Page 7 of Lone Wolf (Red Rivals)

CHAPTER 7

Ariadne

The Styx Syndicate’s war room was a legendary part of the old house. And according to stories I’ve heard, the new war room is the only room in the new mansion that has been recreated exactly like the old. The large, heavy double doors with the brass model of a three-headed Cerberus. The long table inside where full Syndicate members are allowed to sit, while recruits and those still proving themselves stand behind.

And Hadria Imperioli’s throne at the head—a huge wooden beast of a thing that somehow still seems less intimidating than the occupant herself.

She’s in it now as Sunny and I are ushered in by Lyssa and Scarlett. Hadria rises from her chair and comes down the few steps to look us over critically, walking around the two of us in a circle. Mario and Ricky, two other senior members, are at the table, watching on.

“You’re sure about this, Boss?” Lyssa asks.

“I believe so. Yes. They have to learn sooner or later.” She stops in front of us. “You two work together well. And I need a couple of unknown faces to take on a mission tonight. I’ll take your presence here as confirmation that you want to take this mission on.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sunny says, nearly bouncing on her toes with enthusiasm.

I just incline my head.

“Very well.” Hadria’s cool, silvery eyes are difficult to hold, and I find myself staring ahead, as though I’m a military recruit and she is my superior officer.

It’s not so different, I suppose.

Hadria explains our mission. The Syndicate has been hired to plant surveillance equipment in the private office of a nightclub owner. The point is surveillance, not bloodshed. No killing. No fighting , even. We’ll be working undercover.

Disappointment makes me want to sigh, but I keep my face still. Beside me, I can feel energy bristling off Sunny. She’s pulled her hair into a thick French braid and tonight, for once, she’s wearing all-black like me. I suppose those things are her concessions to professionalism.

And then Hadria looks us head to toe and says, “You’ll have to change, of course. Something appropriate for two young women going out dancing. Make it loud and memorable—the more memorable the clothes, the less memorable the face. Understand?”

Sunny’s face has lit up with a grin. “Perfectly,” she says.

Once again, I just nod.

“Lyssa will take you to wardrobe. A car will be waiting for you downstairs in one hour. Make sure you’re ready by then. And let me be clear: this is a test for both of you. You must work together as partners.” She stares at me, and I can’t help but stare back. “We have no lone wolves in the Styx Syndicate. Understood?”

“Understood,” I grit out. I can’t argue, though I want to. The Wolf has her own partner these days.

As we turn to follow that Wolf, Lyssa, to wardrobe, Sunny casually bumps my shoulder. “Hey, partner,” she murmurs, “I bet you’ll look incredible all dolled up.”

I stiffen at the contact, ignoring the flash of heat that runs through me at her comment. “Just remember we’ll be there to do a job, not have fun.”

“Sure. But if we have a little fun along the way, where’s the harm?”

This is going to be a fucking disaster.

“This is going to be fucking amazing!” Sunny whoops as she bounces out of the Syndicate town car and onto the sidewalk. I shuffle over to the car door more slowly, with one last glance at the driver, one of the Syndicate’s regulars, an older man with a fatherly air who smiles at me in the mirror. “Have fun,” he says, as though Sunny and I really are off for a night of dancing.

I just give him an up-nod and slide out after Sunny. She’s waiting for me and practically vibrating with excitement. And I have to admit, it’s hard to take my eyes off of her. She’s wearing a short, crimson dress that catches light with every movement, gold jewelry flashing at her neck and wrists. Her amber eyes are lined with bold kohl, making them seem even more luminous than usual. Her only concession to practicality are the sturdy boots at the end of her fishnet stocking-clad legs, but somehow she makes them work with the rest of the outfit.

She looks like she belongs here—like she was made for nights like this.

I went for something a little more practical: skintight, black pants that allow me to kick to my full extension (I tested), a black tank, and boots. Lyssa suggested a leather jacket, and made me slick my hair back with gel.

I kind of like the hair. I was relieved when they allowed me all-black, too.

“Those pants look so good on you,” Sunny gushes. “Sparkly!”

“They’re black,” I say flatly.

“And sparkly.”

I say nothing to that, because she’s right. I sure wasn’t going to wear anything girlie tonight, but when Lyssa offered me a choice between leather pants and these, I took these. I said it was because they allowed more movement.

But really…it was the sparkles.

Sparkles were my only reward at Grandmother’s house. I was allowed to decorate my room as I saw fit, unlike the other assassins, and I still flush to think that Lyssa and Scarlett must have seen that room, an explosion of sparkly pink teen angst.

I’ve stuck with black for the whole time I’ve been with the Syndicate. Clothes. Room. Mood. But now and then, I catch myself wistfully thinking about the more colorful decor I used to have.

Maybe that’s why—occasionally—I find Sunny kind of attractive. Certainly tonight, in her crimson dress that catches the streetlights in ruby flashes, she looks…

Well…

Hot.

She slides her arm through mine and I pull away instinctively until she yanks me back. “Undercover lovers, remember?” she scolds me, but she grins afterward. “Come on. Let’s do this.”

