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Chapter 823
The next evening, Travis was surprisingly cheerful.
“I made dinner!” he announced, walking into the dining room with a tureen of soup. “Lobster bisque. Family recipe.”
Alistair and I exchanged a look.
“You cook?” Alistair asked skeptically.
𝖠ddіc𝗍i𝘷𝗲 s𝗍oriеѕ 𝘰𝗇 𝗴𝘢l𝗻о𝗏e𝘭s.𝘤o𝗆
“Le Cordon Bleu dropout,” Travis winked. “Before the gambling addiction kicked in.”
He ladled the soup into bowls. It smelled delicious—rich, creamy, with a hint of sherry.
I picked up my spoon. Travis was watching me, eyes wide and eager. Too eager. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.
I lifted the spoon to my lips. Steam curled around my face.
Travis held his breath.
My phone rang. The secure line.
I dropped the spoon. It clattered loudly against the china.
“Damn it,” I said. “It’s Liam. He says he has a fix on Victoria’s location.”
I stood. “Alistair, come with me. We need to take this. We need to verify the coordinates immediately.”
“But the soup…” Travis said, his face falling. Panic flashed in his eyes.
“Cover it,” I said, waving a hand dismissively. “Keep it warm on the stove. We’ll be back in ten minutes to eat. Don’t touch it.”
We walked out. As soon as the door closed, Alistair pulled me into the library.
“Poison?” he asked.
“Sedative,” I guessed. “He looked guilty, not murderous. He wants us out cold for the gala.”
“Lucian is analyzing a sample now,” Alistair said.
Ten minutes later, Lucian walked in. “Benzodiazepines. High dose. Enough to knock out a horse.”
“He wanted to incapacitate us so we wouldn’t go to the gala,” I realized. “Why? If it’s a trap, wouldn’t he want us there?”
“Maybe he’s scared,” Alistair said grimly. “Maybe he knows it’s a slaughter and he’s trying to save his own skin by keeping us away. If we show up and die, he gets blamed. If we stay home, he can say we were detained.”
“Cowardice,” I said. “But useful. Lucian, did you find anything else?”
“A schematics map of the Opera House.” He pointed to the generator room. “He circled it.”
“He’s going to cut the lights,” I said. “Chaos. Panic. A perfect cover for a hit or an extraction.”
“Then we bring our own lights,” Alistair said. “Night vision. Thermal.”
I looked at the invitation Lucian had swiped from Travis’s room. The logo was a stylized phoenix rising from ash.
“This isn’t just a party,” I said. “It’s a coronation. And we’re going to crash it.”
