Chapter 36
Chapter thirty-six
EMMA EASTON
The cabin smells like coffee and gun oil.
Rafe cleaned his weapons at the table before sunrise with Nico and Kieran.
Adela has her laptop open with three external drives plugged in.
Green and white lines of code flicker across her screen, reflected in her glasses.
“I can’t break it,” she says for the third time, frustration oozing from her.
“You said that,” I reply quietly. “Explain it again for me?”
Rafe leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching her instead of me. He hasn’t blinked in what feels like fifteen minutes.
Adela exhales through her nose. “It’s mirrored. Segmented. Think of it like—” She grimaces. “Like a cathedral of servers. Each wing holds a piece. You burn one wing, the others stay standing.”
Micah shifts beside me, his hand brushing mine in an apparent attempt to calm me. “So there’s no…central vault?” he asks.
“There might be,” Adela says. “But it’s not accessible from the outside. And every entry point I find redirects to a dead channel. It’s intentional. Designed for interference.”
“Dead-man structure,” Rafe mutters.
I look at him. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he says calmly, “if something happens to Alexei, something else happens automatically.”
I tighten my grip on my mug. “So if we take Jude or kill Alexei,” I say slowly, “he could release everything. I really wanted to get it erased before we rescued him.”
“He could,” Rafe says. “But sometimes, the perfect rescue doesn’t go according to plan. Trust me, I’d know.” He glances at Nico and Kieran, who both nod in agreement.
Micah’s jaw flexes. “What would we do if he did just publish it all?”
Rafe tilts his head slightly. “Then you deal with the fallout. You need to understand that in order to save Jude’s life...he may have to go to prison.”
“Rafe—”
“I know that’s not what you want to hear,” he says. “But it’s the truth.”
I sigh, taking another sip of my coffee. It’s the third cup I’ve had this morning.
Adela turns her laptop so we can see. “Look.” She zooms in on something I barely understand. “There are layered protections outside his internal system. External backups. Offshore routing. It’s not just one trigger. But the main location for the files is with someone else, also located in Moscow.”
Rafe nods once. “Insurance.”
Micah leans onto the table, placing his hands flat against the wood. “I don’t care about the fallout. I want him alive,” he says firmly. “We solve the rest after. I want to save my best friend. The longer we wait...” he trails off.
I swallow hard because I understand what he’s saying. I want nothing more than for Jude to be back with us safely. But the idea of the blackmail getting released is terrifying. I don’t even know the worst of what he’s done...and he’s likely done some horrific things since being with Alexei.
“If we pull him,” I say, “and something triggers—”
“We deal with it,” Micah cuts in.
“How?” I demand. “If footage drops? If names surface? If—”
“Emma.”
I look at him.
“We can’t out-hack this right now,” he says. “We can’t out-wait it either. Every day he stays there, he gets worse. This is our only immediate shot. The party is booked. This is it. I know we’re not ready...but we can’t back out.”
I set my coffee on the table and pinch the bridge of my nose. I have a headache.
Micah steps closer to me. “He’s not walking out on his own,” he says. “You know that.”
I do. Jude would stay out of obligation or some twisted belief that he deserves it.
He would light himself on fire if it meant keeping us safe.
That’s what prevented him from taking much action before.
That's what drove him to protect Micah from Adriana.
He was too nervous about our involvement, especially when Alexei came into the picture.
My throat throbs.
Rafe checks his watch casually. “We proceed, then,” he says.
Micah nods immediately, and all eyes turn to me.
I swallow. “We proceed,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
Rafe gives a small, satisfied nod. “Good. Let’s go over everything one more time, shall we?”
The mansion is absolutely massive. All white stone and black glass, with lights spilling from its windows.
Gravel crunches beneath arriving cars, filled with people who know Rafe personally or at least know of him.
The attached dining hall is specifically meant to host large events.
It’s massive, rectangular, with tall windows stretching nearly floor to ceiling along one wall.
Chandeliers hang overhead, offering a warm glow.
At the far end, a raised stage waits beneath soft lighting.
Round tables dressed in ivory cloth fill the center of the space, already half-occupied by men and women whose watches cost more than my childhood home, I’m sure.
Rafe walks in through the front entrance, the only one of us not in a disguise.