Yes. Let’s focus on the mission, not her warm body pressing into my side.

But when we round the corner, my heart drops. There’s a line reaching from the door to just about where we are. “Shit,” I mutter. “How are we?—”

“Come on,” Sunny says cheerfully, and then adds under her breath, “and for God’s sake, smile.” She glances at me. “Nix that last—no smiling for you. You look like you’re in pain.”

“I am,” I snap back.

But we’ve reached the head of the line, where the bouncer is waiting in front of the velvet rope. Sunny winks at him, and he gives an appreciative smile.

I make a tiny movement, and Sunny clamps down on my arm as though she knows exactly what I’m thinking. But she can’t. Because what I’m thinking is that I want to separate this bouncer’s head from his thick neck for looking at her with such open desire.

“Come on in, ladies,” he says, unclipping the rope for us. We ignore the boos and shouts from the people at the head of the line, who have been waiting there—no doubt—for a very long time.

Sunny pulls me in and we pay the cover charge before moving into the dance area, the music low and thumping, a thick bass that feels almost tactile. The beat is vibrating into me through my boots and I have to pause and take it all in. Voices fight to be heard over the music, creating a chaotic symphony of noise. The air is muggy with perfume, sweat, and expensive liquor.

“What’s wrong?” Sunny bellows.

“I’ve never been in a nightclub before.”

“Huh?” she shouts. “Can’t hear you!”

I just jerk my head toward the other side of the dance floor, where the door to the private offices is located, according to the floor plans Lyssa showed us before we left. Sunny nods and I turn to begin skirting the dance floor, but stop dead when I feel her hand slip into mine.

When I stare at her over my shoulder, she wears a look of complete innocence. “We should dance over,” she shouts. “More cover in the crowd. And more direct, too.”

I guess she’s right. I let her lead me down the steps into the sunken dance floor, and then she spins on her heel and drapes her arms around my neck, her hips already moving in time to the music. The strobe lights fracture across her face—one moment illuminating her smile, the next casting her in shadow.

“What are you?—”

“ Dance ,” she hisses, grabbing one of my hands to put it on her waist.

I’m about to tell her that I don’t know how, but I’d be making a liar of myself. Because somehow, my body does know how to dance…or at least, it knows how to respond to Sunny Santiago’s moves.

She’s instinctive and natural, like her hips were made to sway. Within a few minutes, something melts inside me, just enough that my body betrays my mind. My hands find her waist, firm beneath soft fabric. She bends back, exposing her throat in a way that would make any predator strike, and rolls her body against mine with a trust that makes my chest tighten.

I turn her roughly, pulling her ass tight against me—telling myself it’s just for cover as we appraise the door marked Employees Only. But her body heat seeps through my clothes like a slow-acting poison, making my thoughts blur at the edges.

A drunk man sways too close to Sunny, eyes lingering on her body. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’ve tightened my grip on her waist, pulling her closer to me with a possessiveness that startles us both. The man catches my glare and quickly moves away.

A security guard is standing by the door, and we’ll have to handle him.

But first I need to handle Sunny, who is spinning again to face me, practically grinding against my thigh. For a second, my brain short-circuits as I feel her soft, warm thighs mount mine, her skirt hiking up, my hands sliding down to cup her ass and help her keep her balance as she rides me…

“You’re pretty good at this,” she says in my ear.

“Dancing?”

“Pretending to be into me,” she laughs.

I pull her harder against me. “I’m a professional,” I deadpan. “I do whatever it takes.”

For the first time, I think I’ve got the upper hand. She’s flushed and her eyes are gleaming as she looks into my face. “Sure you are,” she breathes. We stay there a few seconds, her ass filling my hands, her crotch grinding down on me, and for one crazy moment I want to kiss her.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I’ve never lost my head like this before. Not over my boyfriend, that’s for sure—the one who sold me off to Grandmother. I never felt anything like this with him. When he kissed me, when we had sex, it was just something I let my mind wander through. It was…tedious.

But I’ve never touched a woman like this before. Soft and intimate. The women I’ve touched before—well, it wasn’t touching. It was punching, hitting, kicking, as I trained them to be killing machines.

“How are we doing this?” Sunny murmurs in my ear, and all I can think of is that I want to find somewhere dark and private and taste her mouth. “The guard,” she adds, when I don’t answer. “Ariadne? How are we distracting the?—”

“We’ll start a fight,” I say, trying to push her back a little. She’s like a damn limpet. “Should be easy enough. There’s a group of very drunk frat boys over there. Once our mark is on the move, we’ll make ours.”

The club manager is due to head to a meeting after midnight. Lyssa told us he likes to walk through the club, make himself check out how the crowd is going, make sure he’s seen and admired.

“How are we going to start a fight?” Sunny asks.

“I figure you’re annoying enough to start a fight with anyone,” I tell her, but she just grins again, as though I’m complimenting her.

