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CHAPTER 1

HERA

Cupid is keeping me waiting.

Am I surprised? Not in the least bit. I was told my new assignment would be unlike any other assassin I’ve managed. Olympia doesn’t like that word— assassin. They prefer field asset or agent or auxiliary tool .

But an assassin he is, as much as the killers of ancient times.

More than that, he’s late.

It’s a sweltering Parisian day, and the breeze is lazy. I’m sitting outside a café on one of the lesser-known streets, away from the tourists, hidden from the watchful gaze of the Eiffel Tower. Here, the city crowds and looms. It hugs itself. The narrow buildings provide some shade, but I’m still sweating in this ridiculous summer dress.

If I had it my way, I’d be in a pantsuit or tactical gear. Blending in, however, is the ultimate function of my attire. I should look like any other French woman enjoying her green tea. I should be nearly invisible.

That man across the street should not be staring at me.

Attention from men is not something I’m accustomed to. Perhaps it’s my resting-bitch face, or the fact that most men I converse with are assassins I am technically in charge of. In fact, only one field asset ever made a move on me, and I put a stop to it almost reflexively. Most members of the opposite sex don’t look at me the way he is right now… like he wants to rip off my dress with his eyes.

The man is standing outside a bicycle shop, leaning against the glass. A loose white button-up shirt dances with the breeze, flashing up slightly to give me a glimpse of his toned stomach. With his hands in his pockets, he tilts his head as if he’s trying to look under my dress. A few dark curls drape over his forehead before he brushes them back and smiles.

Some horny Frenchman hitting on me is the last thing I need right now.

I sigh, sip my tea, and pretend to read the book in my hand.

He starts walking across the street.

Without glancing up from the pages, I wave him off and tell him I’m not interested in perfect French. He laughs like he’s seen the future, like he already knows that I’m his, and it makes my toes curl. Against all my training, bearing, and will, my eyes drift to meet his gaze.

Handsome would be an understatement.

The man’s face is dashingly sharp with dark features. Wild curls form passageways on his head, secret tunnels of black hair as tempting to explore as the catacombs beneath this city. His smile is a knife cutting through my heart like butter; he traces the stubble of his mustache with his fingers.

I’ve always prided myself on professionalism. The job is my life. Olympia recruited me because I was bored at the three-letter agency that had previously employed me; I was looking for something more, something to devote myself to completely. Men have never fit into the equation of my existence.

Something about this man puts the faintest chink in that armor.

It’s a runaway thought, a fantasy that I laugh off as I close my book and hold his gaze. I’ve got a job to do, and I won’t throw everything away for a one-night stand in Paris.

Did you not hear me? I say again, inflecting to let him know I’m annoyed. My French is damn good, enough to pass for a local. Go bother someone else…

The man, unfazed and still smiling, speaks to me in English, “Spare an obolus for the ferryman?”

The breeze is sucked from the world.

Suddenly, I feel so hot that this dress is suffocating.

An obolus. The devilishly handsome man from across the street has spoken the code. This isn’t protocol. We were to sit outside for an hour before attempting the codephrase—I’ve been here for forty-five minutes, but he’s only just arrived.

How does he know I’m the one?

“Taking the journey across the Styx?” I repeat the trained response.

The man, who I now know is Cupid, sits in the empty chair at my table. “Not yet, but Charon is waiting.”

We stare.

We stare for far too long.

Cupid’s dark eyes scan me, plucking out every bead of sweat on my exposed neck. The assassin’s gaze is hungry. I wonder if he looks at his targets the same way? Suddenly, I feel naked in this dress.

I’d feel vulnerable in a suit of armor if he were looking at me.

“You’re late.” I sit upright, set my book down, and snap for the waiter. “Order something to drink.”

Cupid smirks at me, leans back, and crosses his legs as the waiter comes over. He never takes his eyes off me as he switches to French to order an espresso. There’s a nonchalantness about him that I find infuriatingly attractive. It’s like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Me? I’ve had a stress headache since yesterday.

“I’m on Paris time,” he yawns, waving his hand as if to dismiss the concept of clocks altogether. “Been here for weeks. Waiting. Drinking. Eating. Maybe you’re the one who’s late?”

“I was here exactly when I needed to be.”

“Ah, but what if you had come early?” He accepts his coffee and stares at me over the rim as he smells the creamy film at the top. “We could have explored Paris together. Drinking. Eating. Fucki—“

“Enough.”

I don’t raise my voice, not yet. Already, Cupid is living up to Olympia’s warnings. Organizations like Olympia never deal in physical media. I’ve never seen a picture of Cupid, never read a file, and certainly never seen footage of his work being carried out. When I’m given an assignment, I’m usually shoved into a van with a bag over my head and brought to Zeus.

