My date smirks, swirling his wine and gauging my post-meal satisfaction. “Everything is good here. They have the best chefs from all over the world. You’ll enjoy your stay.”
Beck has used my father’s services several times over the years, and he’s a respected La Lune Noire member with his own business here. He was my in. He’s good-looking, in his late thirties, and has a decent personality, so he’s not a bad companion for a job.
He can only stay a week though, so I’ll need to form other bonds that make my staying logical within that time. Missions like this are the polar opposite of brief ones. Usually, my goal is to be invisible. Here, I need to become a trusted staple. It’s a disguise either way, I guess.
I drink in the atmosphere. It’s an impressive restaurant in all aspects. The authentic Italian fare is heavenly. The architecture is imposing—soaring ceiling, twenty-foot glass walls overlooking the city, wood beams, and marble finishes. The ambience ismajestic yet cozy with the candlelit tables and roaring fires. But at the end of the day, an upscale Italian eatery is a dime a dozen.
It’s the rest of the resort that has me enthralled with the opulent 1920s vibes—coded entries and covert passageways. Gilded privilege. As a guest, I’m not permitted to accompany Beck everywhere, and that alone has me salivating for a deeper peek. Brilliant. They don’t just fill a niche for their members in regard to a safe harbor and refueling station. They spoil them with prestige and exclusivity until they’re drunk on the power.
Which is why, as I let my favorite wine wash over my taste buds, the authenticity of my response burrows into my depths. “I’m looking forward to it.”
My burner buzzes inside my clutch, but I don’t bother checking it. It’s likely my father. He must have found out I’m here. Tripp wasted no time sending me on my way, and I had no objections to the speedy turn of events. I’m still far from home and essentially alone in the world, but La Lune Noire offers a thirst-quenching mirage. Illusions are all we really have.
When my sixth sense tingles, I flick my gaze to the entrance, and my pulse ratchets higher. Even in the intimate glow of the restaurant, I recognize him from the file I studied and the pictures throughout the resort. Impeccably styled ash-brown hair. Sapphire eyes that harbor the coldhearted calculation of a duplicitous godfather and the pride and warmth of a family man—a stark contrast to his roots. His custom-made power suit is a slave to the six-foot-four-and-a-half sculpted physique commanding it. His sharp features, smooth golden-beige skin, and neatly trimmed scruff showcase stoicism and downplay his forty years.
And his resolve is unwavering. Axel Noire is here for something other than the cuisine.
There’s only one way to find out if it’s me.
Folding my napkin, I place it on the tablecloth, slide my chair out, and grab my purse. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to freshen up.”
“Of course.” Beck’s gaze skates across the entrance. “Shall I hold him?”
He’s asking if I’m ready for an introduction. I am, but it’s imperative that I determine how much Mr. Noire wants one with me. I’m sure he introduces himself to any member’s guest, but it’s doubtful that he seeks them out, unless membership or red-flag concerns are involved. Neither should apply to me right now, but I received an odd greeting at check-in, so I need to find out if he’ll mill around until I return.
“Only organically.” I rub his shoulder in a gesture of adoration that a date would use as I pass. “I won’t be long.”
The restroom is grand, like everything else here—amber lighting, high-end finishes, the Rat Pack’s top hits filtering through the speakers. There are even gun holders in the stalls. These are my people. Objectively speaking, assassins don’t have people. We are loners, trusting no one. Because no one is trustworthy. But other than the training camp that my father runs, which houses and schools countless assassins, I haven’t felt a sense of camaraderie since I was a child. The fact that this establishment caters to anyone willing to dabble in the dark side is that much more intriguing.
It does make me wonder how my mother got mixed up here enough to lose her life. Aside from standing beside my father, this wasn’t her scene.
I quickly pee in the last stall, listening to the comings and goings of other patrons and the hush that befalls seconds before I straighten my black silk cocktail dress. Opening the stall door, I sashay to the sink, my eyes fixed on the mirror and locking on the sapphires soaking me in from the only entry point.
“This is the women’s. Did you get turned around?”
His lips draw up on one corner as he leans against the wall in lazy confidence, one hand in his pocket, ankles crossed, motivations … conflicted. “The most breathtaking views often arrive on the paths we didn’t expect to take.”
I set my clutch on the marble countertop, waving my palm beneath the soap dispenser and watching him in the reflection. “That’s deep, considering we’re in a restroom.”
“Maybe I’m a poet. If that were the case, then my pensive outlook would follow me anywhere. We are who we are, no matter the backdrop.” He appears to be saying more between his words than with them.
I could tell him I don’t relate to that, and yet I also feel the veracity of that statement in my marrow, but this isn’t the place for revelations. “So, are you a poet?”
“Not exactly.” He chuckles, glancing briefly at his watch, which is far more of a statement piece than a timekeeper. “I’m in hospitality.”
“Ahh … so, this is”—I make a show of swinging my attention all over the restroom while I finish washing—“you being hospitable?”
“This is me enjoying the breathtaking view.” Amid that debonair mystique, something I can’t quite discern shadows his features—a rarity for me—but he reins it in. “And what do you do, Miss …”
He pushes off the wall, pacing behind me as if he were out for an afternoon stroll, with all the air of a man from another era—imperial and charming and the kind of lofty machismo displayed in old Hollywood by Cary Grant or Clark Gable. In the ladies’ room.
Maybe he wants to see if I’ll bolt. I won’t.
“Zara,” I say, snatching a paper towel and never taking my eyes off him.
“Do you have a last name, Zara?”
My stomach flutters at the sound of my name on his lips. Did he intend for it to sound so seductive? Like,Get on your knees, Zara. Crawl to me, Zara. You like the pain, don’t you, Zara?
