“The gala isn’t about networking. It’s a trap.”
I stand up so fast the chair nearly topples backward. “I fucking know, Boris.”
But knowing doesn’t change anything. Because Mary just walked into Caleb’s web, and now she’s the honey they’re going to use to catch me.
And the worst part?
I’m going to walk right into it.
I pull out my phone, already texting Lev.
Emergency pickup. Now. Bring the case.
“What are you doing?” Boris asks.
“Teaching her how not to die.” I grab my jacket, checking my Glock out of habit. “They want to corner her? Fine. But she’s not going down without taking someone with her.”
Boris raises an eyebrow. “You’re talking about arming a civilian.”
“I’m talking about evening the odds.” My jaw clenches. “She’s already in this. Might as well give her a fighting chance.”
The truth sits heavier than I want to admit. I can’t stand the thought of her helpless in that room while predators circle. If they’re going to use her to get to me, she deserves better than being defenseless.
“Text Dima,” I say, heading for the door. “Tell him to prep the range. Mary’s getting a crash course.”
Boris nods, already reaching for his phone. “Copy that. We’ll make sure she comes home in one piece.” He pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Something cold settles in my chest. Because I realize I’m not just protecting her anymore. I’m keeping her. And my men have already decided she’s worth keeping, too.
And that’s a big problem.
18
Mary
Idid it.
Holy shit, I actually did it.
My hands aren’t shaking anymore. My pulse is still racing, but it’s not panic; it’s pure, electric adrenaline, thrumming through me like I just mainlined lightning. I planted that device right under Caleb’s nose, and he had no idea. Me. Mary Sullivan. The girl who apologizes to automatic doors when they don’t open fast enough. Who says sorry when someone else bumps into me.
Not today.
I walk back to my desk like I own the place, shoulders back, chin up, spine straight as a steel rod. The files Caleb dumped in my hand—something about “sensitive material” and “specialprojects”—barely register. They feel weightless compared to the secret I’m carrying. Everything feels sharper, brighter, like someone just hit the contrast button on reality. The fluorescent lights don’t feel as harsh. The carpet doesn’t look as grim. Even the ever-present stench of burned coffee and financial desperation can’t touch me.
I’m a spy. A real, actual spy who just completed her mission.
The thought makes me want to laugh out loud, throw my arms up, maybe do a little victory twirl in the middle of Brightside National. Instead, I slide into my chair with a satisfied smile I can’t quite hide. My computer screen glows with the usual soul-crushing banking software, but I see it differently now. This isn’t just my boring job anymore—it’s my cover. I’m not Mary, the overlooked clerk. I’m Mary, the secret agent.
God, if only my seventh-grade self could see me now.
“Mary?”
The voice cuts through my secret-agent fantasy. I glance up toward the teller line—the row of counters where customers shuffle up to complain about fees, make deposits, or glare at us like we personally printed their overdraft notice.
Mrs. Johnson stands there, clutching a wrinkled check in one hand and her enormous floral purse in the other. Seventy-something, sharp eyes, hair in a perm that probably hasn’t changed since Nixon. She’s been coming here for years, always calling me “dear” like I’m her granddaughter who needs fattening up.
“Could you help me with this deposit?” she asks, her voice carrying that patented brand of elderly impatience. “The machine keeps rejecting my check.”
