Stalking His Assassin

Chapter 3

three

GRACE

I’ve been home for three glorious days. I haven’t left my fortress, and it’s been great. The only reason I’m leaving today is because Harper begged and pleaded until I agreed to dinner and drinks at my choice of restaurant. Only dinner for me because I don’t imbibe. No matter if I’m being entirely normal every day, Grace Silva or brutal assassin Eris, I don’t drink. Being impaired isn’t something I would ever allow. I’ve stayed alive this long by remaining alert. My life isn’t worth a few drunken moments. Besides, if I’m sober, I can watch over Harper. She’s a handful when drinking.

I’m absorbed in my work when an alert appears on my screen. I close my work and open the encrypted notification, excitement burning through my veins. Even though I just returned home, I can’t help getting a thrill when the Syndicate sends me a job. The Syndicate isn’t what everyone thinks it is. Sure, it’s a group of the best assassins in the business, but ones with morales. The Syndicate invites worthy assets for various reasons, but the common thread is that no innocents ever fall victim to their skills.

I was watching my Uncle Steve’s mansion burn when Tomas approached me on behalf of the Syndicate. I was skeptical because I had just escaped the Agency, and getting involved in another organization wasn’t high on my priority list. After some convincing, I listened to what Tomas had to say and agreed to meet with the others.

It only took me five minutes to decide to join, but I listened to their whole spiel and asked dozens of questions before giving them my decision. I’ve never regretted my decision to join. What they do is necessary in the greedy underbelly of the world. There is such a thing as too much power. Too much evil. The Syndicate acts as judge, jury, and executioner for people who cross the line. I’m the one they send to fulfill their punishment.

The message on my screen is not at all what I expected. Usually, it’s information about things like the Germans or people to watch for one reason or another or an assignment. Instead, it’s a cryptic message from Tomas:

It’s been decided. Best of luck, Eris.

-Carver

I’m tempted to call the old man, but that’s not how it’s done. When the Syndicate messages, you listen even when it doesn’t make sense. Pretty sure they like fucking with people, and since most of them are retired or semi-retired assassins, this is how they get their kicks. I will find out soon enough what’s been decided. That doesn’t mean I won’t pay Tomas a visit next time I’m in New York City. He knows I hate the unknown. Knowledge is power, and I’ve made a living by learning the secrets of others.

“Why the hell would Tomas wish me luck, Potato?” I ask my cat. That’s the most concerning part of the whole thing.

Of everyone that works with the Syndicate, I’m the best. I don’t need luck on my side because I have skill. I’m not saying it to brag, but I am the best assassin alive right now. Only one person comes a close second… Christos. My guilty pleasure. I’ve watched him for years. At first, it was to determine if he was worthy of breathing since he was tied to my Uncle Steve, then because I became infatuated.

I’ve wondered if he remembers me as a little girl or if he’s only chased me all these years because the ghost assassin intrigues him. I’ve considered sticking around in his hotel room to talk with him, but our game would be over if I do that. Only two things can happen when it ends: I kill him because he has nefarious intentions towards me, or we become besties. Considering he’s an assassin, I’m guessing I’m a challenge for him, and he wants to be the one to end the mysterious Ghost. I can’t see him chasing after me all these years because he wants to be my friend.

The whole needle full of sedatives four years ago definitely didn’t scream, “Let’s be BFFs!” It’s better this way. He chases me and ends up chasing his own tail. I leave him a new hair tie as a gift any time he gets close. It works for us. A challenge for him and entertainment for me. Though, if I were being honest, it’s more than a source of entertainment. I’m obsessed with him as much as he is with me.

If things were different…

If we were ordinary people…

If I could really be Grace Silva, and he was just Christos Caputo, a handsome businessman interested in a woman. It’s a fairytale. Another life, another time, another world. One where my parents were never killed by a greedy bastard and Christos was never forced to become a killer by the mafia. His history is just as ugly as mine.

My alarm dings, letting me know it’s time to get dressed for my evening out. I shut down my system and nudge Potato off my lap. He jumps down, giving me a dirty look.

“Don’t look at me like that. Exercise is good for you,” I tell him.

He hisses at me in response, then walks out of my office with a flick of his tail. See why I think he understands me? Potato is a better conversationalist than most humans I’ve met. Smarter too. I follow Potato into my bathroom, where he’s already sitting on the shower ledge. I swear he reads minds too. I shower quickly, then head to my closet wrapped in a fluffy towel.

