Elias stills, so much I don’t even see his chest move. Then, a low, rough chuckle raises the hairs on my forearms. “You’re smarter than that. You need me.”

  “You’re calm about this,” the same voice murmurs. “A sick motherfucker. You’re lucky we want you on our side.”

  Elias curves his lips, the smile terrifying.

  “Your Rite is complete, Mr. Kent. Welcome to The Association, where all the power you can imagine will be yours.”

  I don’t see his response because Tristan clicks the phone shut. Air rushes out of me, and I force myself to let go of the tablecloth.

  “A camera in a floral arrangement. A rare oversight for them.” Tristan looks at me, clearly sympathetic. “Do you understand what you’re up against, Miss Anderson?”

  He’s using my maiden name again.

  “You can’t do this alone,” he continues. “Your life is at stake. Your family’s lives are at stake. You’re married to the enemy—a very dangerous man who would risk everything, even the lives of everyone he cares about, for power. Don’t you find that terrifying?”

  A breath rattles out of me. I grip my cup and bring it to my lips, needing to do something with my hands. The liquid is cold. Bitter. The china clatters when I set it down.

  “Wh-What do you want me to do?” I whisper.

  “Spy for me. Take pictures. Notes. I’ll walk you through it.”

  My mind is a mess. If I help Tristan, I’m betraying Elias, and the king of the underworld shows no mercy. But if I don’t, I’m leaving my family at the mercy of The Association. Either way, we might all die.

  I’m in way over my head.

  “Lana,” he rasps.

  The concerned tone in Tristan’s voice snags my attention.

  A muscle tics in his jaw, and for a moment, the emotion swimming in his eyes is clear.

  It’s pain.

  “I know it’s overwhelming,” he says. “I know you don’t trust me. But I really don’t want to see you hurt. Think about your family, the people who care about and love you. If anything happens to you, how will they go on?”

  A lump thickens in my throat. Images of my family flash in my mind and my heart constricts.

  “Let me help you.” Tristan slips me a card with his contact information. “That’s my private line. Encrypted. Call me anytime.”

  Before I can respond, he stiffens. Slowly he rises, his hand reaching for his holster as he looks at something behind me.

  I smell it before I turn—the familiar scent of vetiver and smoke. My skin prickles. My spine locks.

  Elias.

  “Well, well, well. Tristan Clarke.” His tone is calm but dangerous. “It’s rude of you to invite my wife out for tea without letting me know. And a gun,” Elias tsks, “really?”

  “It’s Special Agent Clarke to you. Your wife has a mind of her own. She can make her own decisions.”

  The two men stare each other down.

  My mind riots, excuses tangling on my tongue.

  Elias steps to my right, the sound of his shoes hitting the floor—thump, thump, thump—matching the rhythm of my heartbeat. He looks down at me, his gaze suddenly soft as he lifts a gloved finger and traces my cheek, sending a shiver down my spine.

  “My princess,” he murmurs. “Did you miss me?”

  “Elias—”

  “It’s okay. I don’t blame you.” His voice is smooth, almost gentle. He sounds like he’s soothing a spooked animal instead of catching his wife with the FBI.

  Elias murmurs, “You’re just looking out for me, Lana. I’m not mad. What does the fed want with our newlywed bliss?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything, Elias. I—”

  “I know you didn’t, princess.”

  He leans down and presses a soft kiss on the tender spot where my ear meets my neck. It’s like a reward for passing a test I wasn’t aware I was taking.

  Heat blooms low and dangerous, warming me from within. I tremble.

  “It’s time for us to go,” he says, his voice steady. “Leave Special Agent Clarke to enjoy his wild goose chase by himself.”

  He laces his fingers through mine, firm—an unspoken command.

  I get up quickly, heart pounding, and glance back at the federal agent. His eyes narrow at the sight of our joined hands.

  “Think about what I said, Mrs. Kent,” Tristan says, his tone tight. His card weighs heavily in my pocket.

  Then, with a thin smile, he addresses Elias, “Always a pleasure, Mr. Kent. May our paths cross again soon.”

  Elias smirks, his eyes remaining dark. “Count on it. Unless I find you first.”

