CHAPTER 2
Brynn
Geneva, Switzerland
One Year Ago
This was insane. Not just a little insane.
Not jumping off a train for the story insane.
Not even sneaking past border patrol in a produce truck insane.
This was black-tie, classified-level insanity.
The kind with chandeliers worth more than my student loans and security teams who didn’t buy their suits off the rack.
I’d done border crossings with fake names and a crumpled press pass. I’d walked into war zones with a camera lens and a couple of questions. Walked out with blackmail folded into my scarf. Once, I interviewed a cartel lieutenant at gunpoint. His, not mine. And I still lived to publish the story.
But this? This wasn’t about publishing.
This was a back-channel story. The kind you weren’t supposed to chase. The kind that disappeared people.
I’d spent three weeks triangulating scraps. Offhand quotes. Vanishing social posts. Records that changed between one search and the next. None of it gave me a name I could chase.
Matt had.
And that was how I ended up here, in this hotel, wearing someone else’s badge.
But I smiled anyway. Chin up. Shoulders back. Fingers resting easily on the strap of a clutch I’d accessorized with someone else’s stolen badge.
The scanner chirped. The guard looked up. For a second, I thought I was done.
“Miss Donahue?” he asked, tone neutral.
I smiled, tilting my head just enough to catch the light on the earring. “Of course. Sorry. The line downstairs was chaos.” I rolled my eyes as if I’d spent ten minutes suffering in heels.
He blinked, then nodded. “Enjoy your evening.”
And just like that, I was in.
The lighting was intentional. Dim enough to flatter. Bright enough to expose. Champagne moved like liquid gold on silver trays, the faint scent of polished wood and expensive cologne drifting through the air. Laughter curled around every conversation.
I tracked the servers first. Then the security. Who they watched. Who they didn’t.
Everyone worth noting had a drink in one hand and leverage in the other.
The ballroom stretched wide in faux candlelight and diplomatic performance. Light bounced off cut crystal and sequins like camera flashes popping in a crowd.
Two men clinked glasses near the exhibit entrance, hands apart but eyes locked. A woman in white moved too slowly past me, her glance catching my lanyard. I moved on quickly.
Strings played something elegant, the music slipping between conversations like silk. Voices blended in five languages.
It should’ve been beautiful.
Instead, it reeked of influence. Silks and secrets. A masquerade without masks.
What the hell are you doing here, Hunt?
I didn’t answer myself. Just kept moving.
Perimeter walks. Head high. Pace measured. Belong and no one questions. Falter and they escort you out.
My heels clicked softly on the floor as I scanned the crowd, the sound swallowed quickly by the music and murmured conversations. Always looking without looking.
This wasn’t journalism.
This was recon.
I passed ambassadors. Contractors. A former counterterrorism lead now consulting for twice the money and none of the oversight. Everyone smiling. Everyone lying.
I slipped past a trio of satin-draped women whispering like teenagers at a sleepover. If sleepovers involved arms deals and succession plans.
“I heard they officially ruled Elena’s disappearance a death,” one said, wide-eyed.
“Great,” another replied with a smirk. “He’ll officially be free to marry again.”
“When will the authorities learn?” the third hissed, laughing. “If he’s had this many wives go missing...”
“Well,” the second woman added dryly, “none of them are very bright. Even the ones he pays. We are also talking about the man who seems to think he isn’t the reason any of those wives never conceived.”
They laughed.
I didn’t.
The Sokolov Bratva. Built half its empire in Chicago, the other half in the shadows. Cybercrime. Weapons. Legacy.
But I wasn’t here for Bratva gossip.
Matt had given me one name.
Jameson Mercer.
That was it. No photo. No résumé. No clean history. Just a name, this gala, and Matt’s insistence that if Mercer knew anything about the stories I’d been chasing, Geneva was where I had the best chance of finding him.
He hadn’t told me how he knew that.
