Chapter 953
“Tonight,” Felix said. “Victor is hosting the entire underworld. Everyone will be there. Security will be tight, but…”
“But distracted,” Liam finished.
“Exactly.” Felix’s grin returned. “If you can get in, I can get you to the vault. But you need invitations.”
“We don’t have invitations,” Alistair said.
“I do.” Felix pulled three gold cards from his pocket. “I was supposed to bring dates. Looks like I found them.”
He looked at Liam. “You’re my cousin from out of town.” He looked at Alistair. “You’re the bodyguard.” Then he looked at Skye. “And you — you’re the trophy wife.”
“Excuse me?” Skye bristled.
“It’s the cover,” Felix shrugged. “Unless you’d prefer to be the maid.”
𝘕𝗼𝘷𝖾𝗅ѕ 𝗂n 𝗍re𝗇𝖽 o𝗻 𝗀𝖺𝗅𝗇𝗼𝗏e𝗹𝘀.соm
“Fine,” Skye said. “Trophy wife it is.”
“We need clothes,” Liam said, glancing at Skye’s blood-spattered shirt. “We can’t walk into a gala looking like we just fought a gladiator.”
“I have a stash,” Felix said. “Come on.”
An hour later, they were transformed.
Liam wore a tuxedo that made him look like James Bond’s evil twin. Alistair wore a chauffeur’s uniform, looking rugged and quietly dangerous.
And Skye —
Skye wore a dress Felix had pulled from a hidden closet. It was emerald green, backless, with a slit that climbed to her thigh. It wasn’t just a dress. It was a weapon.
“You look…” Liam started, then stopped. He cleared his throat. “Adequate.”
“You look stunning,” Alistair said softly.
“Let’s focus,” Skye said, checking the knife strapped to her thigh beneath the fabric. “We go in. We find the hostage. We get the map. We get out.”
“And if we get caught?” Felix asked.
“Then we ruin the party,” Skye said.
They got into the car. The engine roared to life.
As they drove toward the Carter Fortress — a massive, brutalist mansion perched on the cliffs — Skye felt a strange calm settle over her. She was walking into the lion’s den. But this time, she wasn’t the lamb.
She was the lioness.
The Carter Fortress was a monument to excess. Chandeliers the size of cars, fountains flowing with champagne, and a crowd of people who looked as though they would kill you for making eye contact.
Skye walked in on Felix’s arm, playing the part of the vapid trophy wife. She giggled at nothing, tossed her hair, and scanned the room with eyes that missed everything.
“Cameras,” she whispered. “North corners. Blind spots near the kitchen.”
“Roger,” Alistair murmured into his comms. He was stationed by the wall, blending seamlessly with the staff.
Liam was mingling across the room, charming a cluster of arms dealers. He looked perfectly at home — and that was the terrifying part. He wore the mask of the predator effortlessly, betraying no trace of the stiffness in his leg.
“The vault is in the basement,” Felix whispered, guiding Skye through the crowd. “Victor keeps the key around his neck.”
“Your brother?”
“There.” Felix nodded toward a massive man enthroned in an oversized chair. Victor Carter. He looked like a kingpin from a bad film, draped in gold chains.
.