I plant the last two micro-cameras in the far corners of the room, blending the black lenses flawlessly into the dark shadows of the bookshelves.
I walk back to the center table and look at Iris.
“Come here,” I command.
She steps closer. I pull a tiny, flat microphone, no larger than a dime, from the protective foam of the case. It’s attached to a strip of clear medical-grade adhesive.
“Lift your shirt,” I say.
She pulls the hem of the oversized T-shirt up to her collarbone, exposing the soft skin of her stomach and the bottom edge of her lace bra. I step firmly into her space, my boots bracketing hers on the rug.
I peel the backing off the adhesive and press the microphone directly to the bare skin in the center of her chest.
As I press it down, my calloused knuckles graze the warm, rising slope of her bare breast. Beneath my fingers, I feel the rapid, terrified thud of her heart hammering against her ribcage.
She said she was steady in the car. Her eyes are perfectly cold. But she is terrified.
I smooth the tape down, making sure the wire is secure, and let my hand rest flat against her bare chest, covering her racing heart.
“Your heart is beating fast,” I murmur, looking down into her wide blue eyes.
“He’s my father, Cassian,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “I’m about to stand in an empty room and bait the man who read me bedtime stories into admitting he paid mercenaries to storm an estate, fully accepting I would die in the crossfire. I’m allowed to be a little anxious.”
I slide my hand up from her warm chest and reach behind her back. Slipping my fingers under the hem of her shirt, I feel for the hard, cold steel of the SIG tucked securely into the waistband of her tactical pants, and brush my thumb over the safety to ensure it’s ready.
I pull my hand away, wrapping my fingers gently around the back of her neck, careful not to press on the fading bruise I left there days ago. She lets me guide her forward until her forehead rests heavily against my chest.
“We can walk away,” I tell her, the truth of the words surprising even me.
The Ghost doesn’t walk away from targets. The Don doesn’t leave loose ends. But holding her right now, feeling her slender frame tremble against me, I realize I’m completely willing to throw the entire operation, the Ledger, and my revenge into the fire if it means keeping her safe.
“I can take you out to the car right now,” I vow. “We drive to the private airfield. We get on my jet, and we completely disappear. You don’t ever have to face him.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. She grips my T-shirt, twisting the fabric in her fists.
Then, she pulls her head back. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears, but the absolute resolve burning in them is unbreakable.
“No,” she says.
“Iris—”
“No,” she repeats, her voice hardening, freezing the tears before they can fall. “If we run, I spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I need to do this, Cassian. Or I will never be free of him.”
I stare at her. She was raised in a glass house, meticulously taught to be fragile and obedient, and yet she possesses a spine made of steel.
“Okay,” I say softly.
I pull her T-shirt back down, completely hiding the wire on her chest and the gun at her back.
“Varro,” I say into the comms. “Audio check.”
“Loud and clear,” Varro’s voice responds instantly in my earpiece. “I can hear her breathing. Video feeds are active and clean. The room looks completely empty on the monitors.”
“Keep the line dark unless there is a physical breach,” I order.
“Copy that. Boss... target vehicle is approaching the outer perimeter. Black Mercedes town car. Four occupants: driver, Hale, and two men in the rear. It’s him.”
“Any NYPD escort vehicles?” I ask, my hand instinctively dropping to the grip of my SIG.
