Page 31

Vincent traced Michael's smiling face in the photo, his hands trembling slightly.

"This was from last Christmas," he whispered, voice rough with grief. "He was so proud of this hideous sweater."

The shock that had blanched his face when we received the image of Michael's body had hardened into something colder. More focused.

The anguish in his voice made my chest squeeze tight.

Vincent wasn't just mourning a patient. He was mourning the future that had been stolen from someone he'd helped rebuild.

As a therapist, his purpose was to guide people toward better lives, and Prometheus had deliberately targeted that purpose, perverting his work into a weapon.

I'd spent the morning making calls, reaching out to contacts who might still talk to me. But I knew exactly who was responsible. Prometheus.

I paced our apartment, phone clutched in my hand, fury building with each step. Forty-eight confirmed kills, and none had made me feel the way seeing Vincent's shattered expression did .

"I should probably get going," I said, checking my watch. "Lo will be waiting for us."

Vincent looked up, eyes red-rimmed but startlingly clear. "I still think this is a trap."

"It probably is," I admitted, crouching in front of him. "But Lo vouches for Diego, and we're out of options."

He captured my wrist, his fingers surprisingly strong against my pulse. His touch sent electricity racing up my arm. "Just promise me you won't do anything reckless."

Something pulsed in my groin at his commanding tone. This new, harder version of Vincent awakened something primal in me. I wanted to pin him against the wall, taste the grief and fury on his tongue.

"Reckless is my specialty," I replied, a grim smile tugging at my lips. "But I'll try to keep the bloodshed to a minimum."

"I mean it, Luka." Vincent's eyes narrowed. "We need their help to fight Prometheus, not to create more enemies."

"Diego's a smuggler, not a saint. And whoever he's bringing will be worse."

"Can we trust them at all?"

The question twisted something in my chest. Trust. A foreign concept in my world. Twenty-six years in The Pantheon had taught me that trust was a weakness others exploited.

"No," I answered honestly. "But we don't have many options."

"I'm coming with you," he said.

I crossed the room in two quick strides, caging Vincent against the couch, one knee planted between his thighs, hands braced on either side of his head. His pupils dilated immediately.

"It's too dangerous," I growled, close enough to feel his breath against my lips .

Vincent didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned forward until our foreheads nearly touched. "I understand the reality of your world, Luka. But I refuse to sit here protected while you face all the risks."

My fingertips brushed his jaw. "If they hurt you—"

"They've already hurt me." Vincent gestured to Michael's photo. His hand caught mine, holding it against his face. "Prometheus has already shown he can reach me. Hiding isn't working. Let me help."

I leaned in, stopping a breath away from his mouth. For a moment, I considered taking what we both clearly wanted. Instead, I forced myself to pull back. The mission had to come first.

"Fine," I relented, straightening. "You stay silent. You stay close to me. And if I say run, you run. No questions."

Relief flickered across Vincent's face, quickly replaced by determination. "Agreed."

"I'm sorry," I murmured against his hair. "About Michael."

His body tensed against mine, then slowly relaxed. "He was a good person. Finally starting to believe he deserved happiness. And they killed him just to send a message."

"I know." I closed my arms around him. "We'll make them pay."

Leaving the Acropolis required more preparation than simply walking out the front door.

With priority red contracts on both our heads, we'd be dead before reaching the first traffic light.

But the Acropolis had secrets within secrets, including tunnels dating back to prohibition, maintenance shafts that had never appeared on any official blueprint, and a network of service entrances known only to those who'd earned enough special pennies.

I called in three favors and spent two of my remaining special pennies securing passage through the old bootlegger's tunnel that emerged in an abandoned subway station two miles east. From there, we traveled in a series of short, unpredictable jumps—taxi to bus station, rideshare to a shopping mall, delivery truck to industrial district.

The route was designed to shake any surveillance, creating a patchwork journey impossible to track in real time.

"Is all this really necessary?" Vincent asked as we switched vehicles for the fourth time in two hours.

"Prometheus has eyes everywhere," I explained, helping him into the cramped space behind stacks of flower arrangements. "Standard pursuit protocol is to establish a perimeter and work inward. So we stay mobile, never taking a direct route."

Vincent's hand found mine in the darkness between boxes of lilies. "How many people owe you favors?"