Zeus told me that Cupid would be different.

We’re losing control of the asset.

“I need you to understand something,” I speak lowly as a group of teens saunter by. “I am not your previous handlers. You will follow my directions to the letter, or I will simply report to Olympia that you are unfit for utilization.”

This puts an even slyer smile on Cupid’s gorgeous face. He smirks like the Devil.

“This is not a game,” I say.

“Everything is a game, Hera,” he responds. “Especially this.”

Beneath the table, his foot inches near my heels.

“Why do you think they call you Hera?” he asks.

“It’s a codename. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“So, what’s your real name?”

My heart flutters at the thought. It’s been so long since I spoke it. An alias occupies my passport, and I wouldn’t even give that name to Cupid. This wild line of questioning makes me yearn for my previous assignment. Hephaestus was straight-laced; he did things by the book. Unfortunately, he had to go and break his back in a rock-climbing accident.

So, here I am, staring down Cupid’s mischievous grin.

“Do not ask me that again. It’s against protocol, as you know. No names. No files. Olympia passes information to me, and I pass it to you. You know this. No evidence.”

“No evidence except for us .”

Cupid loudly scoots his metal chair over until our legs are completely entangled. My dress rides up my legs, and I can feel my sweat being wiped off by his pants.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

“Ah, come on. Act natural.” He leans in and smiles. “Have you ever even been to France? Two attractive Parisians would never sit so far away from each other on a hot day like this. The tension is too tight for that, ma chérie.”

My mind does flips trying to place his morphing accent. One minute, he sounds American with hints of West Coast flair. The next, his tongue moves like he’s from the Netherlands but studied abroad. His French, what little I’ve heard, sounds more localized than mine.

The fact that he called me attractive melts my mind further.

“Keep your hands to yourself…”

Cupid smiles and sips his espresso.

I’m keenly aware of the glances he steals toward my thighs.

If I had my gun, I might hit him with it.

“We have a target,” I speak softly, as if we’re flirting. “He is attending a dinner tonight at La Truffière. Fifty-seven years of age. Bald. Brown goatee. Brown eyes. Thin scar under the right ear. Keen on maroon suits, so keep an eye out for that. His driver pilot’s a twenty-twenty five black Mercedes GLC. The target wears a gold cross necklace, always. Apart from the driver, he should be alone once he leaves the restaurant.”

Cupid doesn’t seem to be paying attention. He finishes his espresso, sighs, and leans forward until our faces are inches apart. “Do you think it will protect him?”

“Excuse me?”

“The cross.”

“If you’re as good as Olympia says, then no.”

Flattery. Zeus suggested that encouragement might work where sternness has failed. I’m not very good at it…

Anyone passing by would see two lovers sharing an intimate conversation, and Cupid adds to the scene by brushing a strand of my black hair behind my ear. I shiver in the summer heat.

“This dress looks good on you, Hera. Maybe you and I should take a day or two after the assignment. I know many places we could get lost in…”

My breath catches like a jammed bullet.

If he kissed me, I’d go along with it.

I can’t blow up on him in public, and he knows that. He’s got me cornered. He can take this act as far as he wants to…

A strand of his curly hair falls and brushes my forehead.

Cupid smiles and palms my cheek before leaning back in his chair. “Fifty-seven. Bald with a brown goatee and brown eyes. Scar under right ear. Maroon suit. Black Mercedes. A golden cross necklace.”

I suppose he was listening.

“No collateral damage. Clean kill, if possible. It doesn’t need to look like an accident, but don’t make a fuss, either. In two days, we’ll meet for our debrief,” I say as I finish my tea. “If you don’t show, we’ll know you failed.”

“Or succeeded and was killed in the process.”

“This shouldn’t be that difficult.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Not with your track record. If I’m being honest, I think Olympia is throwing us an easy target to feel out this arrangement.”

Cupid perks up. “Oh? What have you heard? Are they worried I’ll do something crazy?”

Zeus thunders in my mind, Precise. Ruthless. Dramatic. Unpredictable…

I stand and straighten out my dress. He’s still close enough to hide himself under the fabric and kiss between my thighs, if he wanted to.

If I’d let him.

“Do this by the book, Cupid.” I stare down at him as I hook my purse over my shoulder. “No collateral. No unnecessary attention. In two days, meet me in front of Saint Agnes church along the Marne—same time. May Tyche smile upon you.” The goddess of luck, a customary closing among agents.

Before I can turn to leave, Cupid snatches my arm.

His strength and speed shock a gasp from my lips. All his arrogant coolness has boiled over, leaving a desperate look in his dark eyes.

“We should have a rendezvous in case something goes wrong,” he says.

I shake my head. “That’s not protocol.”

