Chapter 2 - THREADS OF DECEPTIONThe clock on the wall of my high-security penthouse read 3:00 AM, but sleep was a luxury reserved for men who didn't have a war starting in eighteen hours. In the makeshift dressing room Mateo had hurriedly set up, Clara Higgins was transforming.
She wasn’t just getting dressed; she was architecting a persona.
The woman who wore a yellow raincoat and carried pencils in her hair had vanished. In her place stood Mrs. Clara Moretti: poise incarnate, draped in a midnight-blue velvet gown that clung to her curves like liquid shadow, accented by diamonds Mateo had hastily requisitioned from a safe deposit box.
"Turn around," Clara commanded, holding a strand of pearls like a garrote wire.
I raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe with a glass of scotch in hand. "Excuse me?"
"Turn around, Dante. Your posture is screaming 'Mafia boss hiding a firearm under his armpit.' Drop your left shoulder two inches. Relax your jaw. If you look like you're about to execute someone before the appetizers are served, Vance's security detail will light us up before we reach the coat check."
I stared at her, genuinely astounded. For a decade, men had trembled when I entered a room. This theater dresser was critiquing my posture.
"You’ve spent too much time backstage," I muttered, but I dropped my shoulder anyway.
"I’ve spent ten years managing egos larger than yours, sweetheart," she shot back, stepping close—too close—and adjusting the lapel of my custom Tom Ford tuxedo with nimble, calloused fingers. Her touch lingered for a fraction of a second against my chest, right over where my heart hammered against my ribs. "At theater productions, the actors pretend to kill each other. Tomorrow night, we’re the only ones who know the blood is going to be real."
"Vance is paranoid," I said, looking down into her dark, piercing eyes. "He’ll test you. He likes to slip poison or subtle threats into casual conversation to see who cracks. If he offers you a drink, you don't touch it unless I drink first."
"I don't drink poisoned champagne, Dante. I drink black coffee and pure spite," she replied softly, her gaze dropping to my lips for a split second before snapping back up to my eyes. "Tell me about his security. Where are the blind spots at the Grand Horizon Ballroom?"
For the next three hours, we didn't sleep. We mapped escape routes, memorized aliases, and rehearsed the subtle language of underworld syndicates. I watched her absorb tactical blueprints faster than most of my elite soldiers. She wasn't just surviving; she was hunting.
By dawn, as the first rays of gray light crept over the Manhattan skyline, Clara sat cross-legged on my leather sofa, rubbing her temples.
"Nervous?" I asked, setting a cup of black coffee on the table beside her.
Clara looked up, a fierce, wicked smile playing on her lips. "Not at all. I'm just wondering if my emerald dress will match the color of Vance's blood when you finally put a bullet through his chest."
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I laughed—a sharp, dark sound that echoed in the quiet room.
God help me, I was falling for a woman who wanted to watch the world burn just as much as I did.
