PROLOGUE
NAIROBI CRAWFORD
TWO MONTHS AFTER NEW YORK
Hunter Barlowealways started his nights at the lobby bar of the Setai, where he was staying in a penthouse suite he couldn’t actually afford. I walked in one afternoon straight off the beach, skin sun kissed, hair wet, and unbothered. I sat at the bar in a sheer dress that showed off my bikini underneath and pretended not to notice him clocking me while I sipped my martini.
That first day, he tried more than once to get me back to his suite, but I couldn’t give it up that easily. He needed to feel like he’d earned something. So, I gave him my number and amaybe.
Then I ghosted him.
He blew up my phone as I expected him to. Desperation made men careless, and careless men made mistakes.
Two nights later, I finally agreed to see him again.
He took me to some overpriced omakase spot he couldn’t pronounce, acting like the price tag should’ve impressed me. I drank just enough, laughed at his corny jokes, letting my hand linger on his thigh. With every drink, he loosened up, and by the time he suggested we go back to his suite, he was stumbling and slurring compliments.
This was the part I hated—the patience that all of this required. Letting his hands touch me when they hadn’t earned the right, feigning familiarity because I needed him comfortable. Power didn’t always come from force. There was a certain finesse needed to be an effective honey trap. You had to know how to endure and when to strike.
“You ever think about consequences, Hunter?” I asked.
His suite was exactly what you’d expect for $2,500 a night.
I walked over to the huge windows overlooking the beach. He’d left the sliding door cracked enough to let the ocean air in. On the far end of the suite was a wet bar on the far end of the suite stocked with bottles I recognized and a few I didn’t.
Then my eyes landed on the small bag of coke on the coffee table.
He swayed slightly. “What?”
I made my way to the couch and sat, crossing my legs. “Everything we do comes at a price. Good, bad, doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m one of yours.”
Hunter had clearly forgotten that he’d crossed Messiah Lawson, one of the biggest gunrunners out of New York. Messiah wasn’t the type to let some arrogant trust-fund baby embarrass him and live to tell it.
He stumbled over to me and laughed. “Mina, what the hell are you talking about? You’re not making any sense.”
I reached into my thigh holster and pulled a syringe free as he dropped onto the cushion next to me. The needle was in his neck before he could speak again.
He gasped, eyes going wide for a split second before his body went slack.
I gave it five minutes, watching the rise and fall of his chest turn into shallow, even breaths. Then I dragged him into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stripped him down to his boxers, making sure to set the coke from the table on the sink.
I slit his wrist and left the knife in his dominant hand.
A suicide made sense for someone like Hunter. He was already in a shit ton of debt with several big players outside of Messiah breathing down his neck. Honestly, his family would probably be relieved.
I wiped my prints from the blade and did a thorough sweep of the suite, running a cloth over every surface twice before I left.
baby’s sleeping.
Parker
the rest of your fee will be deposited in 24 hours.
I slid my heels back on and left the hotel like there wasn’t a man bleeding out in the shower upstairs.
An hour later, I pulled into the driveway of the rental I was calling home. I yawned as I put the Rivian in park and grabbed my bag from the passenger seat.
The house was cozy—fully furnished with three bedrooms and a gated backyard complete with a pool. Its elderly owners only came down during the holidays, so it sat empty for most of the year.
