I'm playing the game.
And I'm going to win.
CHAPTER 7
Saint
The gallery is quiet at two in the morning.
I move through the shadows, using the intel Gemma gave me. The blind spots in the cameras. The guard rotation schedule. The access codes for the climate-controlled basement.
Everything she told me is accurate. Down to the fucking detail.
The guard, Seth, according to the name tag, is exactly where she said he'd be. Back entrance, smoking a cigarette on his break.
He doesn't hear me coming.
One quick motion. The knife slides between his ribs, angled up toward the heart. He makes a sound, surprise more than pain, and then goes limp.
I lower him to the ground, wipe the blade clean. I probably could have knocked him out, but I like to send a message. Plus, if Adrian is anything like me, he’d kill the guy on principle. So really, I was doing him a favor.
Not that I need to justify myself.
I don’t operate that way.
Inside, I use Gemma's codes. The vault door opens with a satisfying click.
I don't take anything. That's not the point. Instead, I pull out the Morozov family crest I brought, a perfect replica, and paint it in blood across the vault door. It’s a little dramatic, but the Morozov are flashy.
I'm back in the car by two-thirty, adrenaline still pumping. The whole operation took less than twenty minutes.
Perfect. Clean.
I couldn’t have done it without Gemma. That does something to me.
I'm halfway to my penthouse in the city when my phone rings. Antonio.
"We need to talk," he says. No preamble.
"Now?"
"Now."
I turn the car around, head to the compound. Find Antonio in his study, looking older than I've seen him in months.
"What's wrong?" There’s no way my uncle would call me this late at night unless it was bad.
And it’s not Gemma. Lyla assured me she went to bed hours ago.
No, something else is going on.
He pours two glasses of scotch. Hands me one. I feel antsy. "The cancer's back."
The words hit like a punch. "What?"
"Stage four. Pancreatic.” He takes a drink. "Doctors give me six months. Maybe less." He chuckles. “I don’t plan to die in hospice, so that time is likely shorter.”
I set my glass down, trying to process. "There has to be treatment?—"
