I swallowed hard, his words hitting closer to home than I wanted to admit. "And my sister? What about Ana?"
"Perhaps there are ways to free her that don't end with your death." His fingers tapped the pearl handle of his revolver thoughtfully. "The Tribunal has been watching Prometheus for some time."
"There isn't time," I insisted, but the conviction in my voice wavered slightly.
As he headed for the door, spurs singing their metallic melody with each step, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. "For what it's worth, one hopes you succeed if you insist on this path. Prometheus has played god for too long."
When he was gone, I turned back to Lo, who looked uncharacteristically serious.
"Well," he said, attempting to lighten the mood, "that was dramatic. Very spy movie. I half expected someone to offer you a martini, shaken not stirred."
I ignored his attempt at humor. "I need one more thing from you."
I reached into my jacket and pulled out a sealed envelope, sliding it across the table. Lo picked it up, turning it over in his hands.
"If I don't come back," I said, keeping my voice steady, "give this to Vincent. And make sure he gets out of the Acropolis safely. Even if Prometheus is gone, without me to protect him here, he's vulnerable. The Pantheon doesn't forget."
"Are these your touching last words?" Lo asked, but there was no bite in his usual sarcasm. "Love letters and heartfelt confessions?"
I shook my head. "Instructions. Accounts he can access. Safe houses where he can go. The names of people who owe me enough to keep him safe." I ran a hand through my hair, the inadequacy of my preparations suddenly hitting me hard. "It's not enough. Nothing will be enough. The Pantheon has eyes everywhere."
"What's your biggest worry?" Lo asked.
"That no matter how many contingency plans I make, no matter how much money I put aside, no matter how many safe houses I arrange... someone will still find him." I swallowed hard. "The organization has resources I can't match. Contacts I don't even know about. And Vincent... he's not built for a life in hiding."
"So don't go," Lo said simply. "Or let us help."
"I can't risk anyone else," I replied, the words scraping my throat raw. "Not after what happened to Michael."
"Always the romantic," Lo muttered, but he tucked the envelope into his jacket. "I'll personally make sure he gets out safely if things go sideways."
Then, to my surprise, he stood and came around the table, throwing his arms around me in a fierce hug.
"Don't die, asshole," he muttered against my shoulder. "Vincent makes you almost tolerable, and I've gotten used to your brooding presence in my life."
I froze momentarily, startled by the display of genuine affection. Then, awkwardly, I returned the hug, patting his back. "I'll do my best."
Lo pulled back, his expression serious. "I'm giving you until dawn. If you haven't checked in by then, I'm coming after you, and I'm bringing the cavalry."
"No, Lo—"
"This isn't negotiable," he cut me off, using my own words against me. "You get until dawn to be the lone hero. After that, we do it my way."
I sighed, recognizing the stubbornness in his eyes. "Fine. But stay with Vincent. Don't leave him alone."
"Promise," Lo said solemnly. Then, with a swift return to his usual demeanor, he added, "Now if you'll excuse me, I have an extremely built weapons dealer waiting for me on the dance floor, and these pants took twenty minutes to get into."
I watched him sashay to the door, his dramatic exit a perfect mask for the deadly seriousness of our conversation. Just before leaving, he paused, hand on the doorframe.
"Luka," he said, not turning around. "Make it hurt."
I nodded once, even though he couldn't see me. "I plan to."
When he was gone, I sat alone in the crimson light, staring at the smear of ash that had once been my most cherished possession. The wrapper was gone. All that remained was what Prometheus had made me: a weapon with a single purpose.
My thoughts drifted to Vincent, still asleep in our bed. Vincent, who saw past the killer to the man beneath. Vincent, who'd held me through nightmares, who'd traced my scars with gentle fingers, who'd made me believe—if only for moments—that I might be worthy of something more than violence and death.
A cold knot formed in my stomach as I imagined Vincent waking to find me gone after our dinner tonight. Would he understand why I had to do this alone? Would he forgive me for not saying a proper goodbye? My chest tightened at the thought of him waiting for me to return, hope gradually fading to realization, then grief.
