Chapter 2
Katerina
The velvet curtain falls back into place behind us, swallowing the music and light as if the ballroom never existed. Noise drops away. My heels click once on polished stone, then stop because he stops.
He moved me through the crowd like a shadow with a spine. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just decisive. Like he’s done this a thousand times and never once asked permission.
It occurs to me that he could be my adversary. My decision to trust him was split second. I better be right.
The corridor is a service passage dressed up for people who aren’t meant to notice it. There are silk flowers arranged to hide the seams. Drapes hung to soften the edges. Someone spent a fortune making sure the ugly parts of the building stay invisible.
I know a thing or two about hiding what matters.
He angles his body so he’s between me and the ballroom. Protective. Automatic. His gaze tracks the corridor ahead without looking like he’s tracking it. A smooth sweep that is definitely military.
If my instincts are true, he’s not the kind who likes medals. The kind who likes exits.
My pulse wants to rise, but I refuse it. Panic is indulgence. Panic is for people who believe they’ll be rescued simply because they’re afraid. I am not afraid. I am … alert. There’s a difference.
He lifts his hand briefly toward his collar as if he’s adjusting something. A habit disguised as a gesture. He’s probably listening. Receiving. Confirming.
That means there are others. A team. Just as promised.
Assuming promises still mean anything.
I keep my face composed and give him the version of me the world expects — cool, glossy, untouchable. I’ve worn that mask so long it fits better than my own skin.
But beneath it, I’m counting.
One door behind us. A corner ahead. A service alcove to the left. Ceiling cameras placed every thirty feet, their angles carefully chosen. Enough coverage to discourage staff theft. Not enough to catch the real crimes.
If he thinks he’s the only one mapping this space, he’s wrong. I was trained to do it before I was trained to smile.
He turns his head slightly, eyes landing on me at last. Not down my body like the men in the ballroom. Not to my mouth. To my eyes. As if he’s searching for something that might betray me.
That small shift of his focus pulls a reaction from me that I don’t like. A tightening low in my stomach. Not fear. Not attraction either. It’s a mutual recognition.
There is a type of man who sees through performance. They are rare. They are dangerous.
“Are you worried?” he asks.
The question is clipped, almost impersonal, but his stance doesn’t match it. He’s closer than he needs to be. Close enough that the heat of him reaches me through fabric and air.
“No,” I say. “But if I were, you probably wouldn’t know.”
His jaw flexes once. A tiny movement he’s trying to contain. Good. He’s not used to women speaking to him like that.
Lately, I’ve been careful, soft and agreeable. Survival has taught me to be whatever a situation requires. But tonight I refuse to soften. Tonight is supposed to end something.
He watches me for another second as if he’s deciding to believe me. Then his gaze shifts down the corridor again.
“I’m going to ask you to stay close,” he says. “Until I clear the route.”
A request, disguised as an order.
I tilt my head the way I was taught — one degree, just enough to imply curiosity without giving away anything real. It’s a movement men read as compliance. Interest. A willingness to be led. I hate that it still works.
“How kind of you,” I murmur. “Clearing routes. Saving women. What is your name?”
His eyes glance toward mine again. There’s something there … something sharp and controlled. It suggests he isn’t easily offended. Cool under pressure. He’s assessing.
“You can call me Hawk and this isn’t about kindness,” he says, with a smirk.
“No?” I ask softly. “What is it about then?”
His expression barely changes, but his voice drops a fraction. “Keeping you alive.”
The corridor feels smaller. Something inside me tightens again. A traitorous awareness of him. Of the fact that he said it without flourish or flirtation. Without the oily undertone I’ve learned to expect from men who claim to protect.
Keeping you alive.
I’ve heard versions of that phrase in other languages. Russian. French. English spoken with a Moscow polish.
Always followed by a price.
Hawk reaches up again toward his collar. His wrist shifts as his fingers brush his sleeve, and I catch the glimpse of something beneath his cuff. It’s a plain black band. So that’s how they do it.
Heartland … Heartline. Whatever name he gave me in the ballroom, it was a label meant to reassure. A brand meant to make me feel safe. I don’t feel safe because someone says I should. I feel safe when I can see the knife coming.
A memory rises uninvited … my instructor’s voice in a room that smelled of chalk and cold tea.
Smile. Listen. Make him believe he chose the words.
I push it away before it can become more. I don’t let myself drift into the past. The past is a trap. The past is how men still own pieces of you even when you’ve escaped their hands.
Hawk takes two steps forward, scanning the next turn. His movements are economical without wasted energy. No nervousness. He’s the kind of man who could stand in a burning room and decide which flame matters.
I wonder, briefly, what it would take to make him lose control.
Not because I want to.
Because I’ve been trained to find pressure points.
My gaze slides down the line of his throat, the collar of his suit jacket, the way his hands hang loose at his sides even though I know there’s strength there.
There’s a quiet violence in him. But it appears contained and harnessed.
He is not a man who enjoys hurting people. He is a man who will do it anyway.