“You can give it a stupid Greek name if you want. House of Atreus, or some shit. I don’t care. We need a backup… in case I need to find you.”

Erratic. Unwieldy. Potentially insane…

I take a slow, deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment.

All of my training tells me to break his fucking wrist and report back to Olympia. Some assets… they don’t last. Something in them breaks, and they’re of no use anymore. I don’t know what happens to them when they can no longer be utilized…

If this arrangement doesn’t work, I don’t know what they’ll do to Cupid.

“Stand up,” I whisper, putting on a fake smile. “Or you’ll make a scene.”

Cupid returns the smile, but his feels genuine. He stands, runs his fingers up my arm and takes me by the waist.

We look like two parting lovers.

“I have a suite at the Hotel Plaza Athénée.” I take in his strong scent as I whisper in his ear. Staying in character, I slide my arms over his broad shoulders. I even kick my foot up so my heel points toward the sun—I have never kicked my foot up in a man’s arms. “Top floor. Westernmost room. There are staff watching the elevators, and you’d need a keycard to access the floor.”

“I wouldn’t be much of an assassin if a few bellhops and a plastic card could keep me from you.”

His fingertips dig into the silky fabric of my dress, easing down my hips like a man who isn’t quite ready to watch his lover walk away.

I can feel him smiling against my cheek. “How about a kiss before you leave?”

“Don’t push me, Cupid.”

“It’s only for show.”

“How about I knee you in the balls?” I fake a laugh. “We could pretend to be quarreling lovers.”

“I’d take any kind of lover with you…”

I break our embrace, fully aware that my nipples are stiff under my dress.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

“Emergency use only.” Cupid lifts my hand and kisses the backs of my fingers. “And if not, I’ll see you in two days.”

“I count on it.”

“It’s a date.”

I make sure he sees my eyes roll before I finally turn and leave. My heels strike the cobblestone sidewalk, sounding off like gunshots. I can feel his eyes on me, trained like a sniper.

To the end of the block, I know I’m in his sights.

I curse myself for telling him where I’ll be.

It’s completely against protocol. If Olympia found out, I’d get the ass-chewing of a lifetime, maybe worse. And yet, as I get out of the cab and stare up at all the windows of the old hotel, I can’t help but smile.

Something about breaking the rules makes me feel so alive.

Olympia always sets me up lavishly.

Back home, stateside, I have a five-room house in South Carolina. The subdued waves of Charleston Bay rock me to sleep. Out on assignment, I’m given a limitless expense card, the finest clothes to match my disguises, and luxury rooms I never want to leave.

I suppose they have to make up for the fact that at any moment I could be snatched up by their assets, have a bag thrown over my head, and driven to some unknown location to be briefed, interrogated, or worse.

Fortunately, I stay on their good side.

My hotel suite is like stepping back in time. The old architecture is reminiscent of a French era filled with philosophers, socialites, and revolutionaries. High ceilings hide painted figures I can’t fully examine in the low light, and the view from my balcony sets Paris sprawling out for me. The city is lit up, blazing in the night; the Eiffel Tower is a torch in the distance.

Fresh out of the shower, I change into a pair of gym shorts and an oversized Harvard sweater. I never attended Harvard. My alias, Clarissa Dumont, certainly did. Still, I’m happy to be out of that dress and into comfy clothes. I sit my Glock down on the coffee table next to my tea, crack open my book, and settle in for the night.

Two days of nothing to do but enjoy my expense card and this lovely room. These transitional periods make the stress worth it. For a while, I can pretend that my life isn’t cloak and dagger.

I’m sure in some convoluted way, Olympia owns the hotel. Shit, they probably own the airline I flew in on. Shell companies. Offshore bank accounts. Fake persons they funnel money through to cover their tracks. The agency’s web is encompassing but invisible. Apart from Zeus, the assets I’ve handled, and the agents who’ve taken me in, I don’t even have a rough estimate of how many people work for Olympia.

Follow orders, and life gets to be unreal. We operate above governments, laws, and international boundaries. We’re gods guiding civilization, eliminating those that need to be snuffed out.

Step out of line, however, and the Underworld awaits.

Three knocks make me snatch up my Glock and chamber a round. I’m aiming at the door to my suite before the final knock finishes. It’s nearly two in the morning—there’s no reason for anyone to be knocking on my door.

Another knock, only this time I realize it’s not coming from the door.

I whip around, training my gun on Cupid through the window of my balcony. He’s standing in the night, eyes wild and hair dancing in the wind. The collar of his white shirt is undone under his black blazer. The Eiffel Tower is erected behind him like distant fire.

He has one hand on his gut, holding himself like he has a stomach ache. The other hand waves a bottle of vodka like an offering.

Open the door , he mouths.

There’s blood trickling between his fingers.