4. Charlotte

4

CHARLOTTE

T he restaurant is exactly the kind of place Celeste Smith would choose—pretentious, loud, and full of people too self-absorbed to notice what’s happening around them. The walls are lined with mismatched art that’s supposed to look eclectic but just feels cluttered. The clink of wine glasses and laughter fill the air, drowning out anything less than a shout.

Perfect.

Sophie and I slide into a corner booth. She’s sitting straighter than usual, her chin lifted, lips pressed together in that tight line I know so well. But I see past it.

“She has eyes on her,” I say, nodding subtly toward Celeste at the bar. She’s exactly as Carlo described: petite but sharp-featured, dressed in a sleek black dress that looks as deadly as she is.

Two men are seated a few tables away, ostensibly enjoying their meals but clearly keeping a watchful eye on her. Discreet and professional. Security.

Sophie’s fingers tighten on her menu. “She’s surrounded. ”

“Which is why we wait. People get comfortable. They make mistakes.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“She will.”

Celeste throws her head back in a laugh, one hand casually resting on the arm of the man to her left. She’s in her element, enjoying the power of being untouchable—or so she thinks.

“But why her?” Sophie asks. “She doesn’t look all that threatening…”

I pause, weighing how best to answer, knowing I could go a million directions with it. Instead, I decide on the truth. “It’s Rule number fourteen: always know who’s holding the leash.”

Sophie cocks her head. “So, she’s holding some metaphorical leash? And now she has to die?”

I glance around the tables then shoot her a sharp look. “Jesus, Soph. Keep your voice down.” I shift my silverware—fidgeting with the knife and fork as I adjust them, making sure they’re lined up just right, a quick, annoyed movement that says more than I care to. “She thinks she is—she was .”

“Seems like a lot of trouble for something you speak of in past tense.”

“Everyone answers to someone, even if they think they don’t. You need to figure out who’s pulling the strings before they yank yours.”

She calls my bluff. “So, this is about revenge?”

“No. It’s about Rule number four: always finish what you start. Half measures are dangerous, Sophie. Leave loose ends, and they’ll strangle you later."

I don’t think she buys it. “You remember the plan?”

Sophie nods. “I shadow you. Watch and learn. No mistakes.”

I let the words settle between us. “And no hesitation.”

She flips her menu over and pushes it to the edge of the table. “You act like I didn’t hear you the first time.”

An hour later, Celeste leaves the bar. Her two security details follow her, but they’re blending in—calm, professional, as though they’re just part of the night. We trail at a distance, weaving through the crowd, making sure we don’t draw attention. I can see Sophie staying in lockstep with me, her movements more confident, but there’s still a touch of hesitation in her.

Celeste rounds the corner into a narrow alleyway behind the restaurant, the kind of place where someone could disappear. The perfect choke point.

My hand brushes Sophie’s arm. The signal.

She moves ahead, steps steady. I follow close behind, my hand brushing the cool metal of my gun. Celeste is distracted, fiddling with a cigarette. One of her men is handing her a lighter. As if a gift from God himself, the other heads toward the street, scanning from one direction to the other before moving back toward the lounge.

Sophie steps closer, then she freezes.

It’s subtle—a hesitation so brief that most people wouldn’t notice. But I do. Her hand falters, hovering near her pocket, the place where I know her weapon waits.

But she’s too slow.

Celeste looks up. The man with the lighter straightens, his hand dropping to his side, reaching for something. I understand what I have to do.

I move fast. No hesitation. No second chances.

I step between Celeste and her security. My gun is already drawn, aimed at his chest. The shots ring out in the narrow space, quiet but clean. He stumbles, then drops.

Celeste doesn’t react fast enough. Her eyes widen in surprise, and I’m on her instantly, hand gripping her throat, my knee in her back, pinning her to the alley wall.

I take a breath, my grip tightening. A quick, clean movement, just as I was taught. No drama, no struggle .

Her body goes limp in my arms and I drop her, just like that.

I don’t stop to savor the moment. Instead, I grab Sophie by the arm, dragging her out of the alley in the opposite direction from which we came.

We don’t speak until we’re back at the hotel. Sophie sits on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. There's a crisp, sterile scent that hangs in the air—clean, almost clinical, but with an undertone of something soft, like fresh linens or newly pressed sheets. It's the smell of a place that’s been recently prepared for someone but not lived in yet.

“You froze,” I say, standing over her. My voice leaves no room for excuses.

“I—I didn’t mean to.”

“Intentions don’t matter. Actions do.” I pace the room, the adrenaline still burning through me. “Hesitation gets you killed, Sophie. It gets me killed.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, but the words do nothing to soften me.

“Sorry doesn’t fix this. Hesitation — emotion —fear— it has no place in our work. I thought you understood that.”

She doesn’t respond.

I sigh, forcing myself to sit across from her. “This isn’t just about you anymore. We’re cleaning up your father’s mess, and that means no mistakes. We don’t get second chances in this line of work.”

Sophie looks up at me, her expression hardening. “He wasn’t my father. You lied about that too.”

“He was your father in every way that mattered.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” I say, leaning forward. “But Soph—next time, there won’t be anyone to step in.”

“So you’ve said.”

She turns away, staring out the window. The silence stretches between us. I know she’s angry, and I know she’ll hold onto that anger like armor.

Which is good. She’ll need it.