Page 23
Leo’s gaze locked on the double-wide doors as they swung open. The murmur of conversation dimmed. Even the chime of crystal stilled.
Korolov.
His tux was precision-tailored. But his eyes betrayed his reality—cold and assessing. The type who smiled while planning out your autopsy.
Two security personnel flanked him, their eyes scanning the room.
“Bloody hell,” Brock’s voice crackled in Leo’s ear. “We’ve got a problem.”
Leo’s face stayed neutral, but his pulse accelerated like a tripwire had snapped. Brock didn’t interrupt unless the stakes had just gone vertical.
He dipped closer to Kat, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Brock’s got something.”
Her eyes flicked to his, then back to the cards in her hand. “Go,” she breathed, though her fingers tightened imperceptibly on her cards.
Leo rose smoothly. “Gentlemen, my wife’s cleaned me out again.
” He forced a rueful chuckle. “Time for reinforcements—only champagne can soothe the sting to my ego.” A final squeeze of Kat’s shoulder before he made his way to the bar, weaving between tables where chips snapped a crisp percussion and the air hung thick with competing colognes.
He positioned himself in a quiet corner. His fingers flexed involuntarily before he forced them still.
“Talk fast,” he said under his breath, scanning the wine list like his life depended on choosing between a Chablis and Sancerre.
“Charlie—my contact in Platinum security, just reached out,” Brock’s voice was strained. “Eldridge and Korolov met yesterday. Private room. No witnesses.”
The leather menu crumpled in Leo’s grip, the sound lost in the casino’s hum. “What did they discuss?” He asked anyway, knowing it was a long shot.
“No idea. But here’s the kicker. Tomorrow morning, nine sharp, the club wipes the footage. If you want proof those two were in cahoots, plotting God-knows-what on British soil, you’ve got till tonight to nick it—or it’s gone for good.”
“Shit.” Leo’s jaw worked. “Security hub—where?”
“Third floor, east wing. Charlie says there’s a service elevator straight up. But it requires key card access, office is manned round the clock.”
Leo spotted Kat across the salon. She was laughing at some quip from the tech billionaire she’d been working all evening. But there was sharp focus beneath the charm, Korolov square in her sights.
His mind clicked through the equation: two targets, two assets, one ticking clock.
No margin for error. But his instincts protested against leaving her in the room with Korolov.
Kat was brilliant, lethal, more than capable—but if something happened to her while he was three floors away playing tech support, he’d never forgive himself.
He hated the idea of leaving her even for a second. But there was no other play—not if they wanted to pull this off.
“Clock’s ticking, pretty boy.” All humor had leached from Brock’s voice. “You’ve got maybe an hour while Korolov sits at the high-stakes table. After that, getting close to him’s a bloody suicide run.”
Leo choked down the instinct to pull her out.
“I’m coming back to the table,” he muttered. “Stand by.”
He crossed back to the table, the decision made but sitting heavy in his gut.
Korolov had moved on, but remained within sight, now speaking with a silver-haired man near the roulette table. Leo registered the calculated casualness of their interaction—and the way Korolov’s security detail maintained their positions despite the apparent informality of the conversation.
Kat’s gaze found his the moment he approached. The tension around her eyes told him she’d caught every word of Brock’s intel through her earpiece.
He set the champagne before her, letting his fingers rest against hers for a moment longer than necessary.
She took a sip, her eyes sliding past him, tracking Korolov across the room.
“Security footage,” she whispered, reading the decision in his face. No fear flickered in those green depths—only absolute trust.
Dread twisted through him. She was right—he had the infiltration skills, and she was already established at the table. It was the logical choice. The sound choice.
He hated it.
“Thirty minutes.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “If I’m not back?—”
“You will.” She cut him off, firm as ever. She squeezed his fingers where they rested on the table, her skin warm and steady against his. “I’ve got this.”
His hand covered hers as he transferred the cloning device, the small piece of tech disappearing into her palm.
Her gaze was clear and determined. Then the smallest nod.
Trust me. Go.
He stood. “The ’95 Krug’s a good bet, darling,” his voice just loud enough for cover. “I’ll check on our reservations for later.”
He leaned down, pressing his lips to her cheek in what would look like a husband’s casual affection. Her cheek was warm. “If anything feels wrong?—”
“I vanish.” Her smile remained perfectly in place. “Go.”
Leo adjusted his cuffs, memorizing her—midnight-blue silk, quiet confidence, the reason he’d dropped everything to be here.
He turned, heading for the staff entrance.
He trusted her, and they needed the footage to clear her name. He didn’t look back. If he did, he might not go.
“Brock,” he murmured as he reached the door. “Guide me in.”
“Roger that,” Brock replied. “Service elevator is down the hall to your right. Watch yourself. Charlie says there’s been increased security sweeps tonight.”
Leo slipped through the door into harsh fluorescent light, trading the salon’s golden warmth and champagne air for the antiseptic smell of industrial cleaner and the mechanical hum of ventilation systems.
He moved down the corridor, focusing on the task ahead. But a part of him remained in the salon where Kat sat within arm’s reach of a killer.
Thirty minutes to find the footage.
Thirty minutes away from Kat.
The clock started now.
Table of Contents
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