There’s a shift in background noise. Fabric rustling. Footsteps closing distance.
The way his breath hitches. The way the mic picks it up. He’s leaning in.
Then I hear it.
Not the kiss. The inhale before it. The pause predators make.
I know that sound.
He fucking kisses her. And smells her while he does it—like he’s taking inventory.
That fucking creep.
Then his voice, right against her ear, barely a murmur:“You don’t know me yet. But I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”
And that confirms it. He knows.
Lev exhales. “There it is.”
We go quiet. Static fills the gap for a second, then through the feed comes a tight, sharp inhale—Mary’s. Short. Forced. Like someone holding a match too close to a fuse.
She swallows. You can hear it, small and hard, over the mic.
When she speaks again, the calm is gone. Her voice is clipped, careful.“I… should find Mr. Whitfield.”
“Of course.”Timofey’s voice is smooth again, like he didn’t just threaten her.“Enjoy your evening, Mary.”
The glass in my hand cracks. A single fracture running down the side, whiskey seeping through my fingers.
My jaw clamps hard enough to ache. Heat crawls up the back of my neck, that dangerous edge I keep buried, scraping at the surface. I never let it show. Not in front of anyone. But right now, every man in this room knows I’m seconds from putting a bullet through his skull.
Lev catches it, smirking without humor. “Relax. She’s fine. Timofey won’t make a move with all those cameras around. Not yet.”
“Not until he gets what he wants,” Dima adds.
“Which is?” Boris asks.
“Us,” I say. “He wants proof I’ve been protecting her. He wants a reason to pull the trigger.”
No one argues. The silence that follows is the kind that comes before storms.
I reach for my holster, check the safety, slide it beneath my jacket.
“We stick to the plan. Dima, you and Lev stay by the service elevators. No one gets out through the back without your eyes on them. Boris, keep Ray updated on movement and make sure those uplinks don’t crash. I’ll move in later, once the speeches start.”
Lev grins. “You planning to crash the party or play the mysterious investor card again?”
“Whichever gets me close enough to shoot if things go bad.”
Lev snorts. “Romantic.”
I stand and walk back to the window. The Strip hums below us, loud and alive. Across the street, the Imperial’s mirrored tower glitters under the lights. The reflection hides everything—the lies, the money, the people waiting to die if this goes wrong.
“Let’s finish this,” I say.
Dima stands. Lev cracks his neck.
Boris taps the last keys, eyes skimming a wall of code like it’s a grocery list.
