Chapter 2

"The priest is running late, but the paramedics are downstairs. Try not to die in the next three minutes; it’ll ruin the upholstery," Kendrick’s voice crackled through the comms, sounding entirely too amused for a man whose lead operative was currently being used as a human floor mat.

Roderick exhaled a jagged breath, the weight of Apollo’s marble thighs pressing into his shins. "I’m fine. Just get this... divine intervention off me."

"Don't worry, darling, I’ve got you!" Elias shouted. He grabbed the statue’s marble arm again, his designer sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He let out a grunt of exertion that was mostly theatrical. "Heave! Ho! Oh, blast, it’s like it’s made of stone."

"It is stone, Elias," Roderick ground out through clenched teeth. "Stop pulling. You’re shifting the weight toward my ankles."

"Am I? Oh, heavens, I’m so sorry. I was trying to be the dashing rescuer for once. It looked much easier in that one action movie—you know the one, with the guy and the explosions?"

"I’m living the sequel. Stop. Moving."

*

The sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Storme penthouse was bright enough to cause a migraine. Roderick sat at the edge of a velvet chair, his legs heavily bandaged and propped up on a stool. He watched as a chef in a tall white hat placed a plate of eggs Benedict topped with gold leaf in front of Elias.

"You’re not eating your toast, Roderick," Elias noted, gesturing with a silver fork. "It’s sourdough. Fermented for forty-eight hours. It has a very sophisticated tang."

"I don't want a tang, Elias. I want your attention," Roderick said, tapping a thick folder on the table. "We need to go over the security protocols for the next seventy-two hours. No more museums. No more 'critiquing' the art."

"It wasn't a critique; it was a correction. There’s a difference," Elias said, swallowing a bite of gold-flecked egg. "And you look so grumpy when you’re being professional. It’s bad for your complexion."

"My complexion is currently the color of a bruise because a three-hundred-pound Greek god fell on me. Listen to me." Roderick leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "Rule number one: You do not leave this penthouse without me. Rule number two: When I say 'get down,' you don't ask about the humidity—you hit the floor. Rule number three: No unscheduled stops."

Elias blinked, his long lashes fluttering. "That sounds dreadfully boring. What about my 11:00 AM?"

Roderick flipped through the itinerary. "You don't have an 11:00 AM. Your first event is the Gala at 8:00 PM."

"I’ve added an appointment. A very urgent, very soul-shaking engagement."

"With who? A tailor? A jeweler?"

"With 'The Whisker Way,'" Elias said solemnly. "It’s a cat cafe. They just got a new shipment of Persians, and I’ve heard rumors that one of them has a very judgmental stare. I need to see if it’s more judgmental than yours."

Roderick stared at him for a long beat. "No."

"No? But Roderick, the cats! They’re fluffy. They require my patronage."

"The cats are a security nightmare. Glass windows, one exit, and a dozen places for a shooter to hide. You are staying here."

"You’re like a very handsome prison warden," Elias sighed, leaning back and pouting. "Fine. If I can't have cats, I’ll just stay here and wither away. I hope you’re happy. You’ll have to explain to the press why the Storme empire collapsed due to a lack of feline therapy."

"I’ll take my chances with the headlines," Roderick muttered, turning back to the security feeds on his tablet.

For twenty minutes, there was silence. It was the most productive twenty minutes Roderick had experienced since taking the job. He monitored the perimeter, checked the background of the catering staff for the gala, and coordinated with Kendrick.

Then, he noticed the silence was too quiet.

He looked up. The chair across from him was empty. The gold-leafed eggs were half-eaten.

"Elias?" Roderick called out. No answer.

He checked the bedroom. Empty. The walk-in closet? Empty, save for a hundred suits that cost more than his life insurance.

"Kendrick," Roderick barked into his earpiece. "Where is he?"

"Checking the service elevator feed now... Oh, for the love of—he’s in the laundry chute, Roderick."

"The laundry chute? Is he insane?"

"He’s currently sliding down toward the basement. He’s wearing a tracksuit. I think he thinks he’s being a ninja."

Roderick cursed, ignoring the sharp spike of pain in his shins as he bolted for the door. He didn't take the chute; he took the stairs, leaping down the flights with a grimace. He reached the basement just as the heavy metal flap of the chute clattered open.

A pile of silk sheets spilled out, followed by a very disheveled Elias Storme.

"Ten out of ten for the slide," Elias wheezed, shaking a stray sock off his shoulder. "Zero out of ten for the friction burn on my—oh. Hello, Roderick."

