Page 24

The gold band caught the chandelier’s light as Kat rearranged her cards, the metal warm against her skin—a quiet reminder of the lie.

She slowed her breathing, banking the flutter in her stomach.

Leo was gone. She had to be enough now.

Three seats remained empty at the table. The tech billionaire to her right stacked chips into tiny towers, then demolished them with twitchy fingers. He’d already lost twelve grand to her in the last hand.

“You’re quite good at this, Mrs. Ivchenko,” the tech billionaire commented.

Kat smiled. “My father always said: take a man’s money while he’s distracted by your smile.”

The men around the table chuckled.

The Glock at her thigh was a cold reminder. She was an operative with a mission.

Adrik Korolov.

His gaze landed on their table. On her.

Recognition flickered in his dark eyes. The corner of his mouth curved into a predatory smile. He knew exactly who she was.

Her pulse jumped. She lifted her glass in acknowledgment, her expression smooth.

The game within the game had begun.

The tournament director materialized at his side, deferential but not obsequious. “Mr. Korolov, welcome. We’ve reserved your place, as requested.”

Korolov smiled. “Thank you.” He gestured toward the empty chair beside Kat. “Perfect.”

Korolov settled beside her, placing his phone on the table beside his chips, tantalizingly accessible.

“Alisa,” she extended her hand. “Alisa Ivchenko.”

His fingers were cool and dry as they enveloped hers. He held the contact a beat longer than necessary.

“Careful.” She didn’t pull away. “My husband is the jealous type.”

“Is he?” Korolov’s thumb brushed her wedding ring. “How... protective.”

Cards hit the felt. Kat kept her face neutral despite her racing pulse.

“You’ve improved since the Dorchester.” Korolov’s tone was casual.

“I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“Have I?” His smile turned predatory. “The news has been quite interested in you lately.”

She lifted her champagne, buying time. “Some players mistake a strong hand for a winning one.”

“And others,” he leaned back, revealing his holster, “forget they’re playing against someone who never loses.”

Kat’s fingers hovered over her chips. Her throat constricted, instantly dry.

Still no tell. Just that gleaming mask.

“And yet,” she lifted her glass. “You seem quite comfortable being played.”

His smile widened. “We’ll see.”

The dealer announced a new hand. Kat drew pocket aces. Under other circumstances, she would dominate this hand. Instead, she bet conservatively.

Korolov raised.

She needed his phone. Her gaze slid to the device, just inches from his hand.

“You seem very certain.” Kat raised. Half her chips. A feint.

“I am always certain, especially in recognizing what others try to conceal. All in,” Korolov said.

She hesitated—just long enough. Then called.

He revealed kings and jacks. With two kings on the table—four of a kind.

She showed her aces with appropriate dismay. “Impressive hand.”

He swept in the pot, his smile soulless. All teeth, no warmth. “Victory favors those who never blink.”

The waiter appeared with fresh champagne.

Kat accepted the flute with a smile. Korolov reached for his phone, checking the screen as the waiter refreshed his drink.

A text message, perhaps. A vein pulsed on his temple.

He set the device face-down on the green baize, his fingertips lingering on its edge as though reluctant to release it.

Perfect.

Kat slid her hand into her clutch. She took out her compact, powdered her nose and returned it to the clutch, activating the cloning device with a subtle press.

Three minutes.

Ten inches of space between them.

A narrow window that would slam shut the moment he moved.

Her heart drummed. She checked her watch. Timer on.

She lifted her champagne flute, taking a deliberate sip.

“That was an unfortunate hand for you.” Korolov’s phone was still tantalizingly within range.

“The cards aren’t always kind.” Anything to keep him engaged to extend the download time. “But I’ve found fortune has a way of balancing, eventually.”

His gaze pinned her. A snake measuring distance. His smile remained pleasant, his body language relaxed, yet still sweat gathered under her hair at the base of her neck.

Korolov lifted his champagne. “Careful, Katarina. One wrong move and this becomes very unpleasant.”

The tech billionaire called for a drink, distracting the dealer. Kat rearranged her chips, eyes flicking to her watch.

