"What is he saying?" I ask, holding myself back in an effort not to look too eager. "Did he change his mind? Is he backing down?"
We drift from shelf to shelf, holding up a shirt here or a skirt there for the other to look at, pretending intimacy, close enough to share warmth, far enough to keep secrets. Her perfume is subtle. Expensive. Controlled. She tilts her head towardme, sympathy carefully calibrated, shaking her head slowly, compassion settling into place like a practiced expression. "I'm afraid not. He's determined not to allow anybody to blackmail him. Your father is a very stern man."
Yeah, I think. Don't I know that. I study her for a beat longer than politeness allows, deciding to be direct, "So why are you here? What do you think you can do for me?"
Marianne takes my hands. I notice Max inching closer. "Whatever you need," she promises smoothly. "Information. Discretion. I can arrange a safe place for you to stay, if you're feeling… uncertain."
Safe from whom?She doesn't say it out loud, but the implication hangs there, heavy. Massimo.
"Anything," she adds. "I want to help."
I tilt my head, mirroring her posture. Matching her tone.
"Can you find me men," I ask evenly, "to get Amauri and Carter out of Venezuela?"
Her reaction is too quick, like she's been waiting for this exact question. "Of course. I know just the right men."
Unease settles through me. I'm not sure how to respond. I wasn't prepared for that answer, so quickly. My pulse spikes at the thought that maybe I can turn this around and be the one who gets Amauri out. As if sensing my apprehension, she leans in, lowering her voice like she's sharing a secret meant only for me. "Why don't you come with me and meet them in person?"
Something cold slides down my spine. There it is. Not rushed. Not forceful. No grabbing, no threat. Just the promise of solutions and the suggestion of movement. Get her isolated. Get her off familiar ground. Away from witnesses. Away from security. Away from control. Textbook.
I've seen it before, not like this, not dressed up in silk and concern, but the mechanics are the same. Offer help. Create urgency. Make staying feel unreasonable. Leaving feel logical.My pulse kicks hard, but my face stays smooth. Because this isn't panic territory yet. This is a confirmation. Marianne never wanted to help me; she is still and always will be loyal only to my father. She's here by his orders to get me out. It shouldn't bother me that he's not coming himself. I should be used to it. But there is still a small part inside me that slightly stings.
I don't even have a chance to come up with a response before everything goes wrong. Not loudly. Not like it did when they stormed my house. Right now, it's just a shift. The boutique doors don't slam open. They open normally. Too normal. Two men step inside, wrong clothes for the room, wrong posture for shoppers. Their eyes don't wander. They don't browse. They lock. On me. My blood turns to ice. Max moves before my brain catches up. His hand clamps around my elbow, not yanking, not panicked, controlled. Protective. Already pivoting my body, already angling me away from the mirrors, the exits, the glass.
"Now," he says quietly into my ear.
One of the men reaches inside his jacket, and that's when everything explodes. A sales associate screams. Glass shatters. People scatter, shrieking, bodies colliding as panic detonates through the boutique. One of the men lunges, not at Max. At me. Shouting something in the same language I heard at my house. Something inside me snaps, and in that instant, I see them as the men who took my son. I don't think. I don't hesitate. I grab the first thing within reach—a heavy marble display base—and swing with everything I have. It connects with a wet, sickening crack against the man's head. He goes down hard, collapsing like his strings were cut. Blood splashes across the pristine floor. For half a second, I just stand there, chest heaving, staring at him. Max shoves me behind him as more gunfire erupts, sharp, deafening, and contained. More men flood the space like they were waiting for a signal. They move with purpose, no shouting, no hesitation. Guns up. Angles covered. It's surgical. Ruthless.The kind of response that tells me this wasn't luck. This was anticipated.
One of the attackers bolts. He crashes through a rack of dresses, silk tearing, hangers screaming as he barrels toward the back. Max brings his gun up in one smooth motion, already tracking the shot.
"No!" I'm on my feet before I realize it, grabbing his wrist and yanking it down. The gun discharges anyway—deafening, wild—shattering a mirror instead of a spine. Max whirls on me like I've just stabbed him. My hands are shaking. My heart is trying to break out of my chest. I shake my head, hard. "We need him alive."
A split second. Then it clicks. Understanding blooms behind his eyes, sharp and immediate. He snaps his head to the side. "Tony. Hawk. Get that bastard—alive."
Two men peel off instantly, sprinting after the fleeing assailants. He's trapped himself inside a forest of fabric, panic shredding his precision. Dresses whip aside as he thrashes, trying to hide where there is nowhere to go. Everything is happening too fast. Shouting. Crying. The smell of gunpowder and expensive perfume collides in my throat. I haven't even looked for Marianne yet?—
So I do. And my blood turns to ice. She's gone. Already halfway across the casino floor, slipping through a line of slot machines like she's done this before. A hand tight around her arm, guiding her forward with quiet urgency.
Sean.
Of course, it's Sean.
They don't look panicked. They look practiced. Coordinated. Like this wasn't the plan, but it was always an option. Max is at my side again in an instant, his eyes raking over me, searching for blood, for damage, for anything he missed. "Are you hit?"
"No," I breathe. "I'm fine."
It's true. Somehow. He checks me once more anyway, thorough, unyielding. Then his hand closes around my arm, not rough, not gentle. Certain. "Let's go."
I don't argue. I don't resist. I let him pull me away from the chaos, from the glass and the screams and the blood staining the boutique floor. While we move, one thought pounds louder than the rest: They came back for me. And now they know exactly where to find me.
Night in Caracas settles heavy,like a hand closing around a throat. The Valverde compound squats on the hillside below us, too large, too arrogant, all glass and water and artificial calm. A fortress dressed up as luxury. Mirrored pools reflecting lights meant to impress men who confuse excess with safety. Lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, or at least it was lit. Until Sasha triggered the EMP.
I don't hear it, but I feel it. A ripple through the air, subtle and violent at the same time. The kind of power you don't see but respect immediately. Every light across the estate dies in unison. Cameras blink out. The soft glow of security evaporates. Radios choke. Systems collapse. Blind. Just like that.
"Show-off," Oksana murmurs somewhere to my right.
Sasha smirks behind his mask. "I learned from the best."