Potato is already perched on his shelf, waiting for me to walk in. “What should I wear?” I ask him.

He meows.

“Harper will probably drag me to a club after dinner. I’ve been putting her off for weeks…”

Another meow, this one sounding mournful. He hates it when I leave.

I settle on dark skinny jeans and a black blouse with spaghetti straps that show off my small amount of cleavage and clings to my body. It’s a Harper-approved shirt, even though it’s black. I wear my custom knee-high heeled boots. They have hidden sheaths for my specially made ceramic knives that won’t trigger metal detectors, meaning I can be armed anywhere, not to mention the heels themselves are a weapon if push comes to shove. I look through my jewelry and select a beaded bracelet that wraps around my wrist multiple times. It seems dainty, easily breakable, and totally innocuous when it is actually a cleverly disguised garrote.

It takes me less than thirty minutes to style my hair and put on minimal makeup. I usually wouldn’t bother, but it’s Harper, and I’d do anything for her. Dressing up and going out makes her happy. If a bit of mascara and lipstick makes her happy, I’ll wear it. I study my reflection, and I look like an average twenty-five-year-old woman. The juxtaposition between what my reflection shows I am versus what I am inside is monumental.

I imagine myself as if I were the woman in the mirror. If my life was simple and I could get dressed up and go out with my friend without needing hidden weapons. Where I didn’t have to worry about threats to my safety and didn’t know the reality of the ugliness the world tries to hide.

It’s bittersweet to think about being someone else. If my parents weren’t killed, I would’ve been raised in a happy, loving home. I never would have had to see the cruelty humanity has to offer. I wouldn’t have become a killer. Maybe I would have more than one friend and a boyfriend instead of a cat to keep me company. But if that was my life, I wouldn’t be able to protect innocent people. All the bad people I’ve killed would still be out there in the world doing horrible things.

I’m not selfish enough to wish for that picture-perfect life. I accept the sacrifice of giving up my potential happiness for all those I’ve saved by being who I am. My life molded me into the perfect weapon to combat the worst of the worst the world has to offer, and I can’t be upset about that. I turn from the mirror and those useless thoughts. There’s no changing anything, so there’s no reason to consider the what-ifs.

“I’ll be back soon, Potato Cake.” He lets out a mournful meow and follows me to the front door. I reach down and rub behind his ears. “I won’t be long.” He huffs before turning and walking away with his tail high.

I step off the elevator into the parking garage and pause before setting my alarm. Tomas’s words float around my mind. Before I can second guess myself, I enable the security system as if I were going on a mission. I’m sure I’m being paranoid, but paranoia and extreme caution have kept me alive more than once. My phone dings, letting me know the system has been activated, and I immediately relax.

I was going to take the Bugatti tonight, but the paranoia has me turning toward the Range Rover. I highly doubt an armored vehicle will be needed for this girls’ night, but tonight I’m erring on paranoia’s side. I’m entirely giving in to that old adage of better safe than sorry. Especially since I’ll have Harper with me.

The twenty-minute drive to Harper’s apartment building takes twelve. I text her that I’m waiting so I don’t have to try to find a place to park. She lives in a decent area, but parking is atrocious. I’ve tried to get her to move into my building several times, but she says it’s out of her price range. I never intended to charge her rent since I don’t need the money, which made her double down on not living there.

It frustrates me that she won’t let me take care of her. It’s not like I have a family or anyone else to spend my money on. Instead of being able to openly help her stubborn ass, I just do it behind her back. Four years ago, she got a substantial raise after I secretly bought the company for which she works. In all fairness, it was a good investment, and the owners didn’t recognize the potential they had working for them. They went with antiquated ideas and kept a good ole boys’ attitude regarding decisions.

After a bit of restructuring and getting rid of the dead weight, the company is thriving. I know this sounds bad, but I gave everyone a raise in the company as they were all underpaid. Harper got the two promotions since based on her own merit. Having superiors in place who recognized talent was the only thing that was really missing. Honestly, an easy fix, and what Harper and the other employees don’t know is that every penny of profit goes into the charities the employees decided to support. That way, if Harper ever does find out—which she won’t—she can’t get too mad at me because the better she does at her job, the more money the charities earn. A little devious on my part, but I know Harper would approve after yelling at me.

