“Do we have a next of kin for notification?”
“That is where things get … complicated. The cardiac arrest occurred while he was drinking the herbal tea that he had sent up to him every morning. Therefore, I’m not sure an autopsy would return what we want regarding other parties.”
What we want?
“I’m not follow—” I cut myself off because Shep was a closer, tasked with killing other assassins. “Or I am.”
“I suspect you are, and so the missing piece is sitting beside me. She claims to have no knowledge of any of this, of course. The bug was found in my office, and to be fair, Shep stopped by to see me last night. But … there are other things. I’m sending you the questionable evidence.”
“Got it,” I inform him a minute later.
Ignoring the weight of my brothers’ intrigue, I peruse what we have, which isn’t much. Except my little Thorn hugging Shep in the lobby and spilling shit all over the computer in the dress boutique, along with other questionable behavior. There was also an odd kitchen delivery to Bernard’s office that he claims he didn’t order.
I’m sure if we dug, we’d find more, especially whatever was pulled up on Amy’s computer, but …
“What does she have to say?”
“Just that it is a sad day because Shep was one of the best,” Bernard drawls, and it’s doubtful that Zara can decipher the humor in his dry bravado, but I know the man, and it’s there.
She grew on him by circumventing our regulations and feigning sympathy. That should irk me, but seeing as he’s the most distinguished staple of La Lune Noire—outside of those who carry the name—that appreciation for cunning tactics comes with the position.
“Put her on, please,” I order before deciding that I’d like him to remain present. “You can leave her on speaker.”
By the shift in the background noise, it’s clear he does.
“Hello, Mr. Noire.” Even from that brief address, it’s evident she’s in a mood, so the smart-ass follow-up isn’t shocking. “I am so sorry for your loss.”
Skipping the niceties, I jump right in. “Am I to believe you’re innocent?”
“That is a broad question. Are any of us innocent?” A hushed grunt befalls her, and because I’ve come to understand her, I realize she’s distressed more than this rigid facade she’s presenting would suggest. “You are to believe that I’m a survivor; that I am doing my job, as you instructed me to do; that I ascertained a situation. But those things aside, I cannot be sure what occurred in another person’s body any more than you can.”
By alluding to what she did, she’s trusting me, knowing the penalty for this is death at La Lune Noire. Although technically, she’s not a member. She is an employee, and there is one clause that permits them to act—if they are unduly threatened. That’s in place because they are the weaker party compared to our members, which doesn’t apply to Zara. Apart from that, her authenticity feels like a gift.
I push forward, if only for the sake of proving to myself that I’m capable of doing my goddamn job while she has me wrappedaround her finger. “A member, whom you greeted, whom you knew, who was here on business to—”
“Surveil you, it seems.” She purrs a murmur of contemplation. “Perhaps you should consider this your lucky day. Who knows what he could have heard?”
Yep. She planted the bug to frame Shep. And poisoned him with his morning tea ritual. All from the La Lune Noire kitchen. But she isn’t heartless. She knew him. So, she deemed it necessary.
“Take me off speaker,” I demand, not because I don’t trust Bernard, but because I need her to have faith in me. Once I hear the change in the background, I cut through the bullshit. “How bad is it?”
“Anticipated failure,” she answers easily, meaning her client has lost confidence in her.
“How did you know?”
“I saved his life once.” There’s a heartbreaking inflection in that reveal, and it gains a foothold with the next. “That was seven years ago, so I … I gave him seven years.”
He warned her, somehow, to repay his debt. It’s a tacit honor system in the assassin world. That hug they shared—he must have dropped a hint, assuming she’d run and he’d afford her the head start. Since he knew violence was prohibited on property, he underestimated her gumption to strike there. But with her being caged at the resort and having the owner spellbound, why wouldn’t she?
This is why I instructed her to do her job, to keep them appeased. These things tend to escalate quickly if a client isn’t reaping the return they prefer. She’s either coming up empty or sitting on intel because she’s conflicted.
“Have you spoken to your handler?” I ask, staring out the window at the darkening night to track our descent and avoid the glaring intrigue of my brothers.
She huffs with a patent reminder that our bridge of reliance is flimsy. “I’m not sure I should answer that. It’s best to trust no one. Right?”
I’m wounded that we’re still so far from being allies when I feel like she’s mine to protect, with every part of me, no matter what she’s done, but I keep it professional. “You are making it difficult for me to do my job.”
“Well”—she lingers on the word, teasing the brattiness of her retort—“you made it nearly impossible for me to do mine. Nearly.”
