Chapter 26
Kirill
I stand on the platform like a convict awaiting sentencing, boxed in on three sides by mirrors that reflect and multiply my discomfort at every angle.
So far, I’m on tuxedo number four.
Each one is black and features wool spun from Italian sheep with softer lives than every man I’ve killed.
The tall, thin tailor, Giorgio—Jordan greeted him as “G” and they kissed each other’s cheeks—circles, using pins as punctuation, his lips pursed around the silver points.
His white blond hair slicks to a juncture at the base of his skull, and slim fingers make quick work of threads and hemlines.
His hazel gaze cuts across my body, dissecting me with the same precision I’d use to select a target.
I hate this.
The choke of the collar. The stiff wool binding the hinge of my shoulders. I might as well be wearing a straitjacket.
Jordan eyes me in the mirror, assessing me with ruthless attention. I get the impression she’s weighing me for resale or allocating value to a piece of faulty weaponry.
Far from the crystal-wielding podcaster, this Jordan is clever, observant, and sharp.
An investigator’s daughter who does what’s necessary.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the way the heat of her gaze burns into my upper back and bleeds down my spine. I’d love to shove her up against the mirrors and force her to watch herself orgasm from a thousand angles.
But fuck, I hate this suit. I yank at the collar and earn a glare from Giorgio.
Oak Brook, Giorgio’s business, hides behind a bland storefront with no sign, no windows, and a discreet brass G above the black wooden door.
Jordan worked her own kind of system to get us in, attaching the Hearst name to her request like a touchpoint or a passport. The receptionist recognized it immediately and ushered us inside.
The place features sleek dark wooden furniture, well-dressed employees, and not a single price tag. This sort of establishment assumes you know better than to ask.
No decor either. Just rolls of fabric, mirrors, and stacks of designs. The sales floor fits only one customer at a time. A skylight overhead welcomes in natural light for when you need to check an outfit against the sun.
Since the party is at night and inside only, I’m on the pedestal under the indoor lighting.
Yes, G asked.
“They’re all the same.” I roll my shoulders to loosen the grip of the jacket. The movement only strains the fabric more, pinning me in. I can’t reach for a weapon without splitting the seams. The thought irritates me. In the field, I’d never get caught dead like this.
Actually, I might die if I’m caught wearing this.
Giorgio, his face hidden behind my back, huffs and readjusts the fit across my shoulders.
Sorry to ruin your work there, G.
Jordan’s reflection observes with a tilted head, her expression unreadable. She steps up close enough to break through the wool and soap with her own scent. I detect a trace of expensive perfume, a more clinical kind of fragrance than the one she’s been wearing until now.
“No, they’re not. This one says ‘old money.’ The first one said ‘I rent my tuxedos.’” She’s surveying the lines with a sniper’s care, brushing the fabric with her gaze. “And my mother will know the difference. Everyone will.”
The tailor lurks, pretending he doesn’t hear, but his eyes never leave us. His fingertips twitch.
Jordan continues to examine me in the mirror. “You’re not used to donning masks.”
Side by side, we don’t even look like we belong on the same planet. She’s relaxed, her limbs loose, her blouse and jeans effortless.
Meanwhile, I’m a study in tension and rigidity.
She taps my cheek with her finger. “Not real masks. Not ones that cover your body and force you to move in new ways.”
I grimace. A mask that covers your body? That sounds like my version of hell, but she’s the voice of experience, so I swallow my protest.
Jordan meets my gaze, first in the reflection, then directly. Her face eases, but not enough to make this comfortable. “You are exactly who you say you are. All the time. Without a single leak around the edges. It’s almost impressive.”
Her accurate assessment needles me, and I don’t respond.
I never found much use in pretending. You show your intent, or you hide, but you don’t swing between the two. Forget about shades of gray. They don’t exist for me.
Just the hunt and the kill.
But Jordan’s mastered oscillation.
I can’t deny the pride in my chest as I observe the way she navigates this strange world.
“I know about masks.” She turns back to the glass.
“And you’re going to need one to get past the front door.
Inside, you’ll need to maintain your persona, or you’ll get caught and tossed.
If you fight the tossing, they’ll bring in an army of personal security that trains with Seals and Rangers.
And that will keep us from getting what you need. ”
Though I’m sure I could handle that, and while I’ve always wanted to test myself against those guys, this party is too important to get swept up in some fun. I flex my arms in the wool jacket. “I’ll behave.”
Jordan’s lips twitch. “I’ll keep my mother occupied until we can sneak away and get to the safe. Just remember, if you don’t blend in, you get thrown out.” Her eyes catch mine in the mirror, their softness replaced by stone. “And I really don’t want blood on my mother’s Persian rugs.”
I keep quiet while my mind runs double-time. Jordan discusses clothes like they’re equipment. Like wool and hand-stitching matter more than firepower. It’s insanity.
But she’s also not wrong.
The tailor mumbles about my shoulders again, and I bury the urge to slap his hands away.
With every adjustment, I give up another inch of control.
“You’re good at what you do.” Jordan smooths her eyebrow. “But you’re very direct. My mother’s universe is all about misdirection. Codes nobody writes down. Rules nobody repeats.”
