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“Brock,” he murmured as he reached the door. “Guide me in.”

“Roger that,” Brock replied. “Service elevator is down the hall to your right. Watch yourself. Charlie says there’s been increased security sweeps tonight.”

Leo slipped through the door into harsh fluorescent light, trading the salon’s golden warmth and champagne air for the antiseptic smell of industrial cleaner and the mechanical hum of ventilation systems.

He moved down the corridor, focusing on the task ahead. But a part of him remained in the salon where Kat sat within arm’s reach of a killer.

Thirty minutes to find the footage.

Thirty minutes away from Kat.

The clock started now.

24

The gold bandcaught the chandelier’s light as Kat rearranged her cards, the metal warm against her skin—a quiet reminder of the lie.

She slowed her breathing, banking the flutter in her stomach.

Leo was gone. She had to be enough now.

Three seats remained empty at the table. The tech billionaire to her right stacked chips into tiny towers, then demolished them with twitchy fingers. He’d already lost twelve grand to her in the last hand.

“You’re quite good at this, Mrs. Ivchenko,” the tech billionaire commented.

Kat smiled. “My father always said: take a man’s money while he’s distracted by your smile.”

The men around the table chuckled.

The Glock at her thigh was a cold reminder. She was an operative with a mission.

Adrik Korolov.

His gaze landed on their table. On her.

Recognition flickered in his dark eyes. The corner of his mouth curved into a predatory smile. He knew exactly who she was.

Her pulse jumped. She lifted her glass in acknowledgment, her expression smooth.

The game within the game had begun.

The tournament director materialized at his side, deferential but not obsequious. “Mr. Korolov, welcome. We’ve reserved your place, as requested.”

Korolov smiled. “Thank you.” He gestured toward the empty chair beside Kat. “Perfect.”

Korolov settled beside her, placing his phone on the table beside his chips, tantalizingly accessible.

“Alisa,” she extended her hand. “Alisa Ivchenko.”

His fingers were cool and dry as they enveloped hers. He held the contact a beat longer than necessary.

“Careful.” She didn’t pull away. “My husband is the jealous type.”

“Is he?” Korolov’s thumb brushed her wedding ring. “How... protective.”

Cards hit the felt. Kat kept her face neutral despite her racing pulse.

“You’ve improved since the Dorchester.” Korolov’s tone was casual.