Page 165 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Her phone buzzes with a text. She reads it and her whole body changes, tension replacing satisfaction.

"Tomorrow. Mastro's."

thirty-eight

Mira

"—fascinating how patterns emerge," Sasha says, sliding a thumb drive across the white tablecloth toward me.

Under the table, Jax's knee bounces against mine in that restless rhythm I've memorized. His hand finds my thigh, fingers drumming the same nervous pattern he taps on steering wheels when he's processing too much information too fast. The contact grounds us both.

Always moving. Always thinking three steps ahead but needing to touch something real to stay focused.

Sasha leans back in his chair with the satisfied posture of someone holding premium intelligence. His shoulders are relaxed, hands open—classic tells of confidence mixed with genuine loyalty to whoever's paying him. There's professional satisfaction in his expression too. He enjoys being the messenger with game-changing news.

The ocean breeze carries salt and expensive cologne through Mastro's outdoor seating. Around us, Beverly Hills powerplayers conduct their own deals over wagyu steaks, completely oblivious to the conversation that could reshape criminal networks across two continents.

When I shift to reach for the drive, muscle memory from last night floods back. The storage unit metal against my palms, Jax's hands gripping my hips, the way he reclaimed that space from grief—

Focus.

"My employer has been watching your team with... particular interest."

"Particular how?" Jax's voice stays level despite his bouncing leg increasing tempo.

Sasha's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Let's say your recent activities have created... opportunities."

Opportunities. In our line of work, that word usually means someone powerful is dead, missing, or about to be both.

The drive sits between us like a landmine. Whatever's on there will pull us deeper into something bigger than trafficking networks or even Alexei's web of corruption. I can read it in Sasha's posture, the way he keeps checking sight lines to the restaurant entrance.

Jax's fingers still against my thigh. His tells have shifted from nervous energy to predatory focus. That transformation from scattered golden retriever energy to laser precision happens when stakes get high enough to cut through his usual scattered attention.

"The information on this drive will reshape your understanding of recent events."

Sasha lifts his wine glass, studying the burgundy liquid as if it contains answers. "Some ghosts prefer to remain buried, others are merely... displaced."

Jax's breathing changes beside me—that shift from restless energy to coiled alertness. His natural charm and easyconfidence can flip to laser-focused intensity when he senses danger. Right now, every muscle in his body is primed for action.

"Meaning what, exactly?" I keep my voice neutral while my fingers trace patterns on his thigh. He needs the tactile connection to process information, and I need him thinking clearly.

"Interesting how grief makes us see what we expect to find."Sasha sets down his glass with deliberate care."When identification becomes... assumption rather than confirmation."

Jax's hand tightens over mine. His knuckles go white against my skin.

He's starting to understand.

The waiter approaches our table, but Sasha waves him away with a subtle gesture. Around us, conversations continue about market trends and vacation properties. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that the foundations of their world shift with every word spoken at our table.

"My employer appreciates your team's... resilience." Sasha's accent thickens slightly—a tell that means he's approaching something important. "The way you've handled recent losses demonstrates remarkable adaptability."

I lean forward, closing the distance between us. "Cut the riddles, Sasha. What are you really saying?"

"Certain sacrifices serve multiple purposes. Protection, misdirection, evolution." He glances toward the restaurant entrance again, then back to us. "Sometimes the dead serve the living better than they ever could while breathing."

Jax pushes back from the table, his chair scraping against the stone patio. That restless energy is building toward explosion. "You're talking about—"

I squeeze his hand hard enough to bruise.Not here. Not now.