You'll be armed.

The knock at the door was like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the suite. Jay flinched, a full-body spasm that sent a fresh lance of pain through his sore muscles. Every nerve ending felt exposed, raw. He moved to the door, his gait a stiff, careful negotiation with his own abused body.

He pulled it open to reveal Marco. The man stood with a posture of forced casualness, but his eyes, always too perceptive, performed a rapid, professional assessment. They took in Jay’s pallor, the tightness around his mouth, the way he held himself as if his very skin were a wound.

"Jay," Marco greeted, his voice a low, calibrated neutral. He didn't wait for an invitation, brushing past him into the room. His gaze swept the space—the rumpled silk sheets tangled at the foot of the bed, a crystal glass tipped over on the minibar, the very air thick with the residue of violation. He let out a soft, slow breath. "I heard the night was... rough." The pause was deliberate, a placeholder for words like brutal, catastrophic, violating.

Jay’s jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. The sympathy in Marco's voice was a catalyst, turning his shame into a sharp, defensive rage. "Shut up, Marco," he bit out, the words stripped and cold. "Don't. Just don't." He retreated to the bed, lowering himself onto the edge with a grimace that betrayed the effort it cost him. The simple act of standing had become a monumental task.

Marco absorbed the rebuke without reaction, his professionalism a shield. He smoothly pivoted, presenting a sleek, black folder as if it were a peace offering. "Here. The briefing for tonight."

Jay took it, the leather cool against his skin. He flipped it open. His eyes, scanning the first line of text, widened almost imperceptibly before his entire body went rigid. "The event is tonight?" The question was a disbelieving whisper. "So soon? They can't be serious."

"Plans have moved up," Marco stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He produced a thick, cream-colored card, embossed with swirling, silver filigree. It felt heavy, expensive, and sinister. "This was delivered by a masked courier to our blind drop. No return address. Anonymous sender."

Jay’s fingers, usually so steady, trembled slightly as he traced the raised script. His mind, a turbulent sea of pain and fury, fought to calm itself, to find the still center of the agent he was supposed to be. "The guest list?" he asked, his voice regaining a shred of its professional steel.

"A curated mix of the city's most beautiful and most dangerous," Marco explained, leaning a hip against the dresser. "A-list actors who are fronts for money laundering, top models who are companions to warlords, business magnates whose boardrooms are battlefields. It's a predator's ball, Jay, masquerading as a high-society party. You were selected for your aesthetics, but your invitation... this feels targeted."

Jay’s head snapped up, his eyes locking with Marco's. The question hung in the air between them, more terrifying than any other. "What about Rafe? Is he on the list? Do we have any confirmation he'll even be there?"

Marco’s expression turned grim, the lines around his mouth deepening. "That's the core of the problem. We have nothing. His name isn't on any list, public or private. But a man like Rafe Bianchi doesn't receive invitations; he issues them. He is the specter that haunts that room. If he desires to be there, a path will clear for him. Our intelligence on his movements is a complete blackout."

A cold, slick dread, colder than the marble floor, trickled down Jay’s spine. He felt the walls of the opulent suite closing in. "Then what is the objective?" he asked, his voice low and thick with frustration. "You're sending me into a darkened theater on a stage I don't know, to perform for an audience that may not even be there, with a lion lurking somewhere in the shadows. What is the point?"

"The point," Marco said, pushing off the dresser and leaning forward, his intensity palpable, "is to be the most captivating shadow in the room. You will sit, you will smile, you will listen. These people, in their gilded arrogance, talk. They boast about deals that would topple governments, they whisper about alliances forged in blood, they reveal weaknesses in their casual cruelties. Your job is to be the perfect listener—charming, beautiful, and utterly forgettable. A mirror. You absorb everything. Every name, every number, every threat. It all leads back to the center of the web. It all leads back to him."

"Okay," Jay breathed, the word a heavy exhalation of resignation. He closed his eyes for a brief second, building the walls inside his mind, compartmentalizing the trauma. "I can do that."

"There's more," Marco added, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a small, sleek, matte-black pistol—a Walther PPK, easily concealed. "You'll be armed."

Jay stared at the weapon, then back at Marco, his shock evident. "A gun? At the Galleria d'Arte Moderna? This isn't a back-alley dead drop, Marco."

"Everyone who is anyone in that room will have one," Marco countered, his gaze unwavering. "Tucked into garters, secured in custom-tailored holsters, hidden in clutches. It's the worst-kept secret in their world. Their guards and assistants are barred from the main hall. This is the understanding: they are all predators, and they all come equipped with teeth. To be unarmed would be to mark yourself as prey."

Jay accepted the gun. Its weight was a familiar, grim comfort in his palm. He let out a slow, steadying breath, the full, terrifying reality of the evening solidifying. "This is harder than I anticipated," he admitted quietly. "It's not just espionage. It's a gladiatorial arena in black tie."

A small, tight, but genuine smile touched Marco's lips. "Maybe. But you won't be walking into the coliseum alone. I've pulled every string I have. I'll be there, wearing a security supervisor's headset, watching the crowd, monitoring every camera feed. I'll be your eyes in the periphery. You just have to play your part."

For the first time since Marco had entered, a flicker of something other than pain or fury showed in Jay's eyes—a spark of relief. It was a thin, fragile thread, but it was a lifeline. He gave a sharp, single nod, his fingers closing tightly around the cold metal of the gun.

The game was far from over. In fact, the most dangerous round was just beginning.