Once she was making more money, I thought for sure she would move somewhere safer. Instead, the stubborn woman decided to save up for a new car. Again, she refused to let me gift her a car or even use one of mine. I ended up buying that shitty apartment building and evicting all the tenants. It sounds worse than it is because I also bought three other apartment buildings in better neighborhoods and offered them to the evicted tenants at less-than-market-value prices.

Everyone won in that bit of deceit. The tenants all live in secure buildings in decent neighborhoods and pay the same rent they paid before. Plus, I paid for movers for anyone unable to make the move themselves. Since their old apartments didn’t have washer and dryer hookups, everyone got new washers and dryers with the apartments. Everyone has newly renovated apartments with new appliances, security where they had none in the old building, and safer neighborhoods. I can find no fault in what I did, though my moral compass is slightly off balance. I’m sure Harper would have something to say about it, but like with her job, I’m helping people, not causing harm.

It's funny if you think about it because her denying my help meant I spent a ton more money taking care of her than I would have if she allowed me to help. Not that I care about the money. I’ve got a ridiculous amount, which grows daily with my business and investments. It’s why I give so much away. It’s not for the tax breaks most rich assholes do it for. Considering that most of my wealth is hidden from the U.S. government, I don’t need those breaks.

Two minutes after I sent the text, Harper comes rushing out of the building. She throws open the door and hops in, smiling wide.

“Girl, you will not believe what I got!” she says excitedly.

“What did you get?”

Probably something that will be torturous for me…

“Passes to Pink Diamond for tonight!”

It takes way more effort than I’d like to admit to bite back my groan. I knew we would be going out to a bar or club, but Pink Diamond is beyond extra. It’s a mash-up of a high-end dance club and an exclusive strip club. Harper has wanted to go since they opened, but it’s next to impossible without being on their list or having a pass. You can stand in line and wait all night, and no one in line will be admitted.

“Sounds great,” I say with a grimace.

Harper laughs. “You’re a terrible liar.”

I huff in annoyance. She’s very wrong about that. I’m adept at lying. I could pass a lie detector test and combat the effects of most versions of truth serums out there. The facility was incredibly thorough in its training. I allow Harper to see my true feelings for most things. She’s the only person I don’t have to be the highly trained assassin around, and I find it pleases me to respond more naturally with her.

“I’m sure it will be fine. I get to pick the restaurant, though.”

“Deal!” Harper says with glee.

Harper connects her phone to the car sound system and puts on her favorite playlist. It’s a weird mix of pop from every decade. It’s eclectic for sure and only mildly awful. I prefer rock and heavy metal. Alternative is also acceptable. Her music has grown on me, but I would never select it myself. I secretly think she picks it to torture me because she also likes rock and alternative. I give in to the madness because it’s part of the girls’ night experience that Harper insists is a thing.

I find a parking spot half a block from Casa Verde, a miracle considering it’s Saturday, and this is a go-to area for good food and entertainment.

“Tacos and margaritas. Best pregaming food and drink ever. Good call!”

Harper links arms with me as we walk towards the restaurant. She chats nonstop, barely allowing me to reply before she moves on to the next bit of gossip. Which is fine because it lets me stay focused on our surroundings. We get to the restaurant, and it’s packed. It’s one of the few places that limit how many reservations they take each night. The owner wants to keep the restaurant accessible to everyone. First come, first served is the best way to do that.

“Yikes, it looks like we will be waiting a while,” Harper says, frowning.

I roll my eyes. Another typical reaction that makes me less deadly assassin, more normal twenty-five-year-old girl that I adopted after spending time with Harper. “We have a reservation.”

“How? You didn’t even know you would get to pick!”

I laugh. “It was a calculated decision. It’s been a while since you’ve dragged me to a club or bar. I figured tonight would be the night, and picking the restaurant is my requirement to agreeing every time.”

She looks at me like I’m nuts, but I can see when she realizes I’m correct. “Huh. Smart. Tad bit manipulative, but your forethought means we get tacos faster, and that means we can go to Pink Diamond sooner.”

She’s not wrong. The risk of eating faster is that we have more time to spend at the hellish club, but Harper knows that one o’clock is my limit. She likes to joke about how I turn into a pumpkin at one. It’s more that if I don’t have an end goal to get to while in one of those places, I turn into a murderous assassin who would gladly go on a rampage if it meant the noise and crushing crowd would disappear.