She’s managed to map my faults, impressing the hell out of me. Damn her. “Sounds like a language I don’t speak.”
She glances at me, almost approving. “Exactly. You don’t have to be fluent. You just have to be convincing for one night.”
Reality closes in. I prefer clean boundaries. Lines marked in stone. Here, everything is blurred lines and implication, decisions made with secrets and handshakes.
I don’t belong. I know that. I’m completely out of my element.
To win, I need to let her run the show. Not an easy task for a control freak.
“Stand still, please.” The pins muffle G’s voice.
I lock my jaw and hold my position, letting him prod me into a softer, more tamable life. I can feel the old anger, the one that’s powered every decision I’ve ever made, banging at the gates. “Can’t I just go in as your bodyguard?”
“Then you’re in the staff building with the drivers. No access.” Jordan leans in so her shoulder brushes mine. The whisper of contact anchors me, providing the tiniest lifeline.
She lifts her hand and skims her knuckles over my jaw, tracing over the stubble. I flinch at the touch, not used to the casual gentleness.
“You need a shave. Maybe a trim?” She tips her eyes toward my hair for a beat longer than necessary. “Just a little.”
G, sensing his moment, jumps in. “We have an excellent barber on site, sir. Very discreet.”
A vise squeezes my lungs. I want to say no, yank the reins back, and seize control again.
Before I panic, Jordan’s guileless eyes trap mine in the mirror.
The open belief shining in them eases a little of the tightness in my chest, allowing me to breathe again.
She’s handing me the keys to her old prison, willing to walk those halls again to help me.
I just need to return some of that faith and trust her directions.
My lungs inflate. Deflate. I can suffer through a haircut. “Fine.”
Whatever it takes. That’s the bargain. Get inside the estate, locate the safe, and retrieve what Roman wants. And stay alive. Both of us.
As Jordan nods with one sharp dip of her chin, lust streaks through my veins.
She’s so unbelievably sexy when she’s sure of herself.
Her hand drops from my cheek, but the phantom of that contact lingers. “You’ll need to move differently too. Less…sharky.”
The same way she described me after knowing me for less than an hour. A few people who’ve spent their lives with me call me that too. How does she know? “I move…sharky?”
A slight, unexpected smile curves her lips.
Her first real one all day. “The way you walk. You act like you own the space, always looking for threats. Here.” She demonstrates by exaggerating my stride.
“The people at this party don’t hunt. They drift.
They glide from conversation to conversation like nothing can touch them. ”
“That’s ridiculous.” I glance away from my reflection as discomfort worse than the wool suit itches under my skin.
She just shrugs. “It is. But it’s their language.” Her gaze becomes sharp and businesslike again. “If you get this right, you’re invisible. No one looks twice at someone who belongs. That’s the trick of any world. You’re seen only if you stand out.”
The tailor shuffles away while mumbling about his measuring book.
For a beat, we stand together, multiplied out to infinity. Me in black wool, newly caged in formality. Jordan, the victim turned coach.
She studies my reflection. “I don’t think I can picture you in a proper tuxedo.”
“I don’t think I could ever picture you in a ball gown.” I try to imagine Jordan in crystalline necklaces over top layers of delicate fabric. Her hair coiffed and her nails polished. The image blurs, too unlike her to solidify.
“Not for years.” Something shutters behind her eyes. “I was sixteen when I attended my last gala.”
More of the story behind that night simmers underneath the surface, though she doesn’t say anything more.
And I don’t ask. Not yet. We don’t have time.
I switch to tactics. “We’ll need a story.” I’m already mapping the night: entry, cover, exits. “Why you’re back. Why I’m with you.”
“I’m coming home to make peace and bringing my boyfriend to meet my mother.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s a cliché no one will think twice about. Prodigal daughter returns seeking forgiveness.”
“And if your mother doesn’t buy it?”
Jordan’s gaze hardens into steel, revealing a glimpse of the woman who survived by sheer force of will. “My mother will be so shocked, she’ll forget to ask any questions until it’s too late and we’re already gone.”
The tailor reappears with a leather-bound book in hand, so we set aside the sensitive topic of Jordan’s mother. I’m not going to dig into that mess right now.
After I sign an agreement to pay extra for a rush job, G vanishes into the back.
Jordan reaches over to adjust my bow tie.
Her gentle fingers linger at my throat. The intimate gesture feels almost obscene, but I force myself not to squirm.
“This is a different mission. A different battlefield. But the same rules apply.” Her warm hands shift on my collar. “Observe. Adapt. Survive.”
I study her, not as a hostage, pawn, or the key to a door I need opened, but as a partner and guide. As someone who represents my sole hope at thwarting failure.
Just for a second, before she can slip away, I capture her hand in mine. “Observe. Adapt. Survive.”
The mirrors reflect these new facets of us.
The shark learning to swim in gentler waters. The mystic reclaiming the world she abandoned.
This weekend, we’ll both wear masks. But until then, we can be ourselves. At least with each other.
I pull at the tie. “Let’s get out of here.”