Page 47

The fewer people who knew Kat was alive, the longer she stayed breathing. Operational security over sentiment—always.

This was his risk. His choice.

“Comms check.”

“Reading you five by five, pretty boy,” Brock drawled, sounding far too cheerful. “The Field Marshal and I have eyes on all eighteen security feeds across The Platinum. Hell of a setup.”

Leo suppressed a sigh. “Tell me you’re not sitting there with one of your porcelain generals.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brock huffed. “He’s in dress uniform tonight. Big night and all. And before you ask—yes, I gave hima proper briefing. Wellington’s very attentive during mission prep.”

Kat glanced over, one perfect eyebrow arched. “Good to know,” she mouthed.

“Status report,” he said.

“All systems green. I’ve got full control of their security grid. If things get hairy?—”

“—you kill the lights, trigger the fire alarms, or jam the doors,” Leo finished.

“Copy that. Place is crawling with ex-military muscle. Korolov’s not messing around.”

“Cloning app?”

“State-of-the art. Get within two feet of his phone for three minutes and it’s ours.”

“Good.”

Brock’s voice dropped, all the humor gone. “Bychkov—watch yourself. These aren’t your garden variety oligarchs playing for pocket change. These bastards play for keeps.”

Leo’s eyes met Kat’s in the reflection of the car window. “So do we.”

Outside, The Platinum Club gleamed like a jewel against the London skyline. Spotlights bathed its Art deco façade in glittering silver.

Inside those walls was their target. One wrong step wouldn’t just blow the op—it could get them both killed.

And beside him? He released a controlled breath. A complication wrapped in midnight-blue silk, lethal in every way that mattered.

“Tonight there are no replays. Only consequences.” His voice came out more strained than he intended. “If anything goes wrong, you get out. No discussion. I tell you to leave—you leave.”

The soft creak of leather marked her shift toward him. Her dark hair framed her face in sharp lines, shadowing her eyes.The vulnerability of her exposed neck, gleaming in the car’s amber light tugged at his heart.

“I know how to do my job, Leonid.”

“I need to hear you say it.”

Her chest rose and fell. A slow breath. “If you tell me to leave, I leave.”

“Good.” He didn’t give her time to reply. He opened the door, and the cold struck sharp against his face. Buttoning his jacket, he rounded the car, acutely aware of the security cameras tracking their arrival. The weight of the phone pressed against his ribs.

He opened Kat’s door.

Gone was the field agent, the fugitive. This woman could have walked off a yacht in Monaco. Her hand slipped into the crook of his arm, fingers resting lightly on his sleeve, as if she’d done it a thousand times.

As if she belonged to him.

My wife.

A cover, nothing more.