He’s wearing a dark suit with no tie, and his posture alone is intimidating.
People move when he does. He orchestrated this entire event with just a handful of phone calls.
Watching him work is like watching someone conduct a freaking orchestra.
I steady the tray in my hands and pretend I don’t know him.
A black lace bodysuit and fishnet leggings cling to my body.
I’ve never worn anything like this, so to say I’m slightly uncomfortable is the understatement of the damn year.
The masquerade mask hides enough of my face to make me anonymous, thankfully.
My legs push me automatically as I weave between clusters of guests in tailored suits and silk dresses, offering champagne flutes and Michelin level appetizers.
It’s crazy...I’ve never seen any of these people before, but they all have their hands in bloody pots.
Could be drugs, human trafficking, weapons, etc.
I’m positive that there are people in here who have killed ruthlessly, without a care in the world.
And gotten away with it with ease. All I see when I look into their expressions is people with sociopathic tendencies.
The ones with the darkest eyes, however, I see straight psychopathy.
Adela moves easily through the crowd, her black mask sharp and elegant over her blue eyes.
Heather smiles at passing guests, but I can tell she’s nervous.
Micah keeps his shoulders slightly hunched, playing the part of hired help, but he never lets Heather out of his sight.
His shoulder-length blonde hair is tied back with strands framing his face.
Nico and Kieran sit upstairs in the main house, checking the cameras for us to help be our eyes.
Everything looks good so far.
“Hey, lovely.”
I whirl around to see a drunk, bald Russian man reaching for my ass. But before I can tell him to leave me alone, Adela slaps his hand away.
“No touching the help,” she says, her tone demanding yet sultry. “Mr. Vaughan wouldn’t approve of such behavior.”
He smirks, but backs off.
I let out a huge breath. “Thanks.”
She grins. “I’m more used to these kinds of men than you’d think.
I meet with them almost daily back at home.
” And then she’s off, flitting through the crowd like this role is just easy for her.
I offer a drink to a silver-haired man who barely glances at me.
And as I turn to continue my rounds, I freeze when my eyes land on someone familiar.
Adriana stands near one of the hallways branching off from the main corridor, red gown hugging her body, dark hair cascading over one shoulder.
She’s looking nervous tonight, chewing her fingernail.
They must be in trouble, considering she still hasn’t posted on Instagram.
Or maybe her phone has been taken. That’s more likely.
A man with messy short blonde hair and startling blue eyes catches her wrist and tugs her toward the hallway.
It happens fast enough that most people wouldn’t register it as force.
But I do. I shift slightly, angling my body so I can see without being obvious.
He pushes her back against the wall just out of the main sightline.
His hand plants beside her head. He leans down and kisses her roughly.
Adriana’s body stays still. She doesn’t melt into it or even respond. Her hands rest on his chest, like she wants to push him off of her.
My stomach clenches so hard it almost tips the tray in my hands. I force myself to look away before someone notices I’m staring. And just then, a guitar cuts through the dining hall. My breath stops as the lights in the dining hall dim slightly, a spotlight pouring over the stage. And there he is.
He stands beneath the lights with a black electric guitar slung low across his frame, fingers already moving effortlessly. His voice rolls into the microphone, filling the cavernous space with the opening lines of “Papercuts” by MGK.
My chest feels like it’s been ripped open looking at him.
I glance over my shoulder and see Micah staring up at him as well.
He looks even worse today than he did last week.
There’s a fresh bruise along the side of his face.
Another shadow curls faintly around his throat, half-hidden by the collar of his black shirt.
Rage flashes so hard through me that it makes me dizzy, but I keep walking, offering drinks and pretending my heart isn’t trying to claw its way out of my chest. His eyes lift briefly from beneath his lashes as he sings. And for one suspended, dangerous second—
They find mine. But he doesn’t react.
I release the breath I was holding. I move closer to the stage, the long, drawn-out note of the chorus forcing goosebumps over my skin. He’s incredible. He sings like they don’t own him.
I’m getting closer to the stage when Nico’s voice cracks through my earpiece. “Additional men. Back entrance. Ten, maybe twelve more.”
My heart leaps into my throat at that as I smile and hand a woman a glass of champagne.