Page 54 of The Rook’s Obsession

“Then I’ll be relying on the fact that this particular member hasn’t visited in over six months, and the staff turns over frequently. Gabriel confirmed that. The door security checks credentials, not faces.” I pause and shrug. “It’s not airtight, but it’s the best we’ve got on short notice.”

She considers this. I can practically see her running scenarios in her head the way I’ve watched her do a dozen times now. Testing the weak points. Probing for the gap that could get one of us killed. After a few seconds, she nods. “It’ll work. Just don’t volunteer information. Hand over the credentials, keep your head down, let them lead you in. Men who frequent places like this don’t make small talk with the staff.”

Rather than remind her this isn’t my first job, I settle for nodding. “Noted.”

“I’ll go through the staff entrance thirty minutes before you. That gives me time to get situated and make sure the room is accessible before Vincenzo arrives.” She pushes off the desk and moves to the clothing rack, fingers walking through the hangers. “Gabriel said Vincenzo uses the same room every Thursday. That means there’s a setup routine. Someone prepares the room for him. If I position myself as part of that routine, I have access before he ever walks through the front door.”

“And the camera?”

She reaches into another drawer and holds up something no bigger than a shirt button. “Pinhole. Streams to a secure feed I can access remotely. He’ll never notice it if I place it somewhere on my outfit.”

She thinks of everything. Every angle and contingency. It occurs to me, not for the first time, that if Vincenzo had aimed her in any other direction, she’d be running entire operations by now. Instead, she spent years being someone else’s weapon to use as he chose.

The thought makes me want to put a fist through the wall.

“The team Liam sent is set up at a rental property eight minutes from the club,” I tell her. “Four men, two vehicles. They’ll monitor the exterior and the street. If anything goes sideways, they can be at the staff entrance in under two minutes.”

“Nothing is going to go sideways.”

“Humor me.”

The look she offers is the one that means she’s deciding whether to be annoyed or amused. She settles somewhere in between. “Fine. Eight minutes. Two vehicles. I feel very protected.”

“You should. Liam insisted on it, and when Liam insists on something⁠—”

“It happens. I’m getting that.” She pulls a garment bag from the far end of the rack and unzips it partway, checking the contents without giving me a glimpse of what’s inside. Whatever she sees satisfies her. She zips it back up and drapes it over the desk chair. “I need to get ready. This is going to take a while.”

“How long is ‘a while’?”

“Long enough for you to make yourself useful and go over the building layout one more time.” She nods toward a folder on the desk—Gabriel’s intel, printed and annotated in her handwriting. Notes in the margins, arrows, circled points of entry. She’s already been through it more than once on the jet. Anything to distract herself from flying, I guess. “There’s a second exit on the east side that Gabriel didn’t mention. I found it on the city’s building permits. Fire escape, exterior stairwell. It’s worth knowing about.”

Of course she found something Gabriel missed. I pick up the folder and settle into the chair by the window while she disappears into the small bedroom with the garment bag and closes the door.

I go through the layout. Memorize the corridors. Trace the route from the main entrance to Vincenzo’s preferred room, then from the staff entrance to the same room, then from both to every exit. I mark the second stairwell she found. Calculate the distance from there to the street where Liam’s team will be parked. I do it twice, and then again, because repetition is the difference between panic and muscle memory when things go wrong.

Things aren’t going to go wrong, but I prepare like they will because that’s what keeps people alive.

The bedroom door opens.

I look up from the folder, and for about three full seconds, I forget what I was doing.

She’s transformed. The shoulder-length black hair has been replaced by a dark auburn wig that falls past her shoulders in loose waves. Her makeup is different—heavier, more dramatic, the kind that changes the geometry of a face. Her eyes are larger, her cheekbones sharper. She’s wearing a black corset that cinches her waist and pushes everything else into territory I’m trying very hard not to stare at, paired with a skirt that’s more of a suggestion than an actual garment. Sheer stockings, heels that add three inches to her height.

She looks like a different woman. That’s the point. She also looks…

I have to set the folder down before I crush it.

“Well?” She turns once, slowly, with her arms held slightly out from her sides. Showing me the full picture. Professional. Checking her work the way she checks everything else.

“It works,” I choke out.

“Just ‘works’?”

“It’s very convincing.”

The corner of her mouth lifts. She knows exactly what she’s doing to me, and under any other circumstances, I would enjoy the fact that she’s enjoying it. Right now, knowing where she’s about to go dressed like that, knowing what the role requires? It’s doing something to me I’d rather not take the time to examine considering the circumstances.

“How many times,” I ask, keeping my voice level, “have you done this?”