Page 6

"Cut the shit, Luka," Frankie said, voice deadly quiet. "The client is getting impatient. Prometheus is breathing down my neck. You know what happens when the North American Director starts asking questions?"

Prometheus's name hit my nervous system like a cattle prod. My skin prickled with goosebumps, mouth turning to sandpaper, stomach collapsing into itself. The reaction was visceral, immediate, and completely beyond my control, like my body remembered something my mind wanted to forget.

"I'm working on it," I said, my voice losing its edge. "These things take time if you want them done right."

"Bullshit." Frankie leaned forward, his scarred face half in shadow.

"You've never needed more than forty-eight hours for a hit.

You've been on this for three weeks. Three.

Fucking. Weeks." He punctuated each word by tapping his desk.

"I've covered for you because you're the best, but my patience isn't infinite, and neither is The Pantheon's. "

Panic surged up my spine and squeezed my lungs. My mouth dried up. This unfamiliar sensation tasted like copper and weakness.

"Look," I said, leaning forward to match his posture, "Vincent Matthews isn't just some random target. He's—"

"Save it," Frankie cut me off, a new edge in his voice.

"I know a compromised asset when I see one.

" He lowered his voice, eyes darting to the ceiling corner where security cameras monitored everything.

"Ten years I've been your handler, Luka.

Ten years I've watched you execute contracts flawlessly.

You've never hesitated. Never questioned.

Now suddenly this therapist has you tied in knots? What makes him different? "

I squirmed in my chair. What did make Vincent different? The warmth in his eyes? The way he'd seen through me? How he'd created a safe space where, for just a moment, I'd let my guard down? "Nothing. Just being thorough."

Frankie studied me for a long moment. "You're lying. And you're not even doing it well." He sighed. "The only reason you're still breathing is because I told Prometheus you're working an angle. I put my neck on the line for you. After Taipei, I vouched for you. But I won't do it again."

The memory of what followed that mission flickered at the edges of my consciousness. Three days in a sterile facility. Medical tests. Questions. Prometheus's disappointed face. Then, nothing. Just waking up back at a safe house with a headache and a new contract.

Frankie's face remained stone, only his eyes betraying anything. "The client doesn't just want Matthews dead. He wants it public. Messy. A message."

My stomach twisted. Vincent deserved better than that. "Why? He's just a therapist."

"Above my pay grade," Frankie said flatly. "And yours. We don't ask why. We just deliver."

Something about that phrase caught in my mind. Familiar. A lesson repeated so many times it had become reflex rather than thought.

"I've earned thirty-two pennies," I said, desperation creeping into my voice. "Doesn't that buy me some leeway?"

"It bought you three weeks of surveillance instead of an immediate sanction." Frankie leaned back. "You have three days, Luka. Three days to complete the contract, or I'm putting it public. And don't think I won't because I like you. This is business. "

"Three days isn't enough," I protested, panic rising. If the contract went public, every amateur with a gun would be after Vincent. He wouldn't last twelve hours.

"Prometheus is sending Hector to... observe. Make sure things are proceeding as they should."

Fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck.

Hector was Prometheus's personal enforcer. His clean-up crew. The walking, talking insurance policy against fuck-ups like the one I was currently committing.

"When?" I managed, voice surprisingly steady given the internal screaming.

"He's already on his way," Frankie said. "Should be here tonight. Whatever you're planning, make it quick for both our sakes."

I shot to my feet, muscles coiling tight, shoulders bunching as unfamiliar protective instinct surged through me.

The mere thought of Hector's hands anywhere near Vincent sparked something feral behind my sternum.

My fingers itched for a trigger, throat tightening around a growl.

This willingness to burn everything down just to keep Vincent breathing terrified me more than Prometheus ever could.

Back in the lounge, Lo took one look at my face and slid off his stool. "That bad, huh?"

"Prometheus sent Hector," I said quietly, not wanting to broadcast my predicament.

Lo's kohl-rimmed eyes studied my face. Then he sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping in theatrical despair. "Shit. Frankie's not fucking around."

"Three days," I said, raking fingers through my hair until my scalp stung. "I have three days before the contract goes public. And Hector arrives tonight. "

Lo whistled low. "What are you going to do? Actually kill Dr. Hottie? Run away together into the sunset? Fake his death?"

