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Most people with enough empathy to build a bond with a mark don’t have the stomach to do it long term.

I try to lean into the person I was with her, the person she is.

Matteo: What’s if all the women involved are willing participants?

Jamie: What if all the women involved are villainesses?

Matteo: No one uses the word villainess.

Jamie: You mean you don’t fuck yourself groaning, ‘why does that villainess still have her hooks in me?’

Matteo: I prefer ‘damn, Jamie, I love to watch you come.” It’s simple.

I can almost see her smile turn to frustration.

She brings up sex to distract me.

She’s forgotten how much I love to wait.

How much I love the build up.

And I’ve forgotten how fucking fun this is.

That’s what she wants too. She wants to stay engaged. I counter with something that fits her to a T.

Jamie: Are you sure you’re up for this, Mattie? You do know what people do at these parties?

Matteo: Plant daisies?

Jamie: Touche. Until then, baby.

Friday, I fly to Barcelona, slip into a sleek luxury car, and pick up Jamie at our hotel.

The second she slides into the space, in a tight black dress, my heart thuds against my chest.

Jamie in full on femme fatale mode.

It’s straight out of my fantasies.

My eyes trace the lines of the fabric. The thin straps. The corset top. The snug skirt. Those long, strong legs.

She rolls up the divider and rests her hand on top of mine.

Part of our cover.

And something else. Something I can’t explain.

I stay on task. “Any word?”

“A few trips planned. But they could mean anything. Elena has a vegan lover she meets in Berlin. Another agent is in Prague. Amsterdam for a third.”

“Do you trust that?” I ask.

“There’s not a lot of trust in my organization,” she says.

“Hard to trust someone who’d kill you for a hundred thousand dollars.”

“What would it take for you?” she asks. “What price? What threat against your family?”