CHAPTER 3

Lydia “LIL” Moretti’s eyes bore into mine through the vanity mirror, her reflection sharp and uncompromising. I carefully capped my obsidian lipstick, the shade matching the dark, utilitarian elegance I cultivated for tonight.

“It’s a high-stakes play, Zli,” LIL said, her voice dropping into that authoritative gravel that made even the Director of the FBI sit up straighter. “If the Crimson Dragons catch a whiff of a Camelot accountant in Club Ombra, they won’t just kill you. They’ll make it a message for the entire task force.”

I checked the weight of the tungsten ring hanging from the chain beneath my shirt—my sister Gina’s ring, the only thing they’d returned of hers. “Coming from the woman who once infiltrated a Neapolitan dock strike with nothing but a wire and a prayer? I’d introduce you to my friend Hypocrisy, but I’m pretty sure she’s already on your speed dial.”

LIL let out a dry, short huff, crossing her tailored arms over her chest. She looked every bit the mentor who had dragged me out of the CIA’s tactical wreckage and turned my mind into a weapon for the Financial Crimes Unit.

“I was younger and significantly more bulletproof then, Zlliot. Besides, Phoebe is worried. She’s been pacing the brownstone for an hour.”

“Phoebe is always worried,” I countered, sliding into my charcoal blazer. “She’s a brilliant analyst, but she thinks the world ends if a decimal point is out of place. This is a solo op. I need to be invisible, not part of a tactical squad.”

“Callum is on standby in the Hudson Valley,” she reminded me, her tone softening just a fraction. “One word, and he moves.”

“Callum can stay in the Valley. I don’t need a ‘big brother’ hovering over my shoulder while I’m trying to plant a sniffer on a mafia server.” I stood up, adjusting my cuffs. “I’m ‘Mike’ tonight. A bored trust-fund analyst with too much crypto and not enough common sense. It’s a role I was born to play.”

LIL’s gaze didn’t waver. “Just remember why we’re here. Don’t let the ghost of G.T. lead you into a trap you can’t calculate your way out of. Vengeance is a poor substitute for a conviction.”

“Vengeance is the only thing the Dragons understand, LIL. I’ll see you at the briefing.”

I left the Brooklyn brownstone with the city’s humid breath pressing against me. The subway ride into Lower Manhattan felt like a descent. By the time I reached the entrance of Club Ombra, the neon-crimson lights were bleeding onto the rain-slicked pavement.

I took a seat at the bar, the music a low, vibrating thrum that rattled my teeth. I ordered a black plum tonic—virgin. I needed my mind sharp, my reflexes unclouded. My fingers traced the ring beneath my shirt.

Soon, Gina. Very, very soon.

The club was a kaleidoscope of hedonism. In the center of it all, I spotted them. Two men, moving with the heavy, effortless confidence of predators in their own territory. The one on the left leaned in to whisper to the other, his lips moving in a way I’d been trained to read across a crowded room.

She must be new... I almost laughed. They still saw a woman. They saw "Jamie," the persona I’d adopted to lure them in. I decided to give them a curveball. I looked directly at the taller one, letting a slow, predatory smirk pull at my mouth before looking away.

It took exactly sixteen seconds for the first one to break formation.

Julian Knox—the syndicate’s flashy, high-IQ tech specialist—sidled up to the bar. He looked like a highlighter exploded on a soldier: neon windbreaker, cargo pants, and a smirk that was ninety percent delusion.

“Hey cutie,” he called out, propping an elbow on the marble. “Name’s Julian. I feel like our frequencies are already jamming and you haven't even let me buy you a drink yet.”

“Frequencies?” I stirred my tonic, my voice bored. “That’s a bit more creative than asking for my sign, I suppose.”

“Look, I’m just saying... your vibe? Definitely pulling on mine. It’s like the universe already wrote the script. I’m just hitting my marks.”

“You’re very charming, Julian, but I think the universe might need a rewrite. I’m going to pass.”

A hand clamped down on Julian’s shoulder, heavy and certain. I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. The air around the bar shifted, growing denser, charged with a sudden, dangerous electricity.

Ronan Hwan.

He was more striking than the surveillance photos. His dark eyes were filled with a restless, sharp intelligence, shaded by a weariness that looked like a chronic weight. He had the rugged, angular features of a man who was used to being the most dangerous person in every room he entered.

“Julian,” he said, his voice a low, commanding baritone. “Why don’t you go find someone who actually wants to hear about your ‘vibe’? I think the lady wants to enjoy her drink in peace.”

