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“By our ex-Nazi host? That tracks.”

“Ex-Nazi’s grandson,” Ero clarifies, raising a finger.

“And a candidate for president…”

“None of our business though.”

“No, not really.” I toss my head to the side carelessly. “But how will we recognize him with these masks on?”

“We’ll have to get close. Care to dance?” He steps back a bit, offering me his hand.

“We’ve never?—”

“But you know how?” he adds, his expression condescending. Sometimes he’s still such an asshole.

My flat glare answers for me as I snatch his fingers and lead the way. The live orchestra leads out of a subdued overture and into a lively waltz. Ero tugs me back toward him, spinning me once before we fall into sync with the other dancers.

Right on time, our blond-haired, blue-eyed host steps onto the dance floor with his wife. Applause patters under the swell of strings.

“Well, she’s certainly watching us.”

“Hm. Subtle.” Ero turns us into the shifting movements of the dance, cycling through the spinning mass of other couples.

Without missing a beat, he cuts between the host and his bride, offering a curt, “Permiso?”

“Representative Frers, I presume?” I catch his eye before he can protest. His expression changes as he looks me over, smiling.

“Si, señorita. Bienvenidos a mi casa.With whom do I have the pleasure of dancing?”

“Shh.” I purse my lips. “After.”

He’s more than happy to comply. We spin, taking center stage. From my periphery, I make out Ero in our orbit, distracting the politician’s wife with inaudible conversation,right in her ear. She’s enraptured, blushing to his whispered words, pressed so close to the body of a much younger man.

When the fuck did he get charming?

The music builds, guiding us into position. At the crescendo, Frers twirls me out to his right. Ero shifts alongside him, twirling the man’s wife away into the crowd.

I reach the end of the spin, rebounding back in. Instead of letting him catch me, I keep spinning. Dragging the surprised man toward my original dance partner. We part, Frers’s momentum carrying between us.

Right into the razor-thin wire stretched between our hands.

With a sickening gurgle and a thud, his head hits the middle of the dance floor. Scarlet mist adorns the other guests.

The music stops.

One woman screams.

And Ero detonates the tiny bombs we set all over the house. The same bombs that destroy any hint of the microcameras we used to upload images of the prominent guests and their entourages. We’re out the window before the first guard can arrive, repelling down the cliffside and to our hidden ride.

“Hope Ananke had a way out!”

“I’m sure she’ll call when she needs us next.”

Brazil. Rio.

After our first real dance, we can’t get enough. The tropic heat has us barely dressed, gyrating to Samba and Frevo. Days bleed together, time loses meaning.

Our journey takes us through Ecuador, Columbia, Panama. A ship carries us to the Caribbean. More dancing. More drinking.