The people waiting give us dirty looks as the hostess leads us to our table tucked in the back of the restaurant. It’s the same table I always select because it gives me a clear view of the entire place, plus it’s close to the back exit in case we need a quick getaway. Is it beyond over the top? Probably, but like I’ve said before, paranoia and vigilance keep me breathing, and I like breathing. Plus, I won’t risk the one human being I care about in this entire god-forsaken world.

“Your server will be with you momentarily,” the hostess says with a smile.

“Thank you,” Harper says, returning the smile.

I simply nod at her. I’m unsure what she sees on my face, but her smile falls and she skitters away.

“You really need to work on your face. I swear that resting bitch face is deadly. Poor girl probably needs to change her knickers,” Harper says fondly.

I force the same smile I give to the people that I enjoy killing most. Harper shakes her head and laughs. “Now you just look unhinged.”

I let my smile morph into the warm, open one reserved strictly for her and Potato. After all these years, it’s much easier to smile like this. When I first met Harper, I wasn’t even sure if I was capable of a genuine smile. It took time, but Harper is determined, and it’s nearly impossible to hide behind my mask of indifference with her around. I no longer feel the need to hide behind the mask with her.

I recognize our waitress as the owner’s daughter Martina. She’s bubbly and beautiful, with tanned skin and dark hair that show her Mexican heritage.

“Grace! Papá will be so pleased that you’re here. Let me get your drink order, and I’ll let him know.”

“You don’t have to. He’s got to be swamped in the kitchen,” I reply.

She scoffs. “He would take his favorite wooden spoon to my butt if I didn’t tell him his favorite person to feed is here.”

Harper giggles. “You know she’s right. Emmanuel might even spank you with his wooden spoon if he knew you came in and didn’t let him feed us.”

“Just being here is letting him feed us,” I say, exasperated.

Both Martina and Harper laugh at my obviously fake annoyance. I like Emmanuel. He worked for me at Shield Security. He’s brilliant at strategy and skilled behind a computer. We worked closely on a project, and he took it upon himself to ensure I ate proper meals. He was appalled by my usual protein bar or microwave noodle lunch choices. He started bringing in delicious home-cooked meals, unlike anything I’d ever tasted. Even the best Mexican restaurants couldn’t hold a candle to the food he brought me.

He insisted I join him every day for lunch, and he told me stories about growing up in Mexico and how his mother and grandmother taught him how to cook when he was a young boy. His cooking skills are what won him the love of his late wife. He told me his dream was to open a restaurant that served Michelin star-worthy food that was obtainable to people who could never afford that type of restaurant.

That’s how I became a silent partner in Casa Verde. It didn’t take much convincing to get him to accept my proposal. He still makes a big production out of feeding me. He always makes me try his newest creations before they go on the menu. He’s a talented man, and this place is one of my favorite investments.

Maybe I’m wrong in my assessment that I only have one person I care for because I’m fond of Emmanuel and his daughter. They are good people. The fact that he has kept to his original business model to keep the Casa Verde accessible despite how wildly successful it is makes me respect him even more. He could easily double or triple his prices and make the entire restaurant reservation only, but he doesn’t.

“How was your business trip?” Harper asks.

“It wasn’t as straightforward as I anticipated.”

“Did you take time for some fun like I suggested?”

My smile is a mix of what Harper calls unhinged and the genuine one I reserve for her. “Yes, I made sure to have fun while away.”

Before she can grill me on what I did, Emmanuel walks up carrying Harper’s margarita and my lemon water.

“ Bienvenido jefa !” he says happily.

“I’m no longer your boss, Emmanuel.”

He waves my words away like always. “I have a new recipe for you to try. I’ve been saving it for your next visit.”

“You are going to spoil her, Emmanuel,” Harper scolds.

He pats my shoulder. “She needs spoiling.”

I shift in my chair, feeling uncomfortable at his open affection. He smiles at me knowingly. “I will return with your meal.”

“Thank you,” Harper says when I don’t respond.

I sip my water, hoping to wash away the uncomfortable feelings.

“He’s such a sweet man. If he weren’t still mourning his wife…” Harper says.

That dispels my discomfort. “Don’t be gross. He could be your father.”

She snorts. “If he had gray hair, that man would be a silver fox. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being with an older man. I’m done with guys my age. They are all fuck boys, and I’m looking for relationship potential.”

“Surely not every guy our age is bad…”

She gives me an incredulous look. “Jake, Lester, Andy, Travis, Mateo, and Cameron are the only proof I need that men in their twenties aren’t worth my time.”

