Shadowed Sins: Nitro (Nightfall Syndicate #3)

1. Mira

one

Mira

D ear Reader,

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"Watch where you're—"

The words die as something wet cascades down my chest, amber liquid soaking through twelve thousand dollars of Versace silk.

My hand moves to the knife at my thigh before my brain catches up. Someone just crashed into me from the left, solid enough to send me half a step forward. The whiskey runs warm between my breasts, through La Perla lace, while ice cubes scatter across marble.

I spin, ready to eviscerate whoever just compromised my position.

Then I see his face.

Bozhe moy.

Dark blond hair slightly mussed, like he's been running his hands through it.

Blue-green eyes that widen in genuine horror.

A small diagonal scar cuts through his chin.

Sharp cheekbones. Full lips parted in distress.

Tall—six feet of lean muscle wrapped in a Tom Ford suit that can't quite contain the energy radiating from him.

My body betrays me completely.

Heat floods my core, instant and shocking. My nipples harden against wet silk, suddenly visible and aching. Wetness pools between my thighs, my clit pulsing with need I've never felt before. Not once. Not with any mark, any asset, any man I've manipulated or killed.

What the fuck is happening to me?

"Shit, that's completely on me." His voice cracks slightly as he grabs napkins from the bar, movements quick but clumsy with panic. "I wasn't looking where I was going. I was arguing with my friend about—doesn't matter."

His hands hover near my breasts with the napkins, and I watch his brain short-circuit in real time. The whiskey has made the black silk cling as if it's translucent. He can see everything—the lace, the hard peaks of my nipples, the way my chest rises with each shallow breath.

"I could... help clean that?" The words come out strangled. His pupils dilate fully, black swallowing blue-green.

"Fuck, you're perfect."

The words slip out clearly unintended. His face flushes, and he runs a hand through his hair, making it messier.

"I mean—shit—that wasn't supposed to—" He stops, takes a breath, tries again. "Want to pretend I said something smooth about buying you a new dress instead of... that?"

Perfect. The word echoes in my chest. Men call me beautiful, stunning, exquisite. Always calculated compliments designed to get something. No one has ever called me perfect with such desperate honesty.

"It's Versace," I manage, my voice huskier than intended.

"Then I'm buying you the whole Versace store." The words tumble out fast. "Actually, do they sell stores? I can find out. I know people. Well, I know people who know people. I could probably—"

He stops himself, and something shifts in his expression.

"You know what? Fuck it. You are perfect, and this dress looks better with whiskey on it because you're wearing it, and I'm going to stop talking before I make this worse."

The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it. Chert. I don't smile at marks. I don't find fumbling men charming. I don't—

"Was that almost a smile?" His entire face lights up. "Please tell me that was almost a smile, because I'm about thirty seconds past complete humiliation here and that might save me."

I catch sight of his credit card as he signals the bartender.

Amex Black with "J. RYDER" embossed in silver.

My mind files it away automatically while my body continues its rebellion.

Every nerve ending feels exposed, hypersensitive.

I want to push him against the bar and taste that nervous energy on his tongue.

What the fuck? Control yourself, Mira.

From across the room, Antoine's distinctive laugh cuts through the jazz music. My target. The reason I'm here. The man who needs to die tonight.

But my feet don't want to move.

"Let me at least buy you champagne," J. Ryder says, those blue-green eyes locked on mine. "You can drink it while planning how to kill me for ruining your dress. I'm Jax, by the way."

He extends his hand, and I know touching him is a mistake. Know it the way I know a blade's edge—instinctively, absolutely.

I don't take it.

"Enjoy your evening, Jax."

I turn away, forcing my legs to carry me across the Onyx Room. Each step feels wrong. My thighs slide together, slick with arousal I shouldn't feel. The silk clings to my skin, heavy with whiskey and remembering his scent, something warm and masculine, makes my mouth water.

Behind me, I hear him talking to someone, his voice carrying despite the crowd.

"I'd let her destroy me. Impolitely. Thoroughly. Whatever she wants."

"Jesus, Jax." A measured voice responds—must be the Asian man with dangerous eyes. "You lost a hundred grand at the poker table last week and now you're—"

"I'd lose a million if she asked me to."

If only he knew.

The walk to Antoine's table in the VIP section feels endless. My body hums at a frequency I don't recognize, every cell aware of Jax Ryder's presence behind me at the bar. I can feel his stare like hands on my skin, possessive and hungry.

Antoine rises as I approach, champagne already poured.

"Mira, darling. You look..." His eyes catch sight of the wet silk. "What happened?"

"Minor collision." I accept the crystal flute, noting the slight tremor in my hand. "Nothing that won't dry."

But that's a lie. Nothing about me will dry tonight. I'm soaked through, aching, my body singing a name I just learned.

"You understand, Mira, that true wealth comes from understanding demand." Antoine continues as if our conversation had never stopped. He leans closer, his cologne thick and cloying compared to whiskey and warm male. "Eastern Europe provides... resources that certain clients crave."

