Chapter 15 – Kieran
The back of the black car feels like a pressure chamber. A block from the Aria Grand Hotel, I watch Sylvara in the mirror as she adjusts her raven-feathered mask. The fabric of her dress catches the dim streetlights—black silk, backless, clinging to her like vengeance. A dagger is strapped to her thigh, tight and real, not costume. She looks like art carved for bloodshed.
Tonight, we’re hunting a painting tied to cartel money—one Rizzi funneled through a shell collector’s gallery. If it sells, we tag the buyer and follow the laundering path. If it doesn’t, Sylvara slips in the tracker herself. But none of that makes this safe.
I lean in to fasten the diamond choker around her neck, careful with the clasp. The transmitter’s hidden in its links—silent now, but set to buzz if she double-taps it. A fallback if something goes wrong. My fingers graze the pulse in her throat—fast, steady, controlled.
“You okay?” I ask, voice low.
Her eyes flick to mine in the glass. “I’m not here to be okay. I’m here to finish something.”
Fair enough.
I settle my own mask—black, plain, no flourishes. She wears hers like she was born behind it. But I know what’s underneath: every scar, every memory.
The car smells of leather, metal, and her perfume—jasmine laced with something sharp. I adjust my cufflinks. The pistol under my jacket presses cold against my ribs. We’re Henri and Sabine Moreau tonight, forged credentials and falsified wealth tied to three offshore accounts I’ve memorized down to the routing digits. She plays the enthusiast; I play the bank.
Our cover’s tight. But my gut is off.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
She turns from the mirror, mask obscuring all but her mouth. “Yes, I do.”
The driver taps the steering wheel twice. Showtime.
I open the door, stepping out first. The Vegas night air snaps cool against my face. Sylvara exits after me, heels clicking as she joins me at the curb. She takes my arm, grip firm, like she’s holding more than just character.
Inside the Aria’s lobby, chandeliers bloom overhead, glinting off polished marble. My hand rests against her bare back as we pass through security. She doesn’t flinch. The guards glance at the names on our invitation and wave us through. Our names were pre-cleared days ago—DeFiorenzos’s auctions may be masked, but identity is currency here. Everyone’s pretending to be someone, and everyone knows it.
The elevator doors whisper shut behind us. I watch our reflection in the polished walls. From a distance, we look perfect—controlled, powerful, untouchable.
But I know the stakes. I know what Rizzi did to her mother. What he nearly did to me.
“Keep your distance,” I murmur. “If he recognizes you—”
“He won’t,” she cuts in. “And if he does, I’ll still finish what I came for.”
I don’t reply. I just watch her eyes in the reflection—sharp, storm-colored. She’s already gone somewhere I can’t follow.
The elevator slows. My hand finds the small of her back. This is where the job begins.
The penthouse doors open to a ballroom of velvet and gold, glittering like a wound dressed in silk. Chandeliers drip light over priceless frames and polished predators. The room smells like old money and fresh rot.
Sylvara slips into step beside me. We move as one—partnership layered over tension. Her mask hides her face, but not her aura. She belongs here, more than I ever could.
Eyes swivel as we enter—quick glances, then longer ones. Men clock her dress. Women assess her diamonds. Everyone here is dangerous.
A smooth voice slices through the hum.
“Mr. and Mrs. Moreau,” says Roland DeFiorenzos, the auctioneer. Sleek suit, silver hair, smile too perfect. “A pleasure to welcome such refined collectors.”
“Thank you,” I say evenly. My eyes flick to the clear piece of tech tucked into his ear. The guards must have told him we were on our way in.
First-class service.
Sylvara nods with a practiced smile, arm still looped through mine. Her fingers graze the back of my hand once—our silent check-in.
Roland gestures to the open gallery, and we drift in. Around us, power moves beneath the chatter—cartel lieutenants, shell-company heirs, men who fund wars from the shadows.
Then I feel the air shift.
Tony Rizzi.
He enters like he’s walking into a kingdom, not a ballroom. Same smug grin, same too-tight suit. His weight has changed, but not his presence. Every conversation quiets. Heads tilt subtly in his direction.
Sylvara goes rigid next to me—barely perceptible, but I feel it like a tremor.
I tighten my grip on her hand. “Easy,” I murmur.
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.
