2. VERDICT
TWO
verdict
Pippa
The moment Enzo Luciano disappears into the swirl of bodies and bourbon, my pulse spikes like a warning flare. That wasn’t a casual introduction. That was a power play—smooth, deliberate, dangerous. And for one dizzy second, it worked.
It wasn’t his muscular frame, the sharp suit, the chiseled jaw, or the way his voice dragged over my name like soulful jazz. No, of course not—I don’t let men affect me like that. The issue was his presence. He wanted me to know I was on his radar. And fuck, that is a problem.
I knew who he was before his little introduction.
Of course I did. We’ve got files on every mafia boss in the Americas and Eastern Europe, and Enzo Luciano’s file is as thick as they come.
But nothing could have prepared me for the reality of him.
Too tall, too close, too encompassing, and way too focused on me.
We’ve made it a point to not cross paths with men like him. Staying off the radar of the mafia bosses is half the job, but McCarter insisted on coming here tonight. In a place this size, I assumed I could go unnoticed. So why the hell did it feel like he just zeroed in on me like I was his mark?
I excuse myself with a polite smile and some throwaway line about “freshening up.” The Speaker barely notices.
I could tell him I’m stepping out to join his wife for an orgy, and he’d just smile and adjust his cufflinks.
The man is basically deaf and still recovering from a recent stroke.
How men of his age and health are allowed to run this country, I’ll never understand.
The second I hit the hallway, I ditch the smile.
My heels echo against the marble tiles on my way to the private bathroom tucked behind the wine walls on display.
As soon as the door closes, I press two fingers to the tiny mic tucked under my hairline, ensuring it’s still in place.
I then move my fingers further down my hairline, feeling the faint ridge where the tracker sits.
Small as a grain of rice, big enough to find a sister in trouble.
“Code Janice,” I whisper.
The crackle of the device fills my ear briefly.
“Talk to me,” Jules cuts in, voice low and steady.
I lean over the sink, staring down at my trembling fingers. “What do you make of that interaction with Luciano?”
“Okay, yeah. That was unexpected,” Luna says, voice light but laced with concern.
“Enzo Luciano isn’t known for making small talk with strangers.
Especially not when they’re sitting with the Speaker of the House, who is definitely on his client roster.
I can’t imagine they are supposed to be seen together in public. ”
Luna verbally processes. Usually, it’s helpful. Right now, I feel like she’s pointing out all the reasons for me to be worried, spiking my anxiety.
“But,” Luna continues, “he didn’t challenge you or make a scene. He pretended not to know McCarter. To be honest, he seemed a bit strained. Probably flustered by your swagger.”
“I told you that jumpsuit was a power move,” Jules jokes. “The man looked like he forgot how to breathe.”
The air feels heavier when I exhale, like it now carries everything I’ve been holding in. Enzo Luciano unnerved me and I can’t pinpoint why. “You think I should abort?”
“No,” Jules says sharply. “He’s got your last name and a gut feeling. That’s not enough. And Luna has eyes on him; he’s already left. I’ve got eyes on McCarter. Everything is going as planned.”
“And the tox panel will be clean—you made the compound yourself,” Luna reminds me. “We’ve run every angle. McCarter’s heart failure won’t happen for a week, and it will look textbook.”
“This is our best shot. Getting back on McCarter’s calendar will be suspicious.” Jules is firmer. “It’s taken almost a year to get this kind of unfettered access to him. Plus, the gala is only a month away.”
Fuck, she’s right. I know she’s right. It’s not like me to second-guess a plan, especially not mid-op like this.
I take a few deep breaths. Slow. Measured.
I run cold water over my wrists to cool my temperature.
Collected, I look up into the mirror and square my shoulders.
I’m not letting some GQ mobster shake me with a lingering handshake and eye contact. I’m Pippa fucking Saint James.
“Copy that,” I whisper. “Going back in.”
A pep talk from my sisters was exactly what I needed. My center of gravity snaps back in place. Nothing about tonight will trace back to us. It never does. We’re too careful about that.
He just got under my skin. That’s all it is—too much intensity in those dark eyes, too much heat in that look. Probably just his damn dangerous bad-boy look wrapped in a well-tailored suit. Every woman’s wet dream, mine included.
I return to the bar, calm disguise firmly back in place. “Ready to get out of here?” I ask. I slip my hand onto McCarter’s arm with a level of comfort that makes us look way more intimate than we really are.
He downs the last of his drink and stands. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Hotel’s just around the corner,” I say, practiced and effortless.
“Convenient,” he mutters with a smirk, following my lead.
I just smile demurely, selling the desire.
He believes young women want him for his power, his connections, his money.
I am well-rehearsed in selling men like him that illusion.
But I know most of the women in his orbit aren’t choosing him; they are trying to survive him.
Tonight is only “convenient” for the girls and boys who’ll never find themselves locked in his basement ever again.
Because after tonight, Speaker Max McCarter’s reign of secret terror ends.
Moments later, we arrive at the hotel. My jade green jumpsuit now unzipped halfway in the front to tease. His eyes are glued to my chest like I’m a prize he already believes he owns.
