Chapter One

KAYRA: I"ve made up my mind. I"m going to meet up with someone from Strakh, and I"m telling you this in case I turn up missing or dead.

Bailey: You"re kidding, right?

Bailey: RIGHT?

Kayra: No.

Bailey: Are you for real? He"s STRAKH. You"re MAFIA.

Kayra: I"ve already spoken to him on the phone.

Bailey: OMG, Theía.

Kayra: He sounded remarkably interesting.

Bailey: Of course he sounds interesting! He"s being interesting to reel you in! He"s being interesting because he plans to kill you!

Bailey: Theía!

Bailey: Hello? HELLO?

I READ MY NIECE"S TEXTSone last time before dropping my phone back into my pocket.

Still not gonna text back.

I appreciate Bailey"s concern, but there are times when she really does forget I"m more monster than human, and not even someone from Strakh will find it easy to kill me.

And besides...

Thomas says this man I"m about to meet is my perfect match, and since even I have no idea what a "perfect" match for someone like me even means—-

Monitor, monitor on the wall.

Who"s the freakiest guy of them all?

I knead the muscles in my neck while watching people come and go on multiple screens. Greasing a couple of hands might have given me easy access to the security room, but the job does get tedious when you"ve been monitoring real-time security footage for over twenty-four hours.

Where are you, Boy?

I"m starting to get bleary-eyed, but it"s just the price I have to pay, to make sure I see him first.

Come out, come out, wherever you—-SHIT.

I nearly destroy the Zoom button on the control board even though I know pounding on it repeatedly won"t make the surveillance cameras work any faster.

It can"t be. It just can"t.

The lenses finally zoom in, and my eyes haven"t fooled me after all.

Unfortunately.

Boy turns out to be tall, dark, and handsome. More like Ryan Reynolds in Underground Six than in Deadpool, and with the kind of build that can make even off-the-rack suits look like they"ve been hand-sewn for Milan Fashion Week.

Can being the operative word, since what he"s actually wearing is a made-to-measure suit from Giorgio Armani.

I know this guy, and I know of him, and that"s why—-

I don"t get it.

How can a billionaire party boy like Drake Morrison be a member of Strakh?

I"m aware that he used to work for the FBI ages ago, but all he seems to do these days is host orgies and look good while having his photo taken by the paps. I"m tempted to call Thomas and ask if this is a prank, but my guts are never wrong, and so I know I"m not mistaken.

It"s really him.

My so-called perfect match.

Now what?