  Chapter 29: SAINTS DON’T DANCE

  A shiver moves through me as I step out of the car into a cutting night breeze. Multicolor lights blink in the distance. Christmas songs blast from the radio.

  I think about home. My family is preparing for the annual Christmas Ball at The Orchid. Levi has probably made a list of toys he wants from Santa. I breathe through the ache behind my sternum. My family will be there once all of this is over.

  When I’m free.

  The Nocturne Rose, a refurbished meatpacking warehouse turned nightclub in the Fulton Market District, looms ahead. John, my bodyguard for the night, since Ren is still away, shadows me.

  I guess I should be thankful Elias still lets me out of the house after my outing with the fed.

  If anything, the asshole seems amused and nonchalant about it all, like he’s gotten some answers he’s been seeking.

  “I’m not worried at all,” Elias says in the car after my meeting with Agent Clarke. “Both you and the feds have nothing on me.”

  “You’re too sure of yourself.”

  He leans down and trails a glove-clad finger across my cheek. I curse myself for the goosebumps erupting over my arms.

  Elias’s eyes darken. His gaze drops to my parted lips.

  “You won’t betray me. You don’t have it in you.”

  He probably thinks I’ll be a useless spy, the damn bastard.

  Aria and Scarlett from the café are already inside. Sickly sweet perfume chokes me the moment I step through the doors. Sultry hip-hop beats vibrate the walls, and soon, I find my mood lifting as I search for the girls.

  The club has two floors, all dark concrete and unfinished metal. It’s expensive but unrefined, unlike the clubs my family owns.

  But the people packed like sardines on the ground floor obviously don’t care. Open balconies and cage-like alcoves on the second floor wrap around the dance floor for the elite to watch the crowd.

  “Lana!”

  Aria squeals and wraps me in a hug. A tall blond man with kind eyes hovers behind her. That must be Blake, the surgeon fiancé.

  Her eyes, rimmed with gold glitter, widen. “Dude, you look amazing! I could never pull off that dress.”

  “You’re a petite dynamite.” I laugh.

  “But lacking in the chest department.” She eyes my cleavage revealed by the deep V-neckline of my black mini dress.

  Whack!

  “Ow!” Aria sticks her tongue out and bats Scarlett’s hand away from where she playfully smacked her arm.

  “You’re right. This works for everything.” Scarlett grins at me, then turns to her friend. “Quit ogling other people’s tits.”

  My lips quirk, and I throw my arms around them. “You’ll be thankful in twenty years when mine sag and yours are still cute and perky.”

  Blake laughs and extends his hand. “Blake Amscot, cardiologist slash chaos victim.”

  “Hey!” Aria grumbles. “I’m excitement. Not chaos.”

  He kisses her forehead, affection warming his eyes. His phone rings, and a frown crosses his face. “It’s the hospital. Emergency surgery. Sorry, have to run, honey.”

  Aria sighs and stares after her man. “The life of a medical professional.”

  “So honorable though,” I say.

  Glass shatters in the background, and people holler. I flinch, but the girls drag me to the bar before I can look.

  Two shot glasses slide in front of me.

  “Here’s to new friendships and kick-ass lives,” Aria says, cheeks flushed under the neon lights.

  She frowns, then pouts in my direction. “Ugh. And parents who don’t think you’re trash.”

  I blink. “Shit. That bad?”

  Scarlett leans over and whispers, “Blake’s parents are snobs. They want him to marry a doctor.”

  I shudder. I know that type.

  Aria groans. “And I’m stuck dealing with them for the rest of my life.” Aria bangs her head against the bar top.

  The sound jolts through my chest, then morphs into something else entirely.

  The walls rattle as the front door slams shut.

  “You can’t be with her, Kian. She’s an Anderson.”

  “Mom, stop it. She’s here. She can hear you.” Kian’s voice spikes with agitation.

  I curl into a ball, not understanding why Mrs. Leste hates me. Am I not good enough for him?

  The question still echoes, but I won’t ever know the answer.

  “How many did you have? You’re bright red.” Scarlett pokes Aria. “You’re getting a detox tea tomorrow.”