"Enough to get us where we need to go," I replied, squeezing his fingers. "Not enough to keep us alive afterward."

When we finally reached the airfield, night had fallen, our zigzagging journey having consumed the afternoon. But we'd made it without a single bullet fired in our direction, which counted as a win in my book.

The abandoned airfield stretched before us, cracked concrete splitting under persistent weeds. Ten miles outside River City limits, this hellhole reeked of rust and rotting dreams .

As the florist's van rolled to a stop, I spotted Lo waiting by the edge of the runway, switchblade glinting as he picked dirt from under his nails. The setting sun bled orange across the horizon, stretching our shadows into grotesque giants as we climbed out of the vehicle.

"Subtle," Lo commented, eyeing our floral transportation with amusement. "Nothing says 'definitely not assassins' like arriving in a van full of funeral arrangements."

"Better than arriving in body bags," I replied, helping Vincent navigate the uneven ground.

My eyes scanned the perimeter, checking rooftops and shadows for movement. Lo noticed my vigilance and rolled his eyes.

"Relax," he said, flipping his blade shut. "If I wanted you dead, I'd have poisoned your gummy worms days ago."

"It's not you I'm worried about."

"Diego's good people," Lo continued. "Well, not good good. But reliable."

I wasn't convinced. After twenty-six years in The Pantheon, trust didn't come naturally. But options were running dangerously thin.

"How do you know this Diego guy again?" I asked, checking my weapon for the third time.

"Shared interest in explosives and pretty men," Lo replied, straightening as headlights appeared in the distance. "Here they come. Try not to shoot anyone immediately, yeah?"

Vincent shifted closer to me, his shoulder brushing mine. The simple contact grounded me, a reminder of why we were taking these risks.

A battered Land Rover approached, stopping thirty yards away. The driver's door opened, and a man emerged, silhouetted against the fading light.

"That's Diego," Lo murmured .

I studied the approaching man, positioning myself slightly in front of Vincent. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the bouncy stride of someone perpetually excited about life. Tousled honey-brown curls caught the fading light, his megawatt smile visible even at this distance.

"Lorenzo!" Diego called, voice bright and musical, carrying a cheerful Andalusian accent. "My favorite tiny assassin!"

Lo grinned, tucking his knife away before striding forward to meet him. They embraced enthusiastically, Diego lifting Lo off his feet and spinning him around once.

"Diego Reyes, meet Luka Aleksandar," Lo said, gesturing toward me. "The one I told you about. And Dr. Vincent Matthews."

Diego bounded over, hand extended. "The infamous ferryman who broke his contract. And the therapist worth breaking it for. Epic romance, my friends!"

I kept my expression neutral, one hand reaching back to rest on Vincent's arm. "Word travels fast."

"Shall we take this inside? Less exposed. Plus, I thought I saw a spider near that old fuel tank and I'd rather not tempt fate."

He gestured toward the largest hangar, its massive doors partially open, revealing only darkness beyond.

The hangar interior was better maintained than its exterior suggested.

Soft lighting illuminated a small twin-engine plane in the center.

It was sleek, unmarked, clearly modified for purposes beyond standard aviation.

Diego moved to a metal cabinet, extracting a box lined with copper mesh. "Phones. In here."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Faraday cage," he explained. "Insurance policy. My associate is... cautious. "

I glanced at Lo, who nodded slightly. With reluctance, I placed my phone in the box, watching as Lo and Diego did the same. Vincent followed suit.

"Now strip," Diego said casually.

"Excuse me?" Vincent spoke for the first time.

"Need to check for wires. Tracking devices." Diego's expression remained professionally detached. "Nothing personal."

"Very personal from where I'm standing," I growled, stepping in front of Vincent. The thought of him exposed in front of a stranger made something possessive curl in my gut.

Lo was already unbuttoning his shirt. "Standard procedure, princess."

Reluctantly, I began removing my shirt, motioning for Vincent to do the same. But I kept my body angled to block Diego's view of Vincent.

Muttering curses in three languages, I stripped down to my boxers. Diego checked my clothes efficiently, then moved to Vincent next, his examination making my jaw clench with irrational territoriality. “Are we good?”

Diego handed our clothes back, and we started yanking them on. “For now, but I would advise against making any sudden moves. My associate is faster than you think he is.”