Julian laughed it off, winking at me before retreating into the crowd. But Ronan didn't move. He stood there, crowding my space, his gaze moving over me like he was reading the ledger of my soul.

“Your first time here?” he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

“How did you know?” I asked, playing the part of the intrigued newcomer.

“I know every soul that walks through Lower Manhattan,” he said, a cocky, dark grin slanting his mouth. “And I know when someone is trying to hide in plain sight. Which makes me wonder how you thought you’d get by.”

I sipped my tonic, my heart doing a slow, heavy thud against my ribs. “Get by with what?”

“Get by without telling me who you really are. Did you really think I wouldn’t know?”

RONAN

Most people avoid strobe lights when their brain is trying to exit their skull through their ears. Not me. I stood at the bar of Club Ombra and let the bass hammer against my migraine like a rhythmic executioner.

Theresa had been screaming at me all morning about the "leak" in our New York accounts. The Crimson Dragons were bleeding money, and she blamed my "distractions."

I popped two tablets from my orange bottle, swallowing them dry. I needed to focus. I needed to find the rat. But then I saw her.

She was sitting at the bar, nursing a drink that looked far too clear to be lethal. She had this cool, quiet confidence that stood out like a flame in a dark room. She wasn't dancing. She was watching.

“Julian, stop,” I muttered as my tech-head lieutenant started toward her.

I watched him strike out. I watched her look at him with a blunt, honest dismissal that actually made me smile. She wasn't a mark. She was a hunter.

I moved in, my hand finding Julian’s shoulder to steer him away. I didn't want him ruining the moment. I wanted to see what this feline was made of.

“Your first time here?” I asked, leaning into her personal space.

“How did you know?” she replied. Her voice was like silk over steel.

“I know everything that happens in this club. And in NYC. Which makes me wonder how you thought you’d get by.”

She blinked, her long lashes framing eyes that were far too observant. “Get by with what?”

“Get by without telling me who you really are,” I said, easing closer until I could smell her perfume—jasmine and something sharper, like gunpowder. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know?”

She laughed, a graceful, melodic sound that sent a jolt of carnal hunger straight to my gut. “And who am I?”

“A woman who’s either here to seduce someone... or kill them. And I can’t decide which is more my style.”

“Only those two? You underestimate me.”

“Trust me,” I whispered, my grin turning predatory. “I never underestimate something I want.”

I signaled the bartender. “Two black plum tonics. Virgin. Same as the lady.”

She looked surprised for a heartbeat—a crack in the armor. “Not many men in this club buy a drink to stay sober.”

“I’m not many men. And I think you and I have a lot more in common than you’re willing to admit, Jamie.”

“Jamie?” she repeated, testing the name. “And you?”

“Ronan. But you can call me Ron. What brings a woman like you to a place like this, Ron?”

“Work,” she said, her eyes twinkling with a dangerous light. “I tie up loose ends.”

“And for play?”

She leaned in, her lips inches from mine. “For play? It depends how messy I’m feeling.”

The music shifted, turning darker, a heavy synth beat that felt like a pulse. I didn't ask. I just took her hand. It was warm, firm, and perfectly steady.

On the dance floor, the world disappeared. There was only the heat of her body, the sway of her hips against mine, and the scent of her skin. She moved with a fluid, predatory grace that matched my own. When I leaned in to brush my lips against her ear, she didn't flinch; she shivered.

The tension was a physical thing, a wire pulled so tight it was screaming. I wanted her. Not just for the night, but to break her open and see what was hiding behind that clinical gaze.

“I have a suite at the Bellgrave,” I rasped as the song ended. “It’s two blocks away. Would you like to finish this conversation somewhere quieter?”

She looked up at me, her eyes heavy-lidded, dark with a hunger that mirrored my own. She nodded once.

“Lead the way.”

The suite at the Bellgrave was all chrome, glass, and shadows. As I pushed the door open, allowing "Jamie" to walk in first, I felt the migraine finally begin to recede, replaced by a much more urgent fire.

She walked in like she owned the place, her eyes scanning the room with that same haunting precision.

“What’s your poison?” she asked, drifting toward the minibar.

I tossed my keys on the dresser and walked toward her, my gaze locked on the curve of her back. “I thought we were staying sober?”

“Maybe I just needed the right man to loosen me up.”

I closed the gap, pinning her between the bar and my body. “I’m honored I could prove myself worthy.”