My mind raced through possibilities, discarding each as quickly as they formed.

Killing Vincent wasn't an option—not anymore.

Running would just delay the inevitable.

Faking his death would require resources and connections I couldn't access in three days.

The Pantheon's reach was too vast, its intelligence network too sophisticated for simple deception.

"I need to understand why someone wants him dead," I said finally. "There's something bigger happening. Vincent isn't just a random target."

Lo's eyebrows shot up. "Questioning the contract? That's new for you." Lo studied me for a long moment, something unreadable crossing his face. "Well, you know what they say. When in doubt, stab your problems until they stop being problems."

Despite everything, a smile tugged at my lips. "Really, Lo?"

"It's what I say, and I'm never wrong," he replied, flipping his hair. "But seriously, Luka. Whatever you're planning, I've got your back. Even if it's something stupid and romantic and likely to get us both killed in spectacular fashion."

The offer was so unexpected I didn't know how to respond. Lo and I were roommates by circumstance, colleagues by necessity. We bickered and bantered and occasionally patched each other's wounds. But this? This was something else.

"Thanks," I said simply, because anything more would've been too much for both of us.

Lo nodded, then immediately reverted to his usual self. "Don't get sappy on me." Lo flicked his wrist, nails flashing blood-red under the lights. "I just don't want to break in a new roommate. The last one got all grumpy when he found my collection of extracted teeth. "

"That was one time," I reminded him.

"Details." Lo's fingers fluttered through the air like dismissing butterflies. "So, what's the plan for tonight? Brooding on the roof? Stalking your therapist? Creating another murder board?"

"It's a surveillance log," I corrected automatically. "And I need to think."

Lo raised his hands in surrender. "Say no more. I have a date with a finance bro who thinks a Rolex makes up for a lack of personality. He won't be missed." He paused. "I mean that literally. No one will notice he's gone."

"Try not to track blood into the room this time," I said, already heading toward our shared quarters.

"No promises!" Lo called after me.

Back in our temporary quarters, I closed the door, leaning against it as my mind raced through possibilities.

Three days.

Seventy-two hours to discover why Prometheus wanted Vincent dead, why it needed to be messy, and how to prevent it without signing both our death warrants.

I crossed to my bed and reached underneath, pulling out a locked case. I put in the combination and the lock released with a satisfying click.

Inside lay my most prized possession: my surveillance log. Fine, my murder board. Whatever.

I spread it out on the bed, examining the photos, notes, and timelines I'd compiled over three weeks. Vincent watering his plants. Vincent jogging in the park. Vincent reading on his balcony, face softened in evening light.

With a sniper's precision, I'd noted all potential angles on his apartment, calculating trajectories, accounting for wind patterns and structural obstacles.

I'd mapped every approach to his office building, identified all escape routes, and memorized the patterns of every security guard.

My murder board contained the kind of detailed ballistic calculations that would make my old shooting instructors proud.

Yet I hadn't taken the shot.

I pulled out the contract penny, the one specifically assigned to the Vincent hit. The ferryman's hooded figure stared back, emotionless, indifferent to my dilemma. One penny, one passage across the river. One soul delivered to the afterlife.

Unlike regular currency, these special copper pennies were the exclusive currency of our world, accepted only by those in the know, opening doors normal money couldn't. Each penny represented a completed contract, proof of service rendered to The Pantheon.

They bought supplies, safe passage, information, and, most importantly, respect.

In our circles, a man's worth was measured by the pennies he'd earned.

With thirty-two to my name, I was practically royalty among assassins.

It afforded me the kind of status that bought me three weeks of surveillance instead of immediate sanctions when I failed to complete a job.

Rules were rules. Contracts were binding. This was the world I'd inhabited since I was six years old, the only world I truly understood.

But Vincent? Vincent represented something I'd never encountered before.

Not just attraction or fascination, but recognition.

In that therapy office, for the first time in my life, someone had truly seen me.

Not the carefully constructed Julian Keller persona.

Not Luka, the efficient assassin. Me. The broken pieces underneath it all.

And maybe that was exactly what made him dangerous .

I flipped the penny, tracking its copper blur before snatching it from the air and slapping it onto my wrist. The ferryman stared up, metal cold against my pulse point, a silent reminder etched in ancient copper: duty always collects its due.

"Fuck you too," I muttered, pocketing the coin again.