“This is why they took both of us,” she said after another moment of studying the blueprints. “They knew we’d need to create an alternate access point.”
“They want me to blow a hole between floors,” Dom concluded, tracing a line from 237 down through the third level to 485. “From yours into Strauss’s.”
“And do it quietly enough not to trigger the seismic sensors embedded in the bedrock,” she added.
He grinned. He couldn’t help it. “I love a challenge.” And the adrenaline rush that came with being handed a technical problem everyone said was impossible, and then making it look easy.
Vivi’s expression said she didn’t share his enthusiasm. “It’s not a game, Dominic.”
He sobered. “I know that.”
“Do you?”
The question shouldn’t sting. After all, he’d always been the wildest of his brothers. While Davey was the responsible firstborn, and Elliot was the typical middle child peacemaker, he’d embraced his duty to be the pain-in-the-ass youngest. He was the family joker. The troublemaker. The reckless one. And he’d spent years pretending that was all he was, because it was easier than admitting how much he actually cared. About the work. About the people he was protecting. About her.
“I know what’s at stake,” he said, quieter.
She studied him for a moment, like she was deciding whether to believe him. Then she turned back to the blueprints.
“The seismic sensors are the real problem,” she said. “Villa Pandora has been in operation for thirty years. Stavros—the man who runs it—built the security infrastructure himself, layer by layer. He knows every weakness in the system because he patched every one. Which is why we need to know this place inside and out before we go in.” She picked up one of the tablets and scrolled through more detailed security specifications. “The good news is, Villa Pandora operates on discretion. They don’t ask questions, don’t examine what clients bring in or take out,and they maintain a strict hands-off approach as long as you follow their protocols.”
Dom moved around the table, coming to stand next to her so he could see the tablet screen. The proximity was a mistake. Her scent hit him—that familiar jasmine mixed with something dark and uniquely her—and suddenly he wasn’t thinking about security systems or demolition charges.
He was thinking about last night. How she’d slept six inches away. How he’d lain there listening to her breathe, remembering every curve of her body, every sound she made when he touched her. How much he wanted to bridge that gap between them, even knowing it was the last thing she wanted.
He must have been staring because she stopped mid-sentence and looked up at him, one eyebrow raised.
“Something interesting, Wilde?”
“Yeah,” he said before he could stop himself. “You.”
Her eyes darkened slightly, pupils dilating, and her throat worked as she swallowed. For a moment—just a moment—the prickly armor cracked, and he glimpsed the woman underneath, the one who had once looked at him like he was everything she’d ever wanted.
Then her gaze flicked to one of the cameras in the corner, its red eye watching steadily, and the armor slid back into place.
“Focus, Dominic.” She turned back to the blueprints. “We don’t have time for distractions.”
But her voice had softened just slightly, and when she leaned over the table to point out another security feature, she stood close enough that their arms brushed. The contact was brief, probably accidental, but it sent electricity racing up his spine.
The cameras were watching. Praetorian was watching. But in that moment, Dom didn’t care. Because for the first time in three years, he felt like they might find their way back to something that wasn’t just anger and regret.
If they survived the next seven days.
eight
Vivi staredat her reflection in the tinted window of the SUV as it wound through narrow streets. Her face betrayed nothing—perfect mask in place, just as she’d been taught. Inside, her heart slammed against her ribs like it was trying to break free. She’d seen Sabin hurt before—bloody knuckles from a fight, a broken arm from a job gone wrong in Prague, the scar above his eyebrow from their first heist when he was seventeen. But never like the man in that video feed, zip-tied to a chair with a knife at his throat. She closed her eyes briefly, exhaled long and slow, then opened them. She couldn’t afford emotions right now. Emotions made you sloppy, and sloppy got you—or your brother—killed.
“You okay?” Dom asked from beside her, his voice low.
“I’m fine.” She touched the lock pick hidden in the sleeve of her shirt, reassuring herself that it was still there. She’d palmed it from the kit that morning while Dom was in the shower, slipping it into a pocket in her sleeve. Small enough not to set off any metal detectors, strong enough to give Sabin a fighting chance if an opportunity presented itself. It wasn’t much. But it was something.
She wasn’t worried about anyone finding it, even if they patted her down or scanned her. Hiding tools in clothes was her specialty, and every dress, every outfit had invisible pockets. Most of the women who bought her designs liked the pockets for lipstick, tampons, or credit cards. Not her. She used them for the tools of her trade.
Or former trade.
Dom seemed to understand she didn’t want to talk. He turned his attention back to the road, watching every turn, every landmark. Memorizing the route. Always the soldier, always cataloging escape routes and threats. Once, she’d found that comforting.
The SUV slowed as they approached a nondescript warehouse building, its concrete façade weathered by salt air and time. Nothing about it suggested a Praetorian black site—no guards visible outside, no cameras she could spot. But she knew better. The most dangerous places often looked the most innocent.