Roderick was standing over him, his arms crossed, his shadow looming large in the dimly lit basement. "The cat cafe, Elias? Really?"

"I was going to take a taxi! I have the app and everything!" Elias scrambled to his feet, trying to regain some semblance of dignity despite the lint in his hair. "I just needed a little adventure. You were being so... tactical."

"I am being 'tactical' to keep your heart beating!" Roderick growled. He stepped forward, closing the distance until Elias was backed up against the cold brick wall.

Roderick reached out, his hand slamming against the wall beside Elias’s head. The physical proximity was sudden, a wall of heat and repressed frustration. Elias’s breath hitched, but his eyes didn't fill with fear—they filled with a spark of something far more troublesome.

"You’re very close," Elias whispered, his gaze dropping to Roderick’s mouth. "Is this part of the protocol? Is there a 'Physical Restraint' section in your little folder?"

"There’s a 'Stop Being a Liability' section," Roderick hissed, his face inches from Elias’s. "Do you have any idea how many people want to see you in a body bag? This isn't a game. It’s not a movie. If you walk out that door without me, you’re not coming back. Do you understand?"

Elias looked up, his playful facade flickering for a brief second. "You’re actually worried. That’s... almost sweet."

"I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about my success rate," Roderick lied.

He grabbed Elias by the arm, his grip firm but not painful, and began leading him back toward the service elevator. "We are going back upstairs. You are going to sit on that sofa. You are going to watch a documentary about rocks. Rocks don't move. Rocks are safe."

"Can I at least have a snack? All that sliding made me peckish."

"You’ll have water and silence."

They reached the top floor just as the main elevator chimed. The doors slid open to reveal Sabrina Lowell, Elias’s head of operations. She looked like she hadn't slept in forty-eight hours, her tablet clutched to her chest like a shield.

"Oh, good, you’re both alive," Sabrina said, her voice tight. "Elias, why are you wearing a tracksuit from the 2004 collection?"

"It’s vintage, Sabrina! It’s a statement on the cyclical nature of—"

"Save it," she snapped, turning to Roderick. Her face was pale. "We have a massive problem. Kendrick sent me the latest scrapings from the dark web."

Roderick’s entire posture shifted. The irritation vanished, replaced by the cold, sharp focus of a predator. "What is it?"

"A hit thread," Sabrina said, her fingers trembling slightly as she swiped on her tablet and held it up. "It was posted an hour ago. There’s a specific bounty, six figures, for anyone who can 'interrupt' the Storme Gala tonight. But it’s not just a general threat."

Roderick took the tablet. His eyes scanned the lines of encrypted code and the translated chat logs.

Target: E.S. Method: Kinetic. Window: 9:00 PM - 10:00 PM. Reward: 500k USD.

"They have the floor plans, Roderick," Sabrina whispered. "The kitchen entrance, the balcony, even the private security frequencies. They aren't just looking for a vase this time. They’re looking for him."

Elias leaned over Roderick’s shoulder, his usual levity finally beginning to drain away as he saw his own face cropped into a digital crosshair. "Oh. That’s... a very unflattering photo. Is that from the lion enclosure incident? My hair looks like a bird's nest."

"Elias, shut up," Roderick said, his voice like iron. He handed the tablet back to Sabrina. "Cancel the gala. Lock the building down."

"I can't," Sabrina said, her voice cracking. "His father is the keynote speaker. The Mayor is coming. If we cancel now, the Storme stock drops twenty percent by morning, and we admit to the world that we’ve lost control. The Board already sent a memo—the event goes on."

Roderick turned to Elias. The socialite was staring at the floor, his fingers fidgeting with the zipper of his vintage jacket.

"They’re coming for you," Roderick said, stepping into Elias’s personal space again, but this time there was no heat—only the cold reality of the job. "And you’ve spent the morning trying to sneak out for a latte."

Elias looked up, his lopsided smile returning, though it looked a little more fragile than before. "Well, then. I suppose it’s a good thing I have a very expensive, very grumpy bodyguard, isn't it?"

"Tonight," Roderick said, looking him dead in the eye, "you don't leave my side for a second. If you so much as sneeze without my permission, I’m tackling you to the ground. Clear?"

Elias straightened his shoulders, a strange glint in his eyes. "Crystal. But Roderick?"

"What?"

"If you’re going to tackle me... try to do it near the champagne tower. I’ve always wanted to see one of those go down in slow motion."

Roderick didn't answer. He just tapped his earpiece. "Kendrick. Get the armory ready. We’re going to a party."