43 Seven
The tux didn't fit right.
Or at least that's what it felt like despite the restroom mirror telling me otherwise as I tried to get the bow tie straight. I failed. I did it again. Failed again.
And even though, I'd worn plenty of tuxes on the previous jobs, a man like me wasn't built for formal wear.
"Viper, come in," I said.
His voice rattled in my ear. "What's up, boss? How is it going at the venue?"
"Didn't I tell you I hate bow ties? Why get me a tux?"
"Sorry, Seven, but that's how you blend in at this type of gathering. These people don't mess around with their black-tie event dress codes."
"Any updates on Ponytail?" I couldn't use her real name.
Not when I was talking to another Bureau employee and there was a possibility of a leak.
Not to the authorities but to Father. She wasn't a client.
She was more. I simply didn't have a word for it yet.
But I had this strange urge to keep her safe, to protect her.
"She's in. Our girl passed the metaphorical velvet rope. Nothing weird from the security detail—looks like my recon was solid. Manager doesn't seem suspicious. She's got about an hour window before the target shows up."
"Copy." I checked my watch, then slid the jacket sleeve down to cover it. "Keep the channel open. Anything, I mean anything, gets weird, or you hear the code phrase, you ring me."
"I'd ring you anyway, boss." Viper cackled on the line. "This is the best drama I've had all month."
I killed the mic before my anger got the best of me and I told him something I couldn't take back.
My eyes cut back to the mirror. I hated the face that looked back—too much of it exposed.
My skin itched with the lack of cover. I'd ditched everything in the car, changed in the back seat.
The only weapon I carried was my small trusty blade strapped to my ankle.
Thank fuck, guards here didn't pat anyone down.
This wasn't that kind of event after all.
The invitation was bogus. So was the name I used. Viper was very good at creating QR codes and identities that didn't exist but checked out whenever needed. Although his chatty ass irritated me most of the time, he was one useful motherfucker.
I looked at my reflection one last time.
My cheekbones were sharp. My jaw freshly shaved.
Hair slicked back, but it didn't want to stay in place, so a few wavy strands fell over my forehead and almost reached my eyes.
I didn't mind. It'd be easier to hide from cameras.
My eyes though gave me away as someone who didn't belong.
Always too cold, too hungry. I forced them into softness.
Practiced the smile. The old faded scar in the corner of my mouth pulled a little.
I'd gotten it on my first job while running away from the pursuer.
Face-planted in the debris while jumping off the building.
It was the dumbest way to get your body marked.
The Bureau trained us how to blend in, showed us how to seamlessly fit into any crowd by mimicking various emotions. I just hadn't had the need to do this kind of work for a while. I'd been operating in the shadows for the past six years. Now, I had to look and act human again.
Let's go. Get in. Get out. No witnesses. No mistakes.
I turned, wiped my prints from the faucet with a paper towel, then tossed it into the toilet and flushed.
The ballroom looked like someone had set a jewelry store on fire and filled it with people who'd only ever seen violence or middle-class neighborhoods on TV.
Banners hung from the rafters, gold script on blue.
EmpowerHer: Uplifting Women Leaders
I almost wanted to laugh at this. The wife of a man who was a habitual abuser and a rapist was organizing the event.
Oh, the irony.
The air buzzed with the energy of a thousand rich people pretending to care about something for just long enough to be seen caring.
I walked in, let the first wave of sight and sound hit me, and then started counting threats.
Four suited up guards—rent-a-cops with earpieces and dumb, fat hands.
Two more in the corner, double checking the guest list against the entry scans.
The rest were civilians—donors, trustees, political climbers, influencers.
Every one of them in an expensive suit or a dress, every one of them moving through the room like they owned it.
I kept my head down and drifted left along the edge of the floor. A force of habit made me keep my face at an angle to avoid being caught on cameras despite Viper's promise to tamper with the feed enough to erase me from the footage.
My target was easy to spot.
Celine Valmont.
Emerald dress, hair in a classic twist.
She floated from group to group, always laughing at the right decibel. Right now she stood between two old men in tuxedos, their hands hovering in the air like they wanted to buy a piece of her and couldn't quite figure out the price.
I cut a straight line through the crowd, keeping to the blind spots, never stopping long enough for anyone to lock on me. My feet were killing me. I missed the boots. The shoes slipped on the tile every three steps.
I closed to ten feet, slowed my pace, took a glass of wine off a passing tray and pretended to sip. At five feet, I let the crowd push me a little closer, close enough to hear her voice.
She was talking about fundraising, about the need for new programs, about how this year's goal was to double last year's. Her words were soft but forceful, the kind that made men listen and feel like they were part of something meaningful even as they plotted their next dirty deal.
I waited for the two old men to laugh. When they did, I moved to stand next to her side, slipped my arm around her elbow and whispered in her ear with a smile on my lips, "Don't make a scene, Mrs. Valmont. Just follow me."
She didn't flinch when she turned her head to look at me. Her eyes landed on my face. She smiled back, dazzling and dangerous. "I'm busy." Her voice was low, meant for me only.
"And I have the means to ruin your and your family's reputation with one phone call," I murmured with an answering smile of my own, squeezing my fingers around her arm.
"I see." She nodded. "Of course." She shifted her attention to the men. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen. I need to handle something urgent."
They both bowed slightly and she walked with me without saying a word. She moved slowly and elegantly. But under the surface, I could feel her tension. Her chin was up, the smile fixed, but every now and then, her breath would hitch.
"Who are you?" she asked as we cleared the crowd.
"Someone who needs a minute of your time." I steered her gently, not enough for anyone to notice, but enough to guide her through a side door toward the kitchen.
"You will regret this."
"No, I won't."
Once we passed into the service corridor, her voice changed—grew harder and sharper. "What is this about?"
"You'll see."
We walked outside and continued through the parking lot until we reached the limo Viper had obtained for me.
There was no one around and she wore very high heels. I let her arm go and opened the passenger door. "Get in."
She paused, scanning her surroundings, probably looking for an escape route.
I gestured at her shoes and said, "I wouldn't run in these unless, of course, you want to break both legs."
"You expect me to get in a car with a stranger?"
"I expect you to get in, because you're a smart woman, Mrs. Valmont."
She gave me a look, equal parts contempt and calculation. "There are security cameras here. You won't get far."
"No one's going to see us leaving the building when they check the footage."
She said nothing.
"I'm not here to hurt you," I added. "But I will if you resist."
She took a deep breath and slid into the seat.
I climbed into the driver's side, shut the door, and threw the car into gear. We drove in silence for three blocks. I checked the rearview every five seconds, but there were no tails. Viper was quiet on the channel, which meant Kimmy was still alive and the plan was on track.
After a minute, Celine broke the silence. "Are you kidnapping me?"
"No."
"Then what is this?"
I kept my eyes on the road. "I want you to see something. After that, you can go back to your party, or wherever you want. No strings."
She looked out the window, arms crossed tight. "What is it you want me to see?"
"Your husband's extracurriculars."
She didn't answer right away. Her face reflected in the glass—perfect stillness, except for the pulse at the side of her neck.
"My husband's personal life is his private matter," she finally said.
"Not when it's about to become a media scandal, Mrs. Valmont. I'm giving you a chance to get ahead. To distance yourself from the dirt. Otherwise, the Vandermere reputation will be ruined by association. And from what I know you're not the woman who deserves what's coming."