23. Atara
Atara
"No, no, that's not a sky piece," Maeve says, gently pulling my hand back. She's holding a piece of cardboard over the puzzle like she's about to operate. "That's a cloud piece. See the little white edge? The sky's darker."
I laugh and rock back on my heels. My legs are going numb, but the sunroom is warm and full of that gold morning light that makes the compound feel like an ordinary, boring house.
"You're right. You've got a better eye for this than I do, Maeve.
I'm starting to think you're the real accountant here. "
She grins, showing the gap where a tooth used to be. "I'm good at finding things. Daddy says I have observant eyes."
"Your daddy's right." I pick up a piece of the cactus. "You're very observant."
"Atara?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you ever going to go back to New York?"
I look at the puzzle, the half-finished dessert, and then at her. She's waiting, dark eyes solemn.
Honestly, I’ve been trying my best not to think about that. I don’t know the answer to this very simple question.
"I don't know, Maeve. Things are… complicated right now."
"Daddy says complicated things are just problems that need a good map," she says, fitting the cloud piece into the sky.
Before I can answer, the double doors swing open.
Lorcan comes in dressed in a tailored charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled, all wrong for a lazy morning. He stops a few feet off, his gaze moving from Maeve to me.
"Good morning," he says.
"Morning." I keep it neutral and stay on the puzzle. My heart's already doing the stupid, frantic thing it does whenever he walks in. "You're early."
"I have news." He steps closer, his shadow falling over the table. "The investors are hosting a gala in three days. They've specifically asked for you. They were taken with your work in the boardroom."
I look up. A gala. A high-society mafia event full of tuxedos and diamonds, where I'll be on display like something they're proud to own.
"The investors asked for me," I say, lifting an eyebrow. "Or did you tell them I was the best thing you had?"
He gives me the slow half-smile, the one that never reaches his eyes but changes the whole set of his face. "Let's say they're very interested in the person who cleaned up the mess they couldn't."
"Is Silas going?" The name sits sour on my tongue.
His expression flattens. "He'll be there. It's important enough that he can't afford to stay away. It's a target-rich room, Atara. Which is exactly why I'm bringing you."
"A trap," I say, and feel a pull of something that isn't only fear.
"A trap," he agrees. "And I need your head for it. We're building the layout this afternoon. War Room, two o'clock."
He turns to go, then pauses and looks at Maeve, his eyes softening. "Behave."
"I am, Daddy!" she says, indignant.
He walks out, and I'm left with the blue sky pieces. A gala. A trap. A chance to see Silas in the light. And, low in the back of my mind, the sense that my life is about to get a great deal more complicated.
The War Room at two o’clock is a whirlwind of tactical maps and digital schematics.
Lorcan is at the head of the table, his fingers moving across the touchscreens with a speed that shouldn't be possible for a man his size. I’m on the other side of the table, my notebook open, my brain mapping the logistics of the event.
"The eastern flank is exposed," I say, pointing to the architectural layout of the ballroom. "If Silas moves in from the side entrance, your security detail will be trapped between the buffet and the terrace. You need a buffer zone."
Lorcan looks at the map, then at me. His eyes are dark, intense, and completely focused. "The buffer zone is already accounted for, Atara. I’m pulling three men from the perimeter."
"And leaving the exit vulnerable?" I shake my head. "No. That’s a mistake. You’re overestimating the defensive perimeter. You need to pull the men from the kitchen. It’s a service corridor, they won't expect it."
Lorcan stares at me for a long beat. "That’s risky."
"It’s efficient," I counter. "And it’s exactly what Silas wouldn't expect. You’re thinking like a Don, Lorcan. I’m thinking like an auditor. Give me the flaw."
He laughs, a short, sharp sound. He leans back, his eyes tracking my face. "You really are a dangerous woman."
We go through the plan, layer by layer, trap by trap.
It’s a strange, electric process. Our minds move at the same speed, snapping pieces of the strategy into place as if we’ve been working together for years.
I find myself forgetting, just for a second, that he’s the man who kidnapped me. I’m just focused on the win.
Then, I see the guest list.
It’s displayed on the main monitor, scrolling in a neat, alphabetical list. I scan through names. Senators, regional capos, a couple of tech CEOs.
And then —what the fuck?!
Mark Sterling. Sterling & Hunt.
My heart stops. My vision blurs for a heartbeat.
Mark?