  “Screw tomorrow! I’m forgetting my troubles tonight. Cheers, girls!” Aria sits back up, nodding to the music.

  I raise my glass and down the shot of vodka, pretending the burn isn’t from a memory I should’ve long forgotten.

  Then we down one more shot. My body is pleasantly warm, my mind feathering at the edges. I reach for another drink.

  “Easy there. I got you something else.” Scarlett slides over a shot glass with amber liquid.

  I sip it. Sweet, refreshing. Non-alcoholic. A calming warmth floats through my veins. “You’re a magician.”

  She winks. “Herbalist.”

  “So, Lana. Why do you always have someone shadowing you?” Scarlett asks, eyeing John, who’s nursing a water at the far side of the bar. “Are you a celebrity or something?”

  Some lady holds up her phone, and I cringe. I’ve been made. It’s a miracle the girls haven’t figured out I’m from the Anderson family yet.

  Aria tosses a napkin onto her camera. “Dude. Privacy, please.”

  She squeezes between us and blocks her view.

  “It’s complicated,” I reply, finishing the rest of my drink. “I’m from a big family. Bodyguards come standard.”

  Scarlett squints. “Hold on. Your last name’s Anderson. Bodyguards. Big family. Shit.” She elbows Aria, who’s bopping to the beat of the music. “Lana’s the Anderson princess!”

  “Huh?” Aria stops. Her mouth drops open. “That’s why you look familiar! Oh my God, didn’t you marry some mobster?”

  I sigh. But friendships should be based on honesty.

  “Complicated,” I grumble.

  “I’ll say,” Aria hooks her arm through mine. Scarlett takes the other. “Doesn’t matter, you’re still awesome. Let’s dance our troubles away!”

  She drags us toward the dance floor. Scarlett tugs my arm, slowing my steps.

  “Hey,” she whispers, her eyes kind, “we’re here for you. Whatever’s going on. No judgment. And if your ‘complicated situation’ needs to be uncomplicated…I might have some deadly belladonna.”

  I snort and squeeze her hand.

  Five songs later, my feet ache and my voice is hoarse from laughing. I’ve learned that Aria can’t handle her alcohol, which she blames on the Asian glow, as she’s a quarter Korean. She also has a penchant for bad boys, but Blake is her exception. Scarlett has a big family like me. She may be whimsical, but her mind is sharp.

  I’ve found my gang.

  We invent a ritual. A good book, a perfect drink, and a dare whenever we feel down.

  The bass drops, and the crowd surges. For the first time since the wedding, I feel light as a bird.

  Until pressure builds in my bladder.

  “Going to the restroom. Be right back!” I holler at the girls.

  “Want company?” Scarlett asks.

  “No, I’m fine. Stay here; have fun.”

  John moves to follow, but I shake my head and point to the restroom, which is well within his sightlines.

  He nods and goes back to drinking his water.

  I make my way to the back, passing by a spiral staircase cordoned off by a velvet rope. Two towering men with hard eyes and dark suits stand in front of it, their hands resting near their holsters.

  Something’s happening on the second floor.

  I duck into the restroom and complete my business in the stall when voices drift in.

  “They won’t let us go up there.” Two girls walk in.

  “VIPs?”

  “I think so. The two single Berisha brothers are with their crowd.”

  “Ooh! Ilir and Dritan? Billionaires. Worth the risk.”

  “Tell me about it.” The faucet turns on. “The guards said no. A private meeting, apparently.”

  The Berishas.

  The haze in my mind vanishes. My pulse spikes.

  More noises reach my ears—the towel dispenser, heels clacking on the concrete floor. Then the door swings open, and silence returns.

  I step out and wash my hands, catching my reflection—flushed cheeks and wild hair.

  From the crude diagram of The Association in Elias’s office, the Berishas are up there in the org chart.

  And they need something from me, which means, in a twisted way, I’m safe right now.

  Tristan’s words at the café hammer into my mind. I can’t get out of this alone. My brothers, as rich and powerful as they are, can only do so much.

  John is out front, the girls still partying it up.

  I can go back and play it safe.

