This is why assassins spiral. Guilt. Isolation. Our heartbeats counting down like a ticking bomb.
As the meeting kicks off and I ogle him in his charcoal-gray suit that highlights the vibrancy of his sapphire eyes, I’m brought back to yesterday. I was in the restroom when two of the executive assistants were whispering about Axel. And like any trained assassin—or woman secretly infatuated with the subject of the gossip—I immediately stood on the toilet, in case they were wise enough to check beneath the stall doors.
“You know how he is,” one said. “He’s always controlled, even when it comes to sex.”
A faucet turned on as the other replied, “Valid point. I heard he makes the women sign an NDA, never entertains someone more than once, and never kisses on the mouth.”
The first laughed—a tad sardonic. “It’s cold, but I don’t know. I could use a trip to the Arctic.”
They left, and that knowledge only enhanced my curiosity, craving, and fervent jealousy. Though, with my current assignment, it’s not looking good for even a one-night rendezvous.
“What are your thoughts, Zara?” Axel stares at me expectantly.
I blink a few times, wondering if he wanted to embarrass me because he knew I’d drifted off or if he really needs my input. We’re supposed to be discussing the legislation in the various countries where his other hospitality sites are located, so I do my best to muddle through.
“I’ve been researching the laws and any wiggle room we might have in each area. Some of the agreements already seem to have loopholes written in—”
“Exactly,” Owen breaks in, jumping to my rescue with a subtle wink. “That’s what I was telling Axel, but—”
“Was.” Axel’s gritty baritone issues that like a warning, his eyes never leaving mine. “You already answered, Owen. I’m speaking with Miss West now.”
The room grows deathly quiet. No one moves a muscle, aside from Mercy, who rolls her lips, like she’s about to burst.
You and me both.
I’m guessing Owen will be avoiding me from here on out.
The blood flow rushing against my eardrums whirs like a violent river. Axel’s gaze sweeps over me, searing my skin with impossible fantasies. My bra even attempts to disintegrate, my nipples hardening against the molten fabric. All from his stare.
It’s a far cry from the Arctic. More like the fires of hell. But, yeah, I get why women are willing to sign an NDA.
Despite the oppressive temperature of my clothing and my obstinate libido, I don’t falter. “I’m handling it. The biggest concern I have is what level of armory we’re willing to provide in the locations with steeper penalties—if that matters at all. And which dealers we will or will not work with. Once I know those details, I can compose a more concrete outline of available resources for each location.”
That information might be more confidential than he’s willing to share with me, but if he wants my input beyond basic translation, he’ll need to dive into it. He shouldn’t trust me, but I’m not here for information about arms dealing.
“Interesting.” He clicks his watch, spinning his wheel of chance before meeting my eyes again. “But my question was, do you think the demand is sufficient for the amenities we’ll be supplying to our clientele?”
Ah, missed that. He’s asking me as an assassin, not his translator.
“That’s where I was headed, Mr. Noire. While all the amenities will be of use to the clientele, those on the run—those who’ve botched a job, who’ve found themselves as the object of ahit rather than the one taking the mark, and who need to refuel—will be drawn in by how well we can restock them. If we have everything they need to reemerge on top—shelter, alliances, alibis, safe exit routes, and perhaps most importantly in some of those locations, weapons—no matter where they are, they’ll travel the extra mileage to reach us.”
“Excellent. The rest of you can sit tomorrow out. Zara and I will review dealers.” The sexiest grin seeps into his dark scruff, as if he’s proud of me for winging that, which has my stomach fluttering. “That’s precisely what we need—to be the ones they trust when their back is against the wall. Then they won’t turn on us.”
Sadly, that’s optimistic.
I’m all dolled up and at Noire Underground.
A few nights ago—the same day as my Oscar-worthy GIF performance—I had a drink here with Mercy and Tessa and watched the most ridiculous employee competition, No More. It was an out-of-body experience. The entire event was light and carefree—even though everyone in this place, staff included, belongs in the dark. It made me wonder if something like that was why my mother had ended up here. It was probably more the glitz and glamour, but regardless, something had drawn her in.
And annihilated her.
Tonight is the finals of the No More Competition, and as utterly stupid as it is, I couldn’t imagine missing it. This will be omitted in my report to Tripp tomorrow. As will the bathroom gossip and nearly everything I’ve learned during my stay.
Last time, they had a lot of contestants. It’s a bizarre take on a dance competition. Everyone started with the Charleston. Then someone shouted, “No more tempo,” and they slowed it down to an uncomfortable speed. So many people fumbled the steps with the slower rhythm that it eliminated several participants.
It got pretty crazy after that. The upbeat tempo was restored, but the panel of judges called out a new demand every so often.No more spinning. No more dancing solo. No more using your right hand.Surprisingly, many kept up, no matter what was thrown at them.
Now they’ve graduated to gluing the contestants’ shoes to the floor, so I’m not sure what to expect.
