“Restricted?” Calix narrows his dark, dead eyes. The sickening scent of sandalwood and bourbon rolls off him. “Do you know who I am, bodyguard?”
“I know exactly who you are.” I don’t blink. I don’t break eye contact. “We are conducting a security sweep of the facilities. Standard protocol. You need to return to the ballroom.”
“My fiancé is down that hall.” Calix steps closer. He tries to pull rank on a hired gun. “Move out of my way.”
“She returned to the East Wing Suite.” I lie smoothly, my thumb pressing a button on the small device in my pocket. “She needed to check on her child.”
A sharp, controlled burst of feedback screeches through the security comms of every Costa guard in the ballroom. Heads turn. Earpieces are yanked out. The confusion is instantaneous.
I tap the sub-vocal mic pinned to my collar, the screeching feedback from the security grid masking the slight movement of my jaw.
“Execute,” I command, the words barely a vibration. “Kill the hallway cams. Now.”
Calix sneers, oblivious to the tactical death warrant I just signed for his men.
“That little bastard.” He spits the words out. “The problematic bitch is already causing delays.”
My vision goes red.
The primal urge to slaughter him here on the marble floor consumes my brain. I calculate the exact force required to drive his nasal bridge into his frontal lobe. Roughly four pounds of pressure. I can execute the strike in under a second. I can snap his neck before his crystal glass hits the ground.
I lock the monster back in the cage.
Killing him here compromises the extraction. It puts Lucia in immediate danger. Discipline requires every ounce of willpower I possess.
“Standard security sweep, sir.” I hold the cold, flat mask. “She will return shortly.”
I don’t budge. I widen my stance. I cross my arms over my chest.
The tension thickens. A silent standoff between a butcher and a trained killer.
Calix glares at me. He looks at my size, at the way my hands are positioned, at the absolute absence of fear in my eyes. He decides drawing a weapon in the middle of Dominic’s crowded charity Gala is a political mistake.
I count internally.One. Two. Three.
I have to hold the line. I have to give Rafe the time to reach the subterranean garage.
“I will have Dominic fire you tomorrow morning.” Calix issues the empty threat.
“You can certainly try.” I give him a dead, terrifying smile.
Rafe is in the tunnel. Jude is at the perimeter. The packages are secure.
“Rafe, watch the gate,” Kaila’s voice barks. “They just triggered the magnetic lock on Sector 4.”
“I’ve got it,” Rafe growls.
The sound of the Panigale V4 downshifting echoes through the comms—a violent, mechanical roar. He doesn’t slow down. He leans the bike, the footpeg scraping the concrete of the narrow tunnel as he slides beneath the descending metal teeth of the security gate. A shower of sparks explodes.
A single patrol car with flashing blues cuts across his path. Rafe doesn’t hesitate. He kicks the front bumper of the sedan with a heavy combat boot, the sheer momentum of the Ducati shoving the lighter car aside.
“Clear,” Rafe barks.
A deep, distant rumble echoes from beneath our feet.
The Panigale V4 engine vibrates through the thick marble floorboards of the ballroom. It doesn’t cause panic. It doesn’t shatter crystal. But the low, aggressive, mechanical growl draws immediate confusion from the wealthy crowd.
Corrupt politicians pause their conversations. Women look around nervously. Costa security guards scan the perimeter.