“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 justonetrigger. 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 himalive,”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, humantrafficking, 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.