I make interested sounds while my fingers find the ceramic capsule in my bracelet. Muscle memory takes over—I've done this dozens of times. Slide, drop, dissolve. Fifteen minutes until cardiac arrest. Untraceable.

Except my hand hesitates.

Do it. Complete the mission. Walk away.

Antoine gestures broadly, painting pictures of shipping routes and special cargo, and I use the movement to slip the poison into his glass.

The concentrated oleandrin extract dissolves instantly, colorless and odorless, and will cause almost immediate cardiac failure without other telltale symptoms.

"Young ones," he says, voice dropping. "Virgin flesh. My friend Alexei Petrov has a shipment coming next month. Untouched and terrified, exactly how certain clients prefer them."

Rage burns through me at Petrov's name, but underneath it, something else entirely. I glance back at the bar. Jax still watches me, gripping the edge like he's physically restraining himself. His friend, built like a fighter despite being shorter, has a hand on his shoulder.

When our gazes meet, a jolt shoots straight through me. Curious.

I turn back to Antoine. "Perhaps we could continue this somewhere more... private?"

Twelve minutes until the poison takes full effect.

"I have the penthouse at the Fairmont." His smile turns predatory. "We could discuss opportunities in greater detail."

As we stand to leave, I let myself look back once more. Jax's whole body leans forward, and his lips move. Even across the room, I can read the word.

Please.

My pussy clenches hard enough to hurt. I adjust my dress slowly, deliberately, letting him see the gleam of the whiskey still drying between my breasts. His friend has to physically hold him back.

The elevator ride to the penthouse feels suspended in time. I shift slightly, keeping the camera in my peripheral vision while using Antoine's height to block a clear facial shot—just another adjustment in the careful choreography I've performed all night.

Antoine's hand finds my lower back, and my skin crawls—not from the touch itself, but because it's wrong. Wrong height. Wrong pressure. Wrong person

"The view is spectacular," he says as we enter the suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city lights. "Champagne?"

"Please." The word tastes like copper on my tongue. Like Jax's desperate plea.

Antoine pours liberally, the poison spreading faster through his system with each sip. His breathing has already quickened, though he doesn't notice yet.

"Alexei and I have a very profitable arrangement," he continues, loosening his tie. "The fear in their eyes... it triples the price. Supply and demand at its purest."

Five minutes.

My hand drifts to my thigh, not to the knife but higher, where I ache. Where I've been aching since the man with blue-green eyes called me perfect.

Antoine's face flushes. Sweat beads on his forehead. "Is it warm in here?"

"Maybe you should sit."

He collapses into the leather chair, chest heaving now. "Something's... my heart..."

Three minutes.

" Your crimes against children are revolting, but they're not why you're dying. You're dying because you shook hands with Alexei Petrov and called him friend."

Antoine's face goes ashen. "Alexei?"

He tries to stand, swaying, but falls back in the chair with one hand clutching his chest while the other reaches toward his phone on the side table. "What did—who sent you?"

I don't answer, but watch him die the way I've watched dozens die, observing the stages, noting the symptoms. But my hand slides under my dress, finding the slick heat that's been building since the collision at the bar.

This is fucked. This is so fucked.

"Please," Antoine gasps, reaching toward me. "Help me."

That word again. But in his mouth, it means nothing. From Jax's lips, it rewired my entire nervous system.

I circle my clit with two fingers, my other hand gripping the window frame. Antoine's death rattle mingles with my sharp breathing as I chase release. I'm going to come watching a man die while thinking about a stranger who crashed into me thirty minutes ago.

The orgasm builds like a storm—dark, violent, consuming. Antoine's body convulses once, twice, then goes still. As his heart stops, I come hard enough to see stars, biting my lip to muffle the sound.

Jax.

His name tears through me with the aftershocks. I've never come thinking about someone specific during a kill. Never wanted someone to watch. Never imagined sharing this darkness.

My legs shake as I stage the scene. Plant the cocaine. Position the body. Slip his phone into my clutch. Wipe down surfaces.

Professional movements while my body continues to betray me, already building toward another climax just from thinking about him.

The hotel bathroom mirror reflects someone I don't recognize. My pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from biting them.

The silk between my breasts has dried stiff where the whiskey soaked through, carrying the faint scent of him. I touch the fabric, and heat floods through me again.

What have you done to me?

I change into my backup dress from the clutch—simple black that doesn't attract attention. But I carefully fold the Versace, keeping his mark on it. Evidence of the moment everything changed.

The service corridor is empty as I make my way out. I've done this enough times to be invisible, but tonight I feel exposed. Raw. Like Jax Ryder stripped away seven years of armor with one clumsy collision and a desperate compliment.

The alley behind the Fairmont smells like rain and exhaust. I should be planning my next move against Alexei, analyzing Antoine's contacts, following the money trail.

I press the whiskey-stained silk to my face and breathe him in.

What have you done to me?

For thirteen years, I've been a weapon. Tonight, for the first time since I was sixteen, I felt human.

And that terrifies me more than any target ever could.