"Simple: do the last thing he'd expect."
"Which is?" I pull a face at him. "Can you just explain the plan without making me drag every detail out of you?"
“We just walk in." I laugh. "We just walk into the home of the Cabal's second in command of US operations. Just like that?"
He nods. "Just like that." A shrug. "Well, there may be a little more to it than that." Before I can lose my shit, he continues. "Jean-Paul loves a party. Big, fancy, black-tie affairs. Celebrities, athletes, actors, musicians, billionaires—everyone wants an invite to one of those parties. He hosts them every weekend, and they're always super exclusive. More like dinner parties for fifty or a hundred people than a rager."
"And you can secure an invite?"
He produces the coin. "Don't need one. This gets me in, no questions asked."
"And me? I'm supposed to, what, sit in the car while you waltz into the lions' den?"
He laughs. "No, you'll be waltzing into the lion's den with me. That's the only way it works. I'll need a tux, and you'll need a little black dress. Lots of leg and lots of cleavage. These things are all about being seen and making an impression."
I grin. "We get to play dress up?"
He grins. "The deadliest game of dress up of your life, hot stuff."
"Then we need to get back to Boston."
"Why?"
"So I can make our outfits."
He cocks an eyebrow at me. "Yours, you mean?"
"No, ours. You think I'm gonna let you put on something off the goddamn rack? I'm one of Boston's most in-demand new designers. I'm making your tux."
"We have forty-eight hours, babe."
"Then you better fuckin' step on it.” I eye him. "What about Jarrod?"
"He's the other part of my commission—Camilla gets him."
"And you think Jean-Paul will agree to this?"
He nods. "I do. See, Jarrod is being reckless and loud. The attacks at the hotel? That's a big no-no. The standard protocol is to never involve civilians. It's bad for business—attracts attention. Kill the bad guys, fine. Rivals, enemies, it's all fair game, go to fuckin' war. But keep it quiet. Keep it contained. No news stories. No cops on the scene. You get arrested, you won't live to be arraigned. I think Jean-Paul is regretting giving Jarrod so much power—he never came after me himself, once I went underground. I kept my mouth shut, kept my shit to myself, and he's fine. If I was to start talking? Get seen with the FBI or US Marshals, or whoever? Politicians or cops? I'd be feeding maggots in a fuckin' heartbeat. But I went underground, under the protection of my boss, who, it seems, commands the respect of even a ruthless kingpin like Jean-Paul."
"So why doesn't he just whack Jarrod?"
"Whack. Ha. Eliminate. We don't whack people. We eliminate problems. And because Jarrod has power of his own. Men who answer to him. Visibility. But I think Jean-Paul has been looking for an excuse to do exactly that. Have him eliminated in a way that doesn’t blow back on him."
"Sounds an awful lot like politics, only with 99 percent more blood."
"Basically."
Several hours later, we're back in Boston and approaching my apartment. Saxon is looking around at my neighborhood with obvious distaste. "This place is a shithole."
I snort. "Just wait till you see my actual apartment. Just don't shoot the rat—he's my buddy. His name is Al." He glances at me, but I decline to give any indication as to whether I'm joking or not. I'm not.
He parks on the street. The Range Rover—which, by the way, is painted a shockingly flashy shade of rose gold—sticks out like a red wine stain on white silk. A pair of young black men sit on a nearby stoop, smoking a joint, eyeing us.
"Saxon?" I murmur. "Not sure about parking here. Armored or not, it won't be here when we come out."