“They were all pretty awful,” I admit.

“Point made. I’m going for a silver fox this time. Maybe I’ll find me a sugar daddy and become a lady of leisure.”

I laugh. “Yeah, right. You’d last a week before you were bored. You enjoy your work too much.”

“It was just a thought. Though I wouldn’t mind a boyfriend that pays for dinner for a change. Fuck going Dutch, and I swear if another man claims to have forgotten his wallet, I’m going to start a riot.”

“I’m sure the right guy is out there,” I say because it’s what she wants to hear, not actually what I believe.

I hope she can find a nice guy who will make her happy, but I’m unconvinced there’s a special person out in the world for everyone. Maybe it’s just people like me that don’t get that kind of life. Who would want to be with an assassin? There’s a little sliver of hope inside me that I’m wrong and that maybe I could have the same kind of happiness that Harper believes in, but I’m a realist.

Emmanuel brings our food and watches intently as I take a bite of his newest creation. I groan in appreciation as flavor explodes over my tongue. “This is amazing. Maybe the best thing you’ve created.”

Harper stabs a piece of steak and peppers from my plate. She lets out her own sounds of approval. “Okay, this might be my new favorite.”

Emmanuel’s smile grows. “That’s high praise coming from you, Miss Harper. Since your first visit, you’ve been very dedicated to my specialty tacos.”

She shrugs. “Tacos are the holy grail of Mexican food.”

He laughs. “That they are. So jefa , does it go on the menu?”

“Absolutely. This is delicious. Michelin star worthy.”

“ Muy bueno! I’ll add it to the specials list. Enjoy your meal.”

Harper talks me into sharing our food because my dinner is so good. I grumble about it, but I don’t mind since Emmanuel’s tacos are excellent, too. Everything here is good, so every bite is an experience no matter what.

Once we are done, I drop some cash on the table. Emmanuel refuses to allow me to pay for my meals, but I make it up by leaving a big tip for the servers. Harper links our arms again as we walk back to where I parked. She’s already buzzed from the two margaritas she drank with dinner. She turns her playlist on again; this time, she dances in her seat, singing along with the songs.

It only takes fifteen minutes to get to Pink Diamond, but it takes another ten minutes to find a parking spot. Harper gripes about me not using valet even though she knows it’s a futile argument. No one drives my cars. Not because I consider them something precious that can’t be touched by anyone else, but because they all have a mini armory hidden inside, and even though it’s highly unlikely some valet driver would stumble across the secret compartments and utterly impossible that anyone but me could open them once found, I would rather not risk it.

Harper is chatting a million miles a minute about how excited she is while we walk to the entrance. She presents the passes to the doorman like she’s got an invitation to a royal ball. The people waiting in line whine when he soundlessly opens the door to let us in. I might feel bad if it weren’t their own stupidity that has them wasting a perfectly good Saturday night waiting in line to get into a club they probably will never step foot in.

As soon as we enter the club, I immediately want to turn around and leave. The music is so loud I can’t hear myself think, let alone what Harper is yelling at me. Thankfully, I can read lips, so I know she wants to get a drink before hitting the dance floor. She grabs my hand in a viselike grip and drags me through the crowd to the bar.

Between the music trying to deafen me and the cloying smell of too many perfumes and body odor mixing in a nauseating cocktail, I’m literally in my own personal Hell. I would rather be back in Germany fighting assholes twice my size and getting stabbed than spend the next three hours here.

Fuck my life.

Harper orders two shots for herself and a soda water with lime for me. It’s less conspicuous to have a drink than to stand around empty-handed. She quickly downs the two shots and cheers. She’s fully in her element, especially with the attractive bartender flirting with her as he mixes her third drink. She turns and winks at me with the fruity pink drink in hand.

“Let’s find a spot before the show starts,” Harper yells in my ear.

I nod and let her drag me through the crowd towards the back of the club. There are two stages in this part of the club, along with five raised platforms that have nearly naked women dancing seductively on them. The vibe back here is different. The frenetic energy from the bar and dance floor isn’t as thick. It’s more sensual. Somehow, the loud music isn’t so overwhelming back here. There’s a smaller dance floor filled with people who are moving like they are seconds away from stripping down and having sex right there in the open. Several tables are set up in front of the stages, and booths wrap around the perimeter, which are more like private islands amid the crowd.