  Or I can take a risk and find out what the Berishas are meeting about.

  I scan the bathroom, noticing a small service door, the same design our family clubs use for staff exits.

  Decision made, I slip out the small exit, then loop around to the dance floor.

  The girls spot me, and I pull them aside.

  “Need your help. And no questions. You in?”

  Aria blinks. Scarlett nods. “I meant what I said. We’re here for you, Lana.”

  “Let’s uncomplicate my complicated situation.”

  Heat flares in my chest. I gather them closer and tell them my plan.

  Minutes later, the three of us walk toward the guarded staircase.

  Aria giggles, her flushed face and glazed eyes totally selling her drunk act as she sways into Scarlett, who looks like she’s having a hard time managing the five-foot tall bombshell.

  The guards frown, their gazes fixed on the duo. I slip to the perimeter, keeping to the shadows.

  “Handsome, you look like you’re very good with a gun,” Aria purrs, walking her fingers up the first guard’s chest. “I love men with big guns. Do you have a big gun?”

  I bite my lip to keep from snorting.

  She sways, and a dramatic drop follows.

  Scarlett, equally bad—or good—at acting, gasps. “Oh, shit.”

  Her drink tumbles out of her grip and splashes over the second guard’s suit.

  Curses fly. The men step back and pull the girls aside.

  There’s my window.

  I dart to the staircase, catching Aria’s wink as I dash upstairs, my heart pounding.

  Holy shit. It worked.

  It’s quieter up here, the music and crowds a faded backdrop.

  Deep voices and glasses clinking reach my ears as I slow my climb. My smile disappears, fear tightening my lungs.

  “You can’t trust him. Something’s off.”

  “He’s the dealer of secrets. Of course you can’t trust him.”

  My mouth dries. They’re talking about Elias. Quickly, I take out my phone and start a recording.

  “Ilir, you’re quiet. What do you think?” the first voice asks.

  A click, followed by the smoky scent of a cigar. I press myself against the wall as I reach the landing. They’re just around the corner in one of those alcoves I spotted earlier.

  “He has my father convinced. They’re inviting him to the Benefaction.” A low drawl—cultured, but with an accent. “But I don’t think the rest of The Six trust him yet.”

  The Six. I saw that on the diagram.

  I frown and press closer.

  “Shit. We can’t let him win over the Carusos. They’ll be there this year.”

  The Carusos. Elusive financiers. Their name was on the diagram too.

  “Rumor has it Gabriel Caruso is making a play to take over The Association,” Ilir says. “We can’t let him align with Kent. What if he turns on us?”

  “Gabriel? Daddy’s yes-man? Like The Scheduler would let that happen.”

  “You think there’ll be a coup?” another unfamiliar voice asks.

  “Definitely. If not now, then later. The Carusos are weakening ever since you know…what happened with their heir,” Ilir responds.

  Heir? Gabriel? The Scheduler? This all sounds Greek to me.

  My pulse quickens, and I tiptoe closer.

  The stench hits first—cloying mint layered over expensive cologne and cigarettes.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand.

  A large hand clamps around my waist. A wet exhale brushes my ear. I jerk, a strangled sound catching in my throat.

  “Looks like you’re lost, darling.”

  Chapter 30: THE FINE ḶINE

  I freeze, trepidation burying me like an avalanche.

  But poise and calm—all ingredients of an excellent head of PR—are second nature to me. And so I curve my lips into a generous smile and turn.

  A heavyset man with dark eyes and a buzz cut leers, his gaze roving lazily down my body.

  Lingering at my breasts.

  Repulsed, I fight the urge to cover myself. “I’m sorry. I definitely lost my way.”

  I bat my eyelashes for good measure.

  His attention snaps back to my face. The man frowns, and I inwardly groan.

  “Well, what’s this? The infamous Lana Anderson?” He drags his chubby finger up my arm. “Beautiful. I can see why the devil himself married you.”

  “I-I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” Acid rushes up my esophagus.

  “Shkelzen Berisha.” His grin turns obscene. “You’ve met my cousin, Agron. He said you looked fetching wearing only a man’s dress shirt.”