt small nations, rare stones that gleam with an otherworldly hue, and custom sets that practically radiate untouchability. The center of the room is dominated by a long table, empty but polished to a mirror-like sheen.
She pauses mid-step, turning her head toward me with a sly smile. “Do you realize how long we’ve been working together, Leonid?”
“Ten years, eleven months,” I reply automatically, my gaze moving over the room. My unease itches at the back of my neck, but I don’t let it show.
“That’s why I like you so much! You remember every detail…” She squeezes my arm harder, her rings pressing into my suit. “Oh my, so strong…” Her tongue darts out to wet those ridiculous lips.
The door clicks shut behind us, the lock engaging with a faint metallic thud. I glance back. Two guards have taken position, their stances firm, hands close to their holstered weapons. Military-trained, no question.
Govno, something’s up.
Fiona steps away from me. I turn my attention back to her standing at the center of the room, her emerald gown catching the faint glow of the overhead lights. She watches me, her red lips curling with amusement.
A long display table stretches across the center, lined with velvet cushions cradling the gold. Necklaces, bracelets, rings—all glittering under precise, cold lighting.
Fiona walks toward the table, her fingers gliding over a bold gold necklace studded with diamonds.
“Your shipment,” she says simply. “Melted down, repurposed, and polished to perfection.”
I step closer, my eyes narrowing as I inspect a necklace. The craftsmanship is flawless; bold, without being gaudy. Fiona’speople know their work. This isn’t just jewelry—it’s power, wealth, the kind of pieces that can’t be questioned in her world of elite clientele.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” I say, my tone neutral but edged with approval.
Her smile sharpens, her gaze meeting mine. “It’s what I do, darling. You bring me the gold; I make it into something irresistible. You wouldn’t believe how fast this collection will sell out.”
But something doesn’t sit right. I glance around again, the itch in my instincts growing.
“And the rest?” I ask, my voice calm but sharp. “Where’s the remainder of the shipment?”
“Oh, darling, don’t rush me,” she chides, waving a perfectly manicured finger. “There’s more. But you’ll have to come a little further for the full show.”
She steps in closer, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of the table as she leans forward just enough to close the space between us. Her lips curve into a slow, knowing smile, the kind that makes promises she has no intention of keeping.
“And this is just the beginning,” she says, her words soft but deliberate. “Imagine what we could do with a little more… cooperation.”
I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes. “What kind of cooperation?”
Before she can answer, the door behind us opens. Heavy footsteps echo through the room, breaking the tense quiet.
I turn sharply, my hand brushing the inside of my jacket where my gun rests.
A voice cuts through the air. “Hello,brat.”
And there he is. Ludis, stepping out of the shadows, his bruised face a glaring contrast to the crisp lines of his tailoredsuit. A cigar smolders between his fingers, smoke curling lazily upward as he takes a slow, deliberate drag.
His grin widens. “Miss me?”
38
Clara
The greenhouse smells like soil and citrus, the air thick and warm like a jungle. I roll up my sleeves, feeling the faint stickiness on my skin from the humidity. Elijah runs ahead, his little sneakers squeaking on the polished stone floor. His giggles echo, too loud for the stillness, but I can’t bring myself to shush him.
“Come on, Mommy! You have to see this!” His voice bounces off the glass panels, too loud in the serene space.