I can’t find any fault in the design. Whoever conceptualized this place did an excellent job of making it feel like a high-end strip club without missing any of the dance club vibes. It’s a good mishmash.

“This place is amazing!” Harper squeals.

I force a smile and nod, which gets me an eye-roll in return. I can’t help that places like this are awful. I’m a solitary creature. I spend more time with a cat than with humans, and I like it that way. Most of my human interactions happen when someone is about to die. I handle most of my Shield Security work via video conference from my home office. I rarely go into the office, which suits me just fine.

I drag Harper to a free table near one of the stages as a woman struts onto the stage like she owns it. When she starts dancing, I decide she does own it. I’m not attracted to women, but I can see her appeal. She moves with a grace and sensuality that I’ve never seen. She’s good. From how her body moves, I’d guess she classically trained as a ballerina at some point, but she has none of the rigidity that ballet demands.

“Wow, she’s good!” Harper yells.

“She’s definitely talented,” I reply loud enough for her to hear over the noise.

We watch the woman dance long enough for Harper to finish her drink, and then she drags me back to the other part of the club to the dance floor. I don’t fight the inevitable; I let the discomfort of so many bodies surrounding me go, and I focus on the beat of the song. Harper throws her hands in the air and starts moving her body. The girl is not a great dancer, but she makes up for her lack of rhythm with enthusiasm.

I move my body to the music, losing myself for a brief time. I tense when a guy puts his hands on Harper’s hips and pulls her against him. She giggles and starts moving with him. She notices that I’ve stopped dancing and gives me a wink and a thumbs-up, letting me know she’s okay. I nod once and start dancing again but remain focused on the man touching Harper. He notices me watching and gives me a cocky smile. It makes me want to stab him in the eye. My fingers twitch with the desire to pull one of my knives.

After several songs, the guy says something to Harper, and she nods. She reaches for my hand, and I follow them to the bar like a lost puppy. The dude is obviously annoyed that I’m accompanying them. He’s not hiding it. Too bad for him. Even if he didn’t have a stab-able face, I wouldn’t let him drag my best friend off without me when she’s been drinking. Hell, even if she were sober.

He orders their drinks, then starts pouring on the charm like the sleazeball I have no doubt he is. Harper laughs and flirts back while sipping her drink. I order myself another soda water and a water for Harper too. It’s too loud to make out what they are saying, but I can imagine he’s angling for sex. I turn so it looks like I’m focusing on the crowd around us, but my focus is still on Harper and the douche.

He uses my perceived inattention to move closer. He tucks Harper's hair behind her ear and leans in close to talk in her ear. I roll my eyes at his player moves. Men are so damn predictable. A few minutes later, two guys that look like clones of douche walk up with drinks in hand. Douche #2 hands a drink to Douche #1 and Harper, while Douche #3 tries to hand me a pink drink while giving me a slimy smile.

Yeah, don’t think so, Douche #3. I take the drink Douche #2 handed to Harper away and give it back to him. Douche #1 gives me a hard look that I return easily. These guys must think women are idiots. Rule number one at any bar, club, or party: Don’t accept drinks from strangers.

If I didn’t already want to stab Douche #1, I would absolutely want to stab him after this. Harper has lost her happy smile and looks at the three men suspiciously. She’s not an idiot. She knows two strange men randomly showing up with drinks is a red flag. She wouldn’t have drunk it even if I hadn’t taken it, but she would have been nicer about declining it than me. She gives me a knowing look and subtly tilts her head to the exit.

I gently tug Harper from Douche #1’s hold until she’s free of his touch and is practically plastered to my chest. I smirk up at her before I cup her face and pull her down so it looks like we are kissing. We make a good show of it before breaking away with broad smiles.

“Bye, boys!” Harper says.

She’s giggling as we walk away. The little show we just put on was her idea for when guys get too pushy. I told her I could make any asshole leave us alone, but she lectured me about how violence isn’t the answer and came up with the idea of us pretending to kiss as a distraction before we bail. I’d much rather deal with assholes my way, but I can’t deny that her way works. Besides, if it ever doesn’t, there’s always my way to fall back on.

The relief I feel as soon as we exit the club into the cool night air is immense. Even with the sounds of the city and the people talking loudly in the line that’s still gathered in a futile attempt to get into Pink Diamond, it feels nearly silent in comparison.

Harper is quiet as we walk back to the Range Rover. Once inside, she heaves out a sigh and turns to me. “Do you think the drinks were drugged?”