He glances back and catches my eyes on him. For a fraction of a second, the air between us tightens. I follow, not because I like being told what to do, but because my instincts are whispering something ugly.
I anticipated it was happening before he approached me in the ballroom. When I walked in, I noticed it. There are always eyes. I can handle eyes.
What I can’t handle is being recognized for what I am — part of an operation.
My mind flickers back to the ballroom for one involuntary second. To the mirrors and the glittering chandeliers and the men who look at women like they are acquisitions.
And to one face.
A man near the auction display, laughing too easily, holding a glass of champagne like it belongs in his hand. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t flashy. He was exactly the sort of man who gets invited because he is harmless.
He is not harmless.
His hair is darker than I remember. His suit is Western-cut, American. But the shape of his smile is the same. The way he watched me is the same. Like I am a story he has already read.
I kept my expression neutral, making sure I did not look away too fast. I have survived by following rules like that. But my body recognized him anyway. A cold, precise knowing that tightened around my spine. He shouldn’t be here.
If he is here, someone has guessed what I’m doing.
If someone has guessed, then the last piece of this operation — the final handoff — is no longer mine to control.
Hawk pauses at the next junction. His head angles as if he’s listening to his comms again, and I catch a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth. Not fear. Not even tension. He’s focused.
He turns back to me. “We’re changing route.”
“Because?” I ask.
“Because of movement,” he says.
The word lands like a blade. Movement could mean anything. My fingers curl around the small clutch in my hand. It’s hard enough that the metal edge bites into my palm. Inside are things that look harmless. Lipstick. A compact. A keycard.
One other item, tucked in a hidden seam. Not a weapon. Not exactly. Insurance. The kind of insurance you learn to carry when the world treats you like a commodity.
Hawk’s gaze drops briefly to my hand. Then back to my eyes. It’s obvious that he sees more than he should.
“You’re not just a guest tonight,” he says quietly.
It’s not a question.
I force a faint smile. “What gave me away?”
“Your posture,” he says. “You move like you’re calculating.”
I nearly laugh. He thinks that’s what makes me different.
No.
What makes me different is the things I’ve already done to survive. The things I’m trying to finish.
“One mistake,” I say, keeping my voice smooth, “and suddenly everyone thinks they’re an expert.”
His expression doesn’t soften, but his voice lowers. “Whatever you’re involved in—”
“I’m involved in nothing,” I cut in, too fast. A tell. Damn it.
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger, but understanding. That’s worse. Because understanding makes him dangerous in a different way.
He takes a step closer, and I feel the shift of his body heat again. The pull of proximity. The unnatural urge to lean into it. I hate my own body for reacting. I hate the part of me that wants to believe him.
“We don’t have time for this,. We’re going up,” he says.
Up is not an answer. But it is a direction. He steers me toward a steel service door. A keycard flashes in his hand and the door unlocks with a muted click. Inside, the lighting is harsher. The kind meant for maintenance, not glamour.
He glances at my shoes.
“Take off your heels,” he says. “We’re going up. Fast.”
For a second, I consider defying him out of principle. Then I hear it. Not from him. From further away. A door slamming hard — too hard for staff.
I bend, slip the heels off, and hold them by their delicate straps. The stone floor is cold beneath my bare feet.
He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t smirk. Just keys the elevator panel with something I can’t see and the doors slide shut around us. The car lifts us upward.
My shoulder nearly brushes his arm as the elevator jolts once during ascent. I don’t stumble. But his hand closes around my wrist anyway. It feels warm and firm.
He releases me as the elevator doors slide open and immediately hits the hold switch before stepping out. Insurance. If someone tries to call it, they’ll have to override him.
The doors slide open to wind. It hits like a wall. My hair whips across my face. Silk snaps against my legs. Cupid City stretches below in glittering indifference.
A helicopter crouched low against the rooftop lights, waiting. I didn’t imagine this. For the first time tonight, something close to surprise slips through my composure.
Hawk steps forward into the wind and looks back at me only once.
“Run.”
I don’t argue. Concrete is rough beneath bare feet. The hem of my gown gathers in one hand as I move. Not stumbling. Not hesitating.
Hawk doesn’t look back. He reaches the helicopter first, swings the side door open, and gestures me inside with a sharp nod. I climb in without asking questions.
He circles around the nose and slides into the pilot’s seat. The realization hits me that Hawk doesn’t just move assets. He flies them away.
As I settle into the helicopter, I glance back. The elevator doors move. Close, then open again. Someone below is forcing the call.
The engine pitch rises. Hawk’s voice comes through the headset he’s tossed back to me.
“Strap in.”
He lifts us cleanly into the night as if he’s done it a hundred times before. Perhaps he has. The rooftop lights blur beneath us. The city drops away in a rush of wind and vibration.
I press my bare feet against the floor and look out over Cupid City.
From above, everything looks harmless, festive and beautiful.
You would never guess what moves through it.
Because if the man in the ballroom was not a ghost but a message, then this was not just a change of route. It was an extraction.
Which means the last job isn’t just a job anymore.
It’s a war.
And I’m flying with a man who has no idea what he’s just lifted into the sky.