TWO
verdict
Pippa
Thursday Evening, Day 1
The moment Enzo Luciano disappears into the swirl of bodies and bourbon, my pulse spikes like a warning flare. That wasn’t a casual introduction. That was a power play—smooth, deliberate, dangerous. And for one dizzy second, it worked.
It wasn’t his muscular frame, the sharp suit, the chiseled jaw, or the way his voice dragged over my name like soulful jazz. No, of course not—I don’t let men affect me like that. The issue was his presence. He wanted me to know I was on his radar. Andfuck, that is a problem.
I knew who he was before his little introduction. Of course I did. We’ve got files on every mafia boss in the Americas and Eastern Europe, and Enzo Luciano’s file is as thick as they come. But nothing could have prepared me for the reality of him. Too tall, too close, too encompassing, and way too focused on me.
We’ve made it a point to not cross paths with men like him.Staying off the radar of the mafia bosses is half the job, but McCarter insisted on coming here tonight. In a place this size, I assumed I could go unnoticed. So why the hell did it feel like he just zeroed in on me like I was his mark?
I excuse myself with a polite smile and some throwaway line about “freshening up.” The Speaker barely notices. I could tell him I’m stepping out to join his wife for an orgy, and he’d just smile and adjust his cufflinks. The man is basically deaf and still recovering from a recent stroke. How men of his age and health are allowed to run this country, I’ll never understand.
The second I hit the hallway, I ditch the smile. My heels echo against the marble tiles on my way to the private bathroom tucked behind the wine walls on display. As soon as the door closes, I press two fingers to the tiny mic tucked under my hairline, ensuring it’s still in place. I then move my fingers further down my hairline, feeling the faint ridge where the tracker sits. Small as a grain of rice, big enough to find a sister in trouble.
“Code Janice,” I whisper.
The crackle of the device fills my ear briefly.
“Talk to me,” Jules cuts in, voice low and steady.
I lean over the sink, staring down at my trembling fingers. “What do you make of that interaction with Luciano?”
“Okay, yeah. That was unexpected,” Luna says, voice light but laced with concern. “Enzo Luciano isn’t known for making small talk with strangers. Especially not when they’re sitting with the Speaker of the House, who isdefinitelyon his client roster. I can’t imagine they are supposed to be seen together in public.”
Luna verbally processes. Usually, it’s helpful. Right now, I feel like she’s pointing out all the reasons for me to be worried, spiking my anxiety.
“But,” Luna continues, “he didn’t challenge you or make a scene. He pretended not to know McCarter. To be honest, he seemed a bit strained. Probably flustered by your swagger.”
“I told you that jumpsuit was a power move,” Jules jokes. “The man looked like he forgot how to breathe.”
The air feels heavier when I exhale, like it now carries everything I’ve been holding in. Enzo Luciano unnerved me and I can’t pinpoint why. “You think I should abort?”
“No,” Jules says sharply. “He’s got your last name and a gut feeling. That’s not enough. And Luna has eyes on him; he’s already left. I’ve got eyes on McCarter. Everything is going as planned.”
“And the tox panel will be clean—you made the compound yourself,” Luna reminds me. “We’ve run every angle. McCarter’s heart failure won’t happen for a week, and it will look textbook.”
“This is our best shot. Getting back on McCarter’s calendar will be suspicious.” Jules is firmer. “It’s taken almost a year to get this kind of unfettered access to him. Plus, the gala is only a month away.”
Fuck, she’s right. I know she’s right. It’s not like me to second-guess a plan, especially not mid-op like this. I take a few deep breaths. Slow. Measured. I run cold water over my wrists to cool my temperature. Collected, I look up into the mirror and square my shoulders. I’m not letting some GQ mobster shake me with a lingering handshake and eye contact.I’m Pippa fucking Saint James.
“Copy that,” I whisper. “Going back in.”
A pep talk from my sisters was exactly what I needed. My center of gravity snaps back in place. Nothing about tonight will trace back to us. It never does. We’re too careful about that.
He just got under my skin. That’s all it is—too much intensity in those dark eyes, too much heat in that look. Probably just his damn dangerous bad-boy look wrapped in a well-tailored suit. Every woman’s wet dream, mine included.
I return to the bar, calm disguise firmly back in place. “Ready to get out of here?” I ask. I slip my hand onto McCarter’s armwith a level of comfort that makes us look way more intimate than we really are.
He downs the last of his drink and stands. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Hotel’s just around the corner,” I say, practiced and effortless.
“Convenient,” he mutters with a smirk, following my lead.