“Hell, yeah,” she says. “I think we should start laying the groundwork now. Meeting’s coming up soon.” I’m almost upset when she stops swaying up against me, but at least she grabs my hand again to lead me across the floor, up the steps, and in easy view of the frat boys.

It takes about three seconds for them to notice her—and me, to my consternation. We find ourselves chatting with them, accepting some of the expensive tequila they’ve bought a bottle of, even though neither of us is stupid enough to actually take a sip.

Even this, the distraction work, we’re doing as a team. I watch Sunny work the group, all smiles and flirtation, while I scan for threats and exits. She notices connections, opportunities for conversation, while I catalog every potential weapon and escape route.

And then, about ten minutes after I feel like I could strangle each and every one of these morons myself just for something interesting to do, the Employee Only door opens, and our mark walks out. I give it another five minutes after he’s cleared the floor before I catch Sunny’s eye and give her the nod, and immediately, she starts putting on a show.

And what a show.

She slaps the guy she’s sitting next to right across the face, and tells him not to get so handsy, finishing up with a torrent of Spanish. His look of complete confusion is almost amusing, and we’ve already attracted the attention of the security guard near the door.

“What the fuck is going on over here,” he demands. This guy is serious, well trained, and he’s not going to put up with any bullshit.

Thankfully, these frat guys stink of bullshit. “This bitch hit me for no reason,” the guy says indignantly, but he’s undermined by his buddies, who are all laughing and growing at his misfortune.

“Don’t call her a bitch, you moronic little fuckboy,” I snap.

“He tried to slip something in my drink,” Sunny says, shoving her shot glass at the bouncer. “You don’t believe me? Drink it yourself!”

Now the security guard is taking things even more seriously, looking over the group with a sharp eye—and they look guilty as hell, probably because they are trying to drug women tonight. If nothing else, I think, at least we’ve done one good deed for the night, as Sunny and I slide away while the security guard calls for backup to have the party removed.

And then we’re into the employee-only door and moving fast down a dimly lit hallway with a series of doors, some marked, some not. But the one we’re looking for—around a corner and right at the end—is made obvious by the keypad next to it. There are cameras in the corridors, but Lyssa already arranged for them to be out for the night. A sizable bribe made sure of it, and looking at them now, I see no lights and no movement to indicate that they’re even on.

Not that it will matter. My face is unknown in Chicago—and if anyone recognizes Sunny Santiago, they’re welcome to try to come into the Syndicate after her. One of the things I like about the Syndicate is that we do take care of our own. That wasn’t how it was under Grandmother, and as much as I prefer working alone, I understand the benefits of having someone at your back.

Even if that someone is Sunny Santiago.

Sunny keys in the code and the door opens. I stand watch in the hall, remaining precisely where I can monitor both approaches while Sunny works inside the office.

Then I hear a sharp clatter and Sunny’s muttered curse.

“What’s wrong?” I hiss.

“Nothing,” she whispers back, but when I peek in, I see she’s knocked over a crystal tumbler of whiskey that was sitting on the desk, and the amber liquid is spreading across important-looking papers.

“Sunny!”

“I’ve got it!” She’s desperately trying to mop up the spill with tissues from a box on the desk, but she’s only making it worse, pushing the liquid toward the edge where it will drip onto the carpet.

“Forget it, just plant the bugs,” I order. “We’ve got less than three minutes.”

She abandons the spill at once, and, despite the mess she’s made, she manages to place all the devices according to plan, in less than two minutes.

But just as she’s slipped back out of the office, we hear the main door into the club opening, the swell of the music winding around the corner. I pull Sunny three doors down and into a utility closet. It’s big enough to hide us—I checked it out while I was waiting for her—but still small, holding janitorial tools like mop and bucket, and the whole thing smells heavily of bleach.

With both of us in here, there’s barely enough room to breathe without inhaling each other. We’re pressed up together, our breathing shallow as we both try to calm it, keep quiet. Rough broom bristles scrape against my leg and a cold metal shelf digs into my back. But even through these discomforts, I’m hyperaware of Sunny’s body against mine—the closeness making it unbearably warm despite the cool night.

All I can think about is the smell of Sunny’s perfume cutting through the bleach. Did she have to wear perfume tonight? I know we’re undercover, but that seems to be laying it on pretty thick.

We both hear the loud swearing as the newcomers realize something’s wrong.

“You better fucking clean this up,” one of them says. “If Danny comes back to find his office like this, he’ll go off his head.”

“I didn’t make the mess,” protests whoever is with him, another man.

“I don’t give a fuck if you made the mess or not, you’re cleaning it up. Go get a fucking rag before I beat your face in.”

Shit. Heavy footsteps headed straight for this closet. I’m automatically moving into a defensive position, calculating how to neutralize two opponents in this confined space, when Sunny grabs me and…

Kisses me.

Time seems to slow as I process the feel of her mouth on mine, her desperate hands pulling me close, the taste of her lip gloss.

It tastes like raspberry and vanilla. Super sweet. Super addictive.

Just like Sunny herself…