“Do you want honesty, or is this a pretty lies situation?”

“Honesty, please,” she replies quietly.

“It’s highly probable. The first guy reels the girl and her friends in, then the second and third guys join with drinks and slide into the conversation to work the woman’s friends.”

“That’s horrible.”

“The world is a shitty place, Harp. It’s possible it was just a guy shooting his shot with a hot girl,” I shrug.

“I wouldn’t have drunk it.”

“I know. I took it to make a statement. You’re too nice. You know I prefer a blunt approach.”

She giggles. “I guess I should be proud that you played my girlfriend instead of starting a brawl like a heathen.”

“Definitely be proud. It was a struggle to hold back.”

“Thanks, Grace. I know you hate going out, and tonight didn’t exactly end on a high note, but I had a lot of fun anyway.”

“It wasn’t terrible…”

She gives me a look that screams bullshit.

“Dinner was fantastic, and the dancer was excellent.”

“Oh my God! She was amazing. I wish I could dance like that. So graceful yet sexy. I don’t think my body is capable of moving like that.”

“I’m pretty sure she trained as a professional ballerina,” I say.

“I always thought ballerinas were prim and proper…”

“Maybe she’s just a rebel.”

Harper giggles, proving she’s still a little more than tipsy despite our serious conversation. “I want to be a rebel ballerina.”

I pull up in front of Harper’s building. “Let’s get you inside.”

“You don’t have to walk me in,” she argues when I park and unbuckle.

I roll my eyes. I do that a whole lot around her. “Yes, I do.”

“You’ll get a ticket or towed,” she says, pointing out that I’m double parked.

“Doubtful, but the faster I get you to your apartment, the faster I’ll be able to leave.”

She grumbles but quits arguing. She knows it’s a losing battle.

“You’re more of a gentleman than any of my boyfriends ever were,” she giggles. “You pick me up, pay for meals, walk me to my door, and don’t expect sex in return.”

“Because you’ve dated assholes,” I say bluntly.

“Very true. That’s why I’m done with boys. I want a real man. I’m going to find me a sliver fox that’ll spoil me like a princess. He’s going to be the king of orgasms too. I’ll be a princess with orgasms…”

I laugh. “Definitely time for the princess to go to bed.”

“Don’t judge me. I’m sick of self-made orgasms. You’d think with as big of a dick as Mateo had, orgasms would have been sooo easy. Nope… Size really isn’t everything if he can’t use it. Right?”

“Sounds right,” I say, even though I have zero practical knowledge of if it’s true or not.

“Exactly!” she slurs loudly.

I unlock her door, enter her security code, and then help her to her room. She faceplants on the bed, still mumbling about orgasms and silver foxes. I grab a bottle of water and pain relievers and set them on her nightstand. By the time I remove her shoes, she’s snoring. I check that her apartment is secure before leaving.

The streets are mostly empty at this time of night, so my drive home is a quick one. I pull into the parking garage and curse when I see a huge box blocking the gate to my private parking area.

“What the fuck…”

I stomp over to the box and realize it’s a military-grade crate for secure deliveries. I circle around the crate, wondering what the hell it could be and who would have put it here. I don’t want to move it in case it’s a bomb. Is jumping straight to someone trying to blow me up a little fatalistic? Yeah, probably, but I enjoy breathing too much to not be suspicious.

I’m beyond grateful that I did the lockdown before leaving. Whoever left this didn’t bother to try to get inside my gate, but they could have. I pull up the security footage from the parking garage and watch as a dark SUV without plates backs up to my gate, and a man dressed head-to-toe in black wearing a Halloween mask drags the crate none-to-gently out of the back of the SUV.

Well, that answers if it’s a bomb. The guy let the thing hit the ground without care. I watch the man push it in front of my gate and look straight into my camera. He lifts two fingers and salutes the camera.

“Motherfucker.”

The phone is to my ear and ringing before I even have time to think about what I’m doing. I’ve had his personal information since shortly after I met him, but I’ve been respectful and have never used it because there’s a certain code we have as members of the Syndicate. He’s crossed a line by coming to my home. The fact that he found my home pisses me off even more than him having the balls to come here.

“Good evening, Eris. To what do I owe this honor?” he asks, sounding more than a little amused.

“What’s in the box, Carver?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“As I said, it’s been decided. Time to quit running, Lucy.”

“Lucy is dead,” I snap.