Matt had always been selective with the truth, even when we were together. Usually, I could tell whether he was protecting a source or protecting me.
This time, I couldn’t.
I’d spent days trying to find anything about Mercer and came up with almost nothing. Which only made me want to find him more.
So that was the plan. Mingle, drop the name into the right conversations, and watch what happened. Best case, someone pointed me toward Mercer. Worst case, someone reacted badly and I needed to move on quickly.
Either way, it was all I could hope for.
Mercer might be the key to learning why every thread I pulled lately ended in a locked door. The poisoned journalist in Berlin. The CEO who disappeared after testifying on state malware. The Baltic leak that vanished like it never existed.
If it wasn’t him, then someone even better was hiding it.
An hour passed before I found another possibility.
Sixty minutes of smiling, looping, scanning tags and profiles and possibilities. Three fake conversations. One false lead.
And then.
The fourth man.
Early forties. Silver cufflinks. Expensive presence. A full dark beard covered most of his jaw, thick enough to make his expression harder to read.
Not my type. But maybe useful.
I drifted closer and let the smile hook.
He took the bait.
“You’re wasted on logistics,” he said, eyes dipping.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He gave me a lazy once-over. “Pretty woman in a dress like that? You should be modeling encryption, not managing it.”
I dropped my fingers to the neckline and tugged gently. “This body?”
He grinned and pulled me closer. My stomach tightened before I could stop it.
“Come home with me,” he murmured. “Let me find out if the woman is as dangerous as the dress.”
His thumb brushed the edge of my waist, too familiar, too sure. “One hour, kroshka. That’s usually all it takes.”
I kept my expression loose.
Classy.
I giggled. Light, breathless. Let him think he was winning.
Then I remembered the badge.
Donahue. Cryptographic Liaison. Right.
I softened my smile. “And here I thought you were going to whisper secrets, not propositions.”
“Same thing in this room,” he murmured as he spun me and pressed close. One hand at my waist. The other drifted.
I kept my shoulders loose, even as every nerve in my body wanted distance.
“You want dirt?” His mouth brushed my ear, his cologne marked with hints of whiskey. “You’re standing in it.”
His hand slid lower, just enough to make the warning clear. “The trick is knowing which men leave stains and which men bury them.”
I turned and met his gaze. “And what kind of dirt do you have on Jameson Mercer?”
His next step landed half a beat late, just enough to break the rhythm he’d set between us.
Before I could decide whether it meant anything, a younger man stepped between us, tense, a headset tucked against his ear. He leaned in close enough that his next words stayed between the three of us. “Boss. We’ve spotted Gemini.”
The man’s grip tightened once at my waist.
Then released.
A growl of irritation slipped from him as he looked at me one more time and touched my lip with his thumb. I didn’t move until he pulled away.
“Another time, kroshka,” he said.
He handed me a matte black card with just a name on it.
Lev Korovin.
“So you know who noticed you first,” he said, his gaze dragging over me.
And then he disappeared.
Fantastic. Just a glossy card, wasted mascara, and the ghost of his thumb still on my mouth.
All dressed up with no one to interrogate.
I’d arrived early enough to work the room before anyone settled into private conversations, but I’d already exhausted the faces that looked most likely to give me something useful.
The hall bar was cooler than the ballroom, the air tinged with citrus polish and old liquor.
The bartender approached. “What can I get you?”
“Strong,” I said, sliding the flute away. “Surprise me. No fruit. No glitter.”
He nodded and returned a moment later.
The glass was cool against my fingers. I sipped.
It burned just right, warm and slow down my throat.
“I got dressed for a man who probably doesn’t exist,” I muttered into my glass.
The liquor burned again.
I stared at the ballroom in the mirror behind the bar. Suits. Lies. Laughter drifting through the doorway.
Alone.
In a borrowed dress, chasing a phantom.
I should leave.
But the unfinished feeling was gnawing at me.
Like I’d missed the cue.