Inside the hotel suite, I slide out of the jumpsuit in one smooth motion, revealing a matching green lace bra and panty set. “Sit,” I command, pointing to the edge of the bed.
McCarter obeys.
I trail my fingers up his chest as I lean down to whisper, “No touching. Not yet.”
His breath stutters.
Good. I pull a deep-green silk tie from my clutch, one that matches the jumpsuit and lingerie. I tie his wrists to the headboard, slow and deliberate.
He chuckles, clearly turned on by the charade of losing control.
I take my time being seductive and distracting as I pour him a drink. Can’t let him see what I’m really doing. He’s too distracted by my heels, lingerie, and sensual movements to notice much. Plus, he must be almost blind at this point.
This man is old enough to be my grandfather and is still convinced he’s irresistible. Pathetic, really. But the delusion works in my favor because men like him never see the predator in their midst—only the prey they mistake me to be.
“Drink,” I say, as I tip the glass of dark liquor laced with a potent paralytic down his throat. Tasteless. Fast-acting. Perfected in my own lab.
The Speaker gulps it greedily, high on the power he thinks he has. Within minutes, the muscles in his arms go slack. His smile fades. Confusion flickers in his eyes. “What the hell is this?” he slurs.
I slide onto the bed beside him; all warmth drained from my smile. “I know you don’t know who I am. That’s okay, you don’t need to. But Jared Whiteman made sure I knew who you were. Every dirty little detail.”
Thank you, Daddy Dearest.
McCarter’s eyes widen. He panics, but he’s trapped behind a body that won’t respond.
“Do you even remember your trips to Maribel Island? It must seem so long ago now. I’m sure you thought all your secrets died with him in that jail cell, didn’t you?” I ask, brushing a hand down his arm like a lover.
“You and Jared were such good friends. Living that party life, never worried about any consequences, right? Untouchable. So many powerful men coming and going. Did you ever stop to wonder about the girls funneled in and out of the island?” I lean in, my voice tightening.
“Did you care what you were stealing from them?”
I see it hit, the moment he understands. I pause for dramatic effect. Letting the words sink in. I avoid flashbacks to the island, faintly touching my abdomen where the physical scar has long faded. The touch anchors my mission, reminds me to stay grounded in the present.
McCarter isn’t my first mark from Maribel Island. But he’s the move that forces Magnus Troy into play.
“Of course not. You were owed it, weren’t you? That’s what Jared and Sophie made you believe. That men like you deserve anything they want.” I laugh.
If only those na?ve, powerful men understood the game Jared and Sophie were really playing. They were so evil, but fuck, they were smart. When you hold the dirtiest secrets of the most powerful men in the world, you’re the one with all the power.
McCarter can’t move, can’t speak, but his eyes are frantic now, pleading.
I retrieve the syringe from my purse and gently lift his leg. The needle slides under the crease at the base of his toes, into a patch of thin, wrinkled, forgotten skin. The dose is precise. The effect untraceable. His end has already begun.
He’ll wake up in a few hours, groggy, feeling slightly hungover. He won’t remember anything that happened after we left the bar. But his heart? It’s already on the countdown.
He won’t remember what I said, but my words weren’t really for him—they were for me.
I despise Dad and Sophie for all the pain and suffering they caused.
I wasn’t surprised—or even all that sad—when he died in that jail cell fifteen years ago.
Hundreds of powerful men were terrified he would reveal their secrets.
And they believed killing him would bury the horrors of their actions.
There’s a quiet poetry in knowing those secrets were never theirs to destroy.
My sisters and I have spent the last eight years dismantling the men who used their money and power to abuse children on a private island under Jared Whiteman’s protection. We’ve hidden in plain sight, and they don’t even know we exist. Dad’s only true gift to us was our anonymity.
I untie McCarter’s wrists, smooth his shirt, and straighten the covers like a hotel maid. It’ll look like he passed out. It’ll feel like a wild night he can’t quite remember, but in a week, he’ll be dead.
And in that week, Luna will expose his dirtiest secrets to the public.
If the media catches the trend again, headlines will credit a secret, dark-web group they’ve nicknamed TruthDrop.
Some of the media and law enforcement have caught on enough to know these leaks happen intentionally but somehow keep missing that the men always die of natural causes soon after.
Which means our plan is still effective.
I redress, gather my belongings, and wipe my fingerprints. I confirm my extraction with my sisters. We sign off.
We are never seen in public together. No one can know our connection.
As I walk down the sidewalk, a few blocks from the hotel now, my adrenaline is still high, blood pumping loudly in my ears. I need something to take the edge off and I know just the place.
Should I go to another Luciano establishment tonight? Probably not. But I’m always a little reckless after working my marks. I’ve been increasingly reckless as the gala approaches, come to think of it. My biggest target mere weeks away.
Playing cards at the underground casino at Club14 has a way of calming my nerves. Besides, I’ve never seen Enzo there.
I can’t seem to talk myself out of going. Something about the lies people tell when money’s on the table makes me feel right at home. Because no one bluffs better than a girl raised in silence and motivated by vengeance.