The question twisted something in my chest. Trust. A foreign concept in my world. Twenty-six years in The Pantheon had taught me that trust was a weakness others exploited.
"No," I answered honestly. "But we don't have many options."
"I'm coming with you," he said.
I crossed the room in two quick strides, caging Vincent against the couch, one knee planted between his thighs, hands braced on either side of his head. His pupils dilated immediately.
"It's too dangerous," I growled, close enough to feel his breath against my lips.
Vincent didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned forward until our foreheads nearly touched. "I understand the reality of your world, Luka. But I refuse to sit here protected while you face all the risks."
My fingertips brushed his jaw. "If they hurt you—"
"They've already hurt me." Vincent gestured to Michael's photo. His hand caught mine, holding it against his face. "Prometheus has already shown he can reach me. Hiding isn't working. Let me help."
I leaned in, stopping a breath away from his mouth. For a moment, I considered taking what we both clearly wanted. Instead, I forced myself to pull back. The mission had to come first.
"Fine," I relented, straightening. "You stay silent. You stay close to me. And if I say run, you run. No questions."
Relief flickered across Vincent's face, quickly replaced by determination. "Agreed."
"I'm sorry," I murmured against his hair. "About Michael."
His body tensed against mine, then slowly relaxed. "He was a good person. Finally starting to believe he deserved happiness. And they killed him just to send a message."
"I know." I closed my arms around him. "We'll make them pay."
Leaving the Acropolis requiredmore preparation than simply walking out the front door. With priority red contracts on both ourheads, we'd be dead before reaching the first traffic light. But the Acropolis had secrets within secrets, including tunnels dating back to prohibition, maintenance shafts that had never appeared on any official blueprint, and a network of service entrances known only to those who'd earned enough special pennies.
I called in three favors and spent two of my remaining special pennies securing passage through the old bootlegger's tunnel that emerged in an abandoned subway station two miles east. From there, we traveled in a series of short, unpredictable jumps—taxi to bus station, rideshare to a shopping mall, delivery truck to industrial district. The route was designed to shake any surveillance, creating a patchwork journey impossible to track in real time.
"Is all this really necessary?" Vincent asked as we switched vehicles for the fourth time in two hours.
"Prometheus has eyes everywhere," I explained, helping him into the cramped space behind stacks of flower arrangements. "Standard pursuit protocol is to establish a perimeter and work inward. So we stay mobile, never taking a direct route."
Vincent's hand found mine in the darkness between boxes of lilies. "How many people owe you favors?"
"Enough to get us where we need to go," I replied, squeezing his fingers. "Not enough to keep us alive afterward."
When we finally reached the airfield, night had fallen, our zigzagging journey having consumed the afternoon. But we'd made it without a single bullet fired in our direction, which counted as a win in my book.
The abandoned airfield stretched before us, cracked concrete splitting under persistent weeds. Ten miles outside River City limits, this hellhole reeked of rust and rotting dreams.
As the florist's van rolled to a stop, I spotted Lo waiting by the edge of the runway, switchblade glinting as he picked dirt from under his nails. The setting sun bled orange across the horizon, stretching our shadows into grotesque giants as we climbed out of the vehicle.
"Subtle," Lo commented, eyeing our floral transportation with amusement. "Nothing says 'definitely not assassins' like arriving in a van full of funeral arrangements."
"Better than arriving in body bags," I replied, helping Vincent navigate the uneven ground.
My eyes scanned the perimeter, checking rooftops and shadows for movement. Lo noticed my vigilance and rolled his eyes.
"Relax," he said, flipping his blade shut. "If I wanted you dead, I'd have poisoned your gummy worms days ago."
"It's not you I'm worried about."
"Diego's good people," Lo continued. "Well, notgoodgood. But reliable."
I wasn't convinced. After twenty-six years in The Pantheon, trust didn't come naturally. But options were running dangerously thin.