Ninety seconds .

“Information.” Her palms were damp. “That’s the real currency here. Who has it, who needs it... who’s willing to kill for it.”

“Indeed.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I have all of yours.”

The dealer announced the next hand, dealing the cards. Korolov indicated he was out and reached for his phone, and Kat’s heart stuttered in her chest. Too soon. Sixty seconds shy of completion.

She shifted, nudging her clutch in her lap.

Korolov’s fingers froze. His gaze dropped to her lap. Rose to meet hers.

His expression changed—a glacial shift from curiosity to understanding.

He knew.

His gaze fell back to her clutch.

“How interesting.” He’d switched to Russian. His eyes went arctic, pupils contracting to pinpoints. His voice dropped to a velvet murmur. “I didn’t realize MI6 carried such sophisticated equipment.”

Kat smiled, unflinching—though her body was already bracing for what came next. “A girl has to be ready for anything,” she replied in flawless Russian.

“Indeed.” His voice turned silk over steel.

His hand shot forward, fingers closing around her wrist with bruising force. He applied pressure—not enough to cause a scene, but enough to demonstrate his ability to easily snap bone.

“Agent Landon,” he hissed, “You disappoint me.” His thumbnail pressed into the pulse point of her wrist, a small pain that promised greater ones to come.

She twisted her arm, breaking his grip. “Wrong woman.”

“Katarina.” His gaze was flat.

Kat lunged forward, snatching his phone just as Korolov’s hand slammed down. His knuckles cracked against the green felt.

“Bitch—”

The ceiling exploded.

White chemical foam erupted from hidden nozzles like a geyser, instantly blinding her. Toxic mist hit her lungs—stealing her breath.

Around her, screams pierced the air as bodies collided in the sudden chaos. Alarms shrieked. Emergency lights strobed red through the chemical fog.

“Get her!” Korolov’s roar cut through the pandemonium.

Kat’s eyes streamed tears. Every breath was fire. She couldn’t see two feet ahead—only writhing shadows and the glint of crystal glasses shattering against marble.

She staggered back from the table, his phone clutched in her fist.

Foam clung to her lashes, and the world dissolved into white chaos. Shapes lurched past her, designer gowns ripping, men in tuxedos stumbling blind.

Her throat burned, every breath was poison. Someone’s elbow cracked against her ribs. A woman’s heel caught her ankle, nearly sending her sprawling.

A thick arm materialized from the fog, fingers like steel cables clamping around her bicep.

Kat twisted hard, driving her stiletto heel into the soft flesh behind his ankle.

Her heel struck tendon—followed by a sickening pop.

He screamed—high and animal—his grip releasing as he crumpled. She didn’t wait to see him fall.

She pressed forward, hands finding shoulders, torsos, and blind panic.

The double doors appeared like a mirage. She shoved through, stumbling into the hallway beyond, coughing hard, her dress streaked with white, arms powdered like a corpse. Her lungs scraped like rust. Every gasp scoured her throat.

Everything blurred, but the pain and the phone clenched against her heart.

A hand seized her arm from behind.

Kat spun, adrenaline spiking, her palm snapping toward his throat in a killing blow?—

Familiar fingers caught her wrist mid-strike.

Through the fog, she glimpsed his eyes.

“Leonid.” The word came out as a broken sob. Her knees nearly buckled with relief so sharp it was almost pain.

“Kat.” His hands framed her face, eyes fierce. “Talk to me.”

“I’m okay.” Her voice cracked. “I got it.”

“Then we run. Now.”

He tapped his earpiece. “Next time, Brock, maybe trigger the alarm before she nearly gets her wrist broken.”

He hauled her down the corridor, through swinging doors and into the chaos of the kitchen.

Staff scattered as the alarm wailed overhead, the room thick with confusion and the acrid scent of fire suppressant.

As they ran, one word echoed in her skull.

Katarina.

The way Korolov had said it—like he owned it. Like he’d use it to break her.

She gritted her teeth.

Let him savor it.

She had his secrets now, and that was power.