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“Charlie—my contact in Platinum security, just reached out,” Brock’s voice was strained. “Eldridge and Korolov met yesterday. Private room. No witnesses.”

The leather menu crumpled in Leo’s grip, the sound lost in the casino’s hum. “What did they discuss?” He asked anyway, knowing it was a long shot.

“No idea. But here’s the kicker. Tomorrow morning, nine sharp, the club wipes the footage. If you want proof those two were in cahoots, plotting God-knows-what on British soil, you’ve got till tonight to nick it—or it’s gone for good.”

“Shit.” Leo’s jaw worked. “Security hub—where?”

“Third floor, east wing. Charlie says there’s a service elevator straight up. But it requires key card access, office is manned round the clock.”

Leo spotted Kat across the salon. She was laughing at some quip from the tech billionaire she’d been working all evening. But there was sharp focus beneath the charm, Korolov square in her sights.

His mind clicked through the equation: two targets, two assets, one ticking clock. No margin for error. But his instincts protested against leaving her in the room with Korolov. Kat was brilliant, lethal, more than capable—but if something happenedto her while he was three floors away playing tech support, he’d never forgive himself.

He hated the idea of leaving her even for a second. But there was no other play—not if they wanted to pull this off.

“Clock’s ticking, pretty boy.” All humor had leached from Brock’s voice. “You’ve got maybe an hour while Korolov sits at the high-stakes table. After that, getting close to him’s a bloody suicide run.”

Leo choked down the instinct to pull her out.

“I’m coming back to the table,” he muttered. “Stand by.”

He crossed back to the table, the decision made but sitting heavy in his gut.

Korolov had moved on, but remained within sight, now speaking with a silver-haired man near the roulette table. Leo registered the calculated casualness of their interaction—and the way Korolov’s security detail maintained their positions despite the apparent informality of the conversation.

Kat’s gaze found his the moment he approached. The tension around her eyes told him she’d caught every word of Brock’s intel through her earpiece.

He set the champagne before her, letting his fingers rest against hers for a moment longer than necessary.

She took a sip, her eyes sliding past him, tracking Korolov across the room.

“Security footage,” she whispered, reading the decision in his face. No fear flickered in those green depths—only absolute trust.

Dread twisted through him. She was right—he had the infiltration skills, and she was already established at the table. It was the logical choice. The sound choice.

He hated it.

“Thirty minutes.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “If I’m not back?—”

“You will.” She cut him off, firm as ever. She squeezed his fingers where they rested on the table, her skin warm and steady against his. “I’ve got this.”

His hand covered hers as he transferred the cloning device, the small piece of tech disappearing into her palm.

Her gaze was clear and determined. Then the smallest nod.

Trust me. Go.

He stood. “The ’95 Krug’s a good bet, darling,” his voice just loud enough for cover. “I’ll check on our reservations for later.”

He leaned down, pressing his lips to her cheek in what would look like a husband’s casual affection. Her cheek was warm. “If anything feels wrong?—”

“I vanish.” Her smile remained perfectly in place. “Go.”

Leo adjusted his cuffs, memorizing her—midnight-blue silk, quiet confidence, the reason he’d dropped everything to be here.

He turned, heading for the staff entrance.

He trusted her, and they needed the footage to clear her name. He didn’t look back. If he did, he might not go.