Chapter 1
ONE
KEIRA
Past
As soon as I step inside the club, I'm greeted with sticky floors and the lovely smell of sweat mixed with overpriced liquor.
This exchange could have happened at a more upscale location, but I suppose that would defeat the purpose of blending in. I'm supposed to be invisible tonight. Watch the switch. Clock the players. Report back to the boss and hopefully be in bed before midnight.
Simple enough.
I scan the room from my booth, tracking movement, counting exits like I always do.
Two men walk in from the back—one in a gray coat, the other in navy.
They're late and they stick out like sore thumbs.
No one else seems to take note, though, as they make their way to the other end of the circular bar and—
Holy mother of god.
Now that's a treat for the eyes.
A tall man in a dark suit steps into my line of sight, cutting cleanly between me and my targets.
Sharp jaw, broad shoulders, a muscular build that's obvious even from across the room.
Half the women in here are staring at him.
He's got unfairly good hair for someone who was likely standing outside in the London rain moments ago.
He leans casually against the bar like the space was waiting for him. The bartender is already watching him and beelines over. You could catch the blush from the other side of the city.
Honestly, I don't blame her.
He takes his drink and sips it while watching the room the same way I am—with careful calculation.
Wait. Is this guy here for the same job? Who sent him? He doesn't look like he's with the Irish or the Italians.
Of course I'd have a blocker in place. On tonight of all nights when I was hoping for an early finish.
Now I have to move from my perfectly good spot that was keeping me hidden, because someone dropped a very inconvenient man directly in my path.
I stand from the booth, grabbing my drink, and as I glance up, our eyes meet across the dim space.
My pulse kicks.
That's odd. It never does that.
Everything goes quiet. Not the music—that's still pounding through the floor—but something inside me just…stops. Like my body forgot what it was doing.
I look away, pretending I didn't see him.
This is stupid. I don't get distracted. I've spent my whole life learning not to feel anything that might make me hesitate, and I've been good at it.
Great at it, actually. Not being bothered by much is what makes me a great operative.
But right now my skin feels too warm, and my brain is forgetting the entire reason I'm here tonight.
If I'm going to be watching my targets, it's better to sit beside this mystery man so I can keep an eye on him too, in case he's after the same thing.
"Is this seat taken?"
"It was." He's already irritated.
This is a waste of time. I should just leave, but instead of turning around, I take the seat beside him.
Close enough to feel the heat coming off his body. "Are you always this charming, or are you giving me the cold shoulder because you're waiting for someone?"
I want to know who he's working for.
"You're blocking my view."
"And what might that be?"
"Something that pays better than small talk."
That's all the confirmation I need. He's here for a job too. "You don't strike me as the type who needs to get paid to enjoy a conversation."
He arches a brow at me. "You don't strike me as the type who needs to force one."
He's got the most fascinating shade of gray-green eyes. It's like they're a blend of both, but one is more dominant than the other.
"Maybe I'm just bored," I say with a shrug.
"Not my problem."
The bartender slides another glass in front of me. I reach for it but don't take a drink, watching the mystery guy in the amber reflection of the liquor bottles as he stares at my targets.
He's grinding his jaw, and I wonder if he's a control freak with a touch of anger when he doesn't get his way.
"You're not very subtle, are you?"
He sighs, then finally looks at me. "I don't follow."
He lifts his drink but doesn't take a sip. Just lets it hover near his mouth like a prop.
Interesting.
In my world, staying busy is camouflage. You look relaxed, unthreatening, while your attention splits in a dozen directions—faces, exits, who's watching who, transactions, interactions. It's how you keep someone talking without ending up dead.
I don't work for governments or badges. I work in the spaces between. Criminal intelligence, contract jobs—the kind of work the bad guys pay for when they need something handled quietly and without their name attached.
And I know this guy is in the same line of work.
"You seem like the type who's all about power and control."
His eyes slide to mine, and my skin prickles instantly. "And you're the type who talks too much."
Ouch.
Was that supposed to insult me? Because I find his bluntness amusing.
It's been so long since someone has talked to me like that.
Most people shrink from my independence, from the edges I've sharpened deliberately in this line of work.
I let them think whatever they want because it's easier and keeps me effective.
But this guy doesn't give a shit, and I kind of like it.
"Would you rather I sit here quietly while you stare at the two men about to exchange an envelope near the back exit?"
His eyes cut to mine, and every muscle in his body locks into place.
Fighting mode engaged.
His features turn neutral, and my heart picks up the pace because I was stupid enough to give myself away.
Bloody hell.
He leans in close, and the scent hits me first. Teakwood and something golden underneath, clean and uncomfortably addictive.
"Careful," he murmurs, and I feel it more than hear it. "That kind of guesswork can get you killed."
"It wasn't a guess."
Oh, do shut up.
I grab my drink and drain it in three swallows.
Ice clinks against my teeth. The vodka burns, but it gives me something to focus on instead of the fact that I just compromised my mission.
I could get fired over a mistake like this.
Worse, I could get killed and my body dumped in a body of water, never to be seen again.
His eyes move past my shoulder.
I turn just in time to see the exchange happening between Gray Coat and Navy Coat. A quick brush of hands near the back corner booth.
I'm moving toward them before they're done, cutting through the crowd, eyes on the restrooms as if that's my intent.