What the hell is Mark doing at a mafia gala? Did he get the job? Is this the "optics" he was talking about? Is this the "different phase" of his life?
I keep my face perfectly blank. I don't breathe. I don't look up. I just scroll past his name, my thumb hovering over the tablet screen until the text moves on.
My brain is screaming. Mark. The spreadsheet-obsessed, cowardly little worm who traded our five-year relationship for a desk at a firm that—wait.
If he’s at this gala, he’s working for someone here. And if he’s working for someone here...
"Atara?"
I look up. Lorcan is watching me. His eyes are observant, sensing the shift in my energy. "You stopped scrolling. Is there an issue?"
"No," I say, my voice steady. "Just thinking about the guest list. There are a lot of people here who have absolutely no business being near a man like Silas. It’s going to be a bloodbath if we’re not careful."
"We’ll be careful," he says. He stands up and walks around the table toward me. He stops just behind my chair, the heat from his body calming me softly, and his scent clouding my brain in ways that I should hate but can’t. "Is there anyone on that list who concerns you?"
"Only the ones who don't know who they’re dealing with," I lie.
He leans down, his hands resting on the back of my chair, trapping me in place. "I can handle the guests, Atara. You just focus on the trap."
"I am," I say, turning in the chair to look at him. "I’m focused."
He stares at me for a long, heavy beat, his eyes searching mine as if he’s looking for a hidden account number. Then, he leans down, his mouth inches from mine.
"You’re a terrible liar," he says, his voice a low, raspy hum. "But for now, I’ll let it slide."
He moves away, toward the weapons locker. "At the Gala, you’re going to be a target. Silas wants to show me he can get to you. You need to be able to protect yourself."
He pulls a small, black-handled blade from the rack. It’s light, balanced, and sharp as a razor. He walks back to me and places it on the table.
"It’s a concealment knife," he says, picking it up. He shows me the mechanism, a quick, fluid slide of the thumb. "It’s small enough to hide in your clutch. Discreet, but effective."
He moves behind me, his hands reaching around to guide mine. He holds my hand, his palm warm against the back of my fingers. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off his chest, his breath hot against my hair.
"Hold it here," he says, his voice a low, rough rumble. He guides my hand, his grip firm and steady. "The balance is in the handle. Don't fight the weight. Let it work for you."
He moves my hand, sliding the blade in a quick, precise arc through the air. "It’s not about strength. It’s about speed. And it’s about where you aim."
He guides my hand, his thumb resting over mine on the hilt. Every touch is agonizing. Every time his skin brushes against mine, I feel a jolt of electricity that makes my stomach turn. He’s showing me how to kill, and he’s doing it with an intimacy that makes me want to scream.
"Like this," he says, and he pulls me back against him. His chest is hard behind me. He takes my hand and guides the blade in an upward motion, aimed at an invisible throat. "You catch them off guard. You don't ask. You just end it."
He stops, his hand lingering over mine. He’s pressing against me, his body heat seeping into my back.
"Atara," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave.
"Yes?" I breathe.
"You’re doing this all wrong."
He drops the knife onto the table and spins me around, his hands gripping my hips, staring at me, his eyes dark, his breathing heavy.
"You’re focusing on the mechanics," he says, his hands sliding up to my waist. "You need to focus on the intent."
He pulls me in, his body flush against mine. The friction of his trousers against my skirt is immediate, a hard, heavy promise. He tilts my head back, his eyes burning into mine.
"You want to know how to use it?" he growls. "You have to be ready to use it."
He presses his lips to my neck, biting down gently, and I let out a sharp, ragged gasp. My hands go to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt.
"Lorcan," I whisper.
"Show me," he says, his voice a growl. "Show me you can be as dangerous as I need you to be."
He kisses me, and I let him.
That night, I stand at my bedroom window, the small knife clutched in my hand.
I look at the blade. It’s a cold, sharp, metallic thing. It’s a tool for survival. A tool for killing.
I’m not the woman I was three months ago. I’m not the girl who cried over a graduation dress. I’m not the girl who cared about a 3.9 GPA or a walkable studio apartment in Brooklyn.
I’m not a hostage. I’m a player.
And for the first time in my life, I don't want to get out.
I want to win.
I slip the knife into its sheath, the leather cool against my skin. I turn away from the window, my reflection ghosting in the dark glass.
Let the Gala begin.
I’m ready.