Rizzi makes his rounds—kisses a hand here, slaps a shoulder there. Then his eyes land on us.
He slows.
He’s looking at her.
A break falls between lots. A bronze sculpture rolls off the floor, and before I can shift positions, Rizzi is moving our way.
Sylvara’s mask stays fixed, but I can feel her heart beating fast against my arm.
He stops in front of us, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Something about you,” he says to her. His voice is slower now, like he's chasing memory. “You remind me of someone I met in Florence. Years ago. Painted with her hands. Left blood in the canvas.”
Sylvara tilts her head, smile light. “I’ve never been to Florence,” she says. “But I do know how to leave a mark.”
Rizzi laughs, low and sharp. “I bet you do.”
I step forward, angling slightly between them.
“My wife has exquisite taste,” I say coolly. “I just sign the checks.”
He glances at me then, like I’ve interrupted something sacred. His eyes linger too long. Then he smiles—a thin, crooked thing.
“Lucky man,” he mutters, and saunters off.
Sylvara lets out a breath. I catch it before it escapes too far.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
She nods once. But her pulse tells a different story.
The crowd swells again, folding in on itself like tidewater. Glasses clink, laughter buzzes—thin, performative. The next lot rolls out, and I can tell even before the curtain lifts that it’s the one we came for.
Roland’s voice rises, clear and practiced. “Next lot: an original from the Palermo estate—rescued before the gallery fire in ‘09. Oil on canvas. Untitled. Provenance guaranteed.”
The painting slides into view under spotlights. Deep reds, shadows knifing through empty space. Blood and smoke sealed under varnish.
Sylvara squeezes my hand—subtle but firm. Confirmation.
This is it.
Rizzi's money flowed through this canvas. The bank records, the coded brushstroke entries in her father's journal, all pointed here. And now, it’s center stage.
The plan is simple: if someone buys the piece, I tag them. If no one bites, Sylvara steps in with her fake bid and plants the tracker while the auction team moves the painting to the backroom. We’re not here to win. We’re here to trace.
Bidding begins. Low, almost disrespectful. But it climbs fast. A woman in silver raises her paddle. Then a man in a navy suit counters. Rizzi watches from the bar, arms folded, drink untouched.
Sylvara leans in, voice barely above the breath between us. “Tag’s in my clutch. Lined under the flap. If the guy in navy wins, I can intercept during handoff.”
My eyes track the bidder. He’s cartel—Eastern route, mid-tier muscle. Probably laundering for someone bigger. That makes the tag even more critical.
“You’re sure he’s clean enough to reach?” I ask.
She nods, already calculating.
Another bid lands—high enough to narrow the room. Roland milks the pause. The man in navy lifts his paddle again.
Sold.
Applause follows like dry leaves. The painting disappears behind black curtains.
Sylvara shifts, clutch already in hand. “I’ve got ten minutes before the transfer.”
I don’t like it. There are too many moving parts. Too many chances for someone to recognize her—or stop her.
I catch her wrist gently. “You sure you want to do this alone?”
She meets my eyes. Her mask hides everything but the blaze behind it.
“I was alone when I survived the first time,” she says. “This is just cleanup.”
She slips away before I can answer, heels vanishing into the noise.
I hold position, eyes scanning the room. Rizzi is talking to Roland now, laughing like nothing matters. But I see the glint in his eyes. He’s watching every movement, even when he pretends not to.
My hand brushes the grip of my pistol again.
I count the seconds. Seven minutes pass. Then ten. Then twelve.
Panic hums in my spine, but just as I’m about to move—
She returns.
Hair intact. Mask straight. Breathing even. Her clutch swings lightly from her wrist.
“It’s tagged,” she whispers. “No complications.”
Relief nearly drops me. But I don’t let it show.
I offer my arm again. She takes it.
We blend back into the crowd. The painting is gone. The buyer is marked. Rizzi’s operation just lost a layer of protection.
Mission complete.
But none of that settles me.
Because somewhere between the velvet walls and the smell of oil paint and sweat, I realized something I can’t afford to say out loud.
She’s not just part of the plan anymore.
She is the plan.
And I don’t know if that makes me her shield… or her weakness.
The ballroom shifts around us. More lots. More lies. We smile, we play our parts. But behind every mask, something real begins to flicker.
Something dangerous.