Navy Coat turns perfectly, and I force him to bump into me.
"Oh god, I'm so sorry—" I catch his arm to steady myself, leaning in with a smile that's all apology and charm. My other hand slides along his coat, fingers finding the envelope tucked inside his jacket pocket. "I wasn't watching where I was going."
He blinks down at me, caught off guard.
"No harm done." His accent is thick—Eastern European, maybe.
I let my hand linger on his sleeve, tilting my head like I'm admiring the hell out of him. "You sure? I feel terrible."
"Really, it's fine." He's already dismissed me, eyes scanning the room for his exit.
"Well, if you're sure." I step back, the envelope now pressed against my ribs under my arm. "Have a good night."
He nods, already walking away.
I turn and slip into the back hall before my hands start shaking.
The music fades. My pulse is everywhere—throat, wrists, pounding behind my eyes. The envelope feels warm and completely out of place against my skin.
This wasn't the plan.
I was supposed to watch. Not lift the goddamn envelope myself.
Footsteps echo behind me.
"Hey!"
My stomach flips as I turn to see Teakwood.
Mary Joseph.
At least it's not one of the coats.
I push through the side door into the warehouse section, heels clicking loudly against concrete.
"Stop."
No fucking chance, buddy.
"Give me the envelope."
I keep walking. "Ask nicely."
"Now. I won't chase you."
"You already are," I shout back over my shoulder, low-key loving this little chase.
I stop and turn because I want to see his face. Want to know if he feels it too—this sick, twisted pull that doesn't make sense.
That's when I realize he's closer than I expected. Close enough that I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls too fast.
"Do you even know what's in it?" I ask.
"Do you?"
"Enough to know your boss is going to lose his mind when he finds out I got here first."
He moves and I sidestep, slipping into the next hall. Once I'm near the crates, I feel him getting close, so I turn, tossing the envelope in the air and catching it just to watch the anger in his eyes.
"You're persistent. I'll give you that."
"Funny. I didn't think you were suicidal."
"Depends who you ask."
So he's a funny man too. That makes it a bit more difficult when I have to get rid of him.
He closes the distance in three steps and catches my wrist. His grip is firm and warm, and my pulse jumps so violently I'm worried he can feel it.
"Hand it over."
I tilt my head, trying to breathe normally. "You always this demanding, or am I just special?"
"I guess special, since you're still breathing—but not for long."
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. "Is that supposed to scare me?"
"It's a fact."
"How's that working out for you?"
His grip tightens and heat spreads up my arm. "You've got no idea what losing looks like."
I lean in closer, just enough to make him tense. "Maybe I like finding out."
A dangerous look flickers across his face, and his gorgeous eyes drop to my mouth. Just for a second, but it's long enough that I forget how to think properly.
My hand moves behind my back, but he's faster.
He spins me, and I hit the wall so hard it knocks the breath from my lungs. The envelope crumples between us. His body cages me in, and he's so close I can feel his heartbeat hammering against my ribs.
Or maybe that's mine.
"Hand it over."
I meet his eyes, fighting the urge to smile. "No. You gonna frisk me?"
"Don't tempt me."
"Pretty sure I already did."
His jaw clenches, and I watch the muscle jump. "You're really testing my patience."
"Good," I breathe. "I was starting to think you didn't have any."
He takes my wrist and pulls hard. The switchblade hits the floor with a metallic clatter.
We both stare at it.
The famous Irish mafia Doyle mark is etched into the handle, staring back at us.
Ah, shit.
"Doyle? Are you fucking kidding me?"
I don't answer.
His hand moves to my collarbone, fingers pressing just enough that I feel my heartbeat trapped beneath them. "Who sent you?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does when you're carrying their blade and stealing from me."
"Technically, I stole from Navy Coat. You just happened to be watching."
His grip tightens. "You think this is funny?"
"Maybe."
Whatever ease he was wearing slips for half a second. Maybe he feels this pull too. This wrongness that somehow feels right.
"What's your name?"
I tilt my chin up. "Why? So you can put it on my headstone?"
"So I know what to call you when I find you again."
I pout. "I thought you were going to finish me off tonight."
He rolls his eyes. "We'll have to save it for next time."
"Bold assumption you'll get the chance."
His thumb brushes my throat. "That wasn't an assumption."
Heat spreads through my chest, and I hate that my body's betraying me like this. "You're awfully confident for someone who just let me take his envelope."
"I didn't let you do anything."
"Then how am I still holding it?"
For a second I think he might actually hurt me, and honestly, I'm worried I might want him to.
So not the time, Keira.
"You're going to regret this," he says quietly.
"Probably…but not tonight." My voice comes out weird and breathy.
Ew. Get it together.
His grip loosens just enough, and I don't hesitate this time, ducking under his arm and stepping away—even though every instinct I have is yelling at me to stay exactly where I am.
"See you around, Teakwood."
"Count on it, Red." His voice trails after me.
I walk away casually, as if my pulse isn't skidding out of control. For no reason at all. I got away with it, and I'll never see this man again, so I'm not sure why I'm all shaky.
The moment I turn the corner, I let myself breathe.
Not because I'm afraid he'll come after me.
I'm scared that if I stayed one more second, I would have turned back. Let him pull me in again and pin me against the wall just so I could feel the steady thud of his heart against mine one last time.
For the plot, of course.