He heaves a sigh. “Lucy. Grace. Eris. Ghost… those names are your past, present, and future.”

“What’s in the box?” I ask, annoyed by this conversation.

“It’s a gift.”

“And it’s what has been decided?” I fucking hate talking in circles. Tomas knows he’s getting on my nerves, and I have a feeling he’s enjoying it. I’m tempted to head to New York and show him why fucking with me is a bad idea. He may be a well-trained assassin, but I’m better. He knows it but doesn’t seem concerned.

“You’ll understand when you open the box. Don’t take too long. It has a short shelf life,” he says cryptically.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“Swear to God if there’s an animal in this box, I’m going to relocate every animal in the Bronx Zoo to your Brownstone.”

He barks a laugh, unlike anything I’ve heard from the stoic man in all the years I’ve known him. It takes him a couple minutes to get himself under control again. My annoyance has moved more towards amusement. I’m still pissed he somehow tracked me down, though.

“How did you find me?” I ask, needing to know if there is a hole in my security.

“Pure luck. I was in Seattle two years ago and saw you exiting Shield’s corporate office. I followed you back to your building. It wasn’t hard to figure out where you parked. Grace Silva is very much secure. I won’t divulge your secret.”

I let out a sigh of relief that it wasn’t some planned attempt to find me. A fucking awful coincidence that someone else in the assassin business that knows what I look like found me. This is why I’m careful to wear masks when doing jobs or meeting anyone concerning that part of my life.

“Thank you. It would be a serious pain in the ass to have to kill myself off and start fresh elsewhere.”

“I only have your best interests at heart. Remember that when you open the box. Don’t forget… short shelf life. You won’t enjoy what happens if you fail to open it in time.”

He ends the call before I can respond.

“Ugh.”

I open the gate and get ready to heave the box through, but find it easily rolls. “Well, at least the damn thing has wheels. And now I’m fucking talking to myself. Damn Tomas to Hell.”

I park my car and load the box into the elevator. I take it to the floor below my home. No way am I taking an unknown into my personal space. I wheel it into a room that could be described as a holding cell of sorts. It looks like a standard room but is as secure as a high-security prison cell. The entire room is reinforced, including the door. It would take a bomb to break out of the room.

I lean against the wall, studying the box. Tomas piqued my curiosity by telling me that it has a short shelf life. Well, the whole thing piques my interest, if I’m being honest. The fact that Tomas found me and personally delivered the box is interesting enough. The whole “it’s been decided” thing has me curious too.

“Fuck it,” I say, striding to the box.

It takes two guesses to figure out the security code, and I’m unsurprised when my own thumbprint works to open the damn thing. I’d love to know where he got my fingerprints from since they are in precisely zero databases, and I wear gloves anytime I’m working. I’ll have to ask him about that one too. If it’s something the Syndicate has, I will have to consider the future of our relationship.

I take a deep breath and unlock the last latch. Before I can open the lid, it pops open on its own with force. I let out a very undignified squeal that I will deny making until the day I die and stumble backward, nearly falling on my ass. It takes me at least an entire minute for my brain to catch up with what I’m seeing. A delay like that could mean death and is unacceptable. Though considering the fact that I was just delivered a fucking man in a box should buy me a little grace.

“What the fuck!” I shout in frustration. “He sent me a fucking person?!”

I want to slam the lid shut on the man that’s flailing in the crate and send his ass back to Tomas, but from the looks of it, the guy wouldn’t make the trip to New York in that crate without severe damage being done to him. I can’t imagine he’s someone that needs killing. Tomas wouldn’t have told me to open the crate quickly if he was.

I watch the man try to sit upright, but both his hands and feet are tied up and connected in a way that has him curled up in the fetal position. How he managed to maneuver around enough to push the lid open with such force is a mystery because the dude is stuck like a turtle on its back. Not to mention, he’s got a hood tied over his head. I’m assuming he’s gagged because there are nothing but grunts and inaudible yelling coming from him.

I run a hand over my face, then pinch the bridge of my nose as I consider my options here. I suppose I need to find out who the hell it is first, then I can decide what to do with him. With him tied up, I can safely remove the hood and determine if he’s a danger. I have sedatives so I can knock him out to get him out of the damn box. I have several options to chain him up with while he’s unconscious.

Decision made, I stride to the box cursing under my breath, then quickly pull the hood from the man’s head and am met with dark eyes so furious they could pierce my soul.

Fucking Tomas! What have you done?!