Page 116 of Princess of Vengeance

“You’re cutting it close,” she says, dropping the cigarette and grinding it under her stiletto. “Malcolm will be here in fifteen minutes.”

“Ronan has been taken care of,” I report, confirming what she already knows was my assignment. “He won’t be showing up tonight.”

She nods, satisfied. “Good. One less variable to worry about.” She produces a key card from her jacket pocket and swipes it against a hidden reader on the wall. The service door clicks open. “I had to grease a lot of palms to get this kind of access. This place is Malcolm’s territory.”

“Not for long,” I mutter as we follow her inside.

The service corridor is narrow and dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of hookah tobacco and something sweeter—cannabis oil, probably. Imogen leads us past the kitchens and through a maze of hallways, expertly avoiding the main areas where guests might spot us.

“The VIP rooms are upstairs,” she explains in a hushed voice. “Malcolm always uses Room Three. It’s the most private and has its own dedicated exit if needed.”

“How many staff will be around?” Atlas asks, always thinking about potential witnesses or threats.

“Minimal. I paid the manager to keep the regular staff away from that section tonight.” The carpeted stairs absorb our footsteps as we climb to the second floor. “As far as they know, there’s a private business meeting that requires discretion. Nothing unusual for this place.”

At the top of the stairs, she pauses to check the hallway before leading us toward a door marked with an ornate number three.

“This is it,” she says, and I can hear the tension in her voice. “Everyone else is already waiting inside.”

The room is larger than I expected, richly furnished with low couches and plush pillows surrounding a central hookah station. The lighting is dim, with Moroccan-style lanterns that cast intricate patterns across the walls. It feels intimate and secluded—the perfect setting for the private dealings of Detroit’s criminal elite.

Every head turns as we enter. Rafael stands by the window, his expression guarded as he nods in greeting. Cassandra reclines on one of the couches, her platinum blonde hair gleaming in the low light. Owen leans against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching us with narrowed eyes. And Elliot—he’s sitting in the corner, his face partially shadowed, fingers drumming impatiently on the armrest of his chair.

The tension in the air is so thick I can almost taste it. These people have been Malcolm’s allies for years, and now they’re here to betray him. I wonder how many of them are having second thoughts.

I’ve been quick to tamp down my own doubts over the past twenty-four hours, because this has to work. It simply has to.

There’s no alternative, and there’s no backing out now.

“Everyone is here,” Imogen announces, closing the door behind us. “I’ve instructed the staff to bring Malcolm directly to this room when he arrives.”

“We’re certain he won’t have any guards with him?” Killian asks, scanning the room for potential entry and exit points.

“He won’t have any,” Cassandra speaks up. “He thinks he’s meeting Ronan alone. Kane’s reputation for privacy works in our favor tonight.”

“And you’ve confirmed Ronan won’t show?” Elliot asks me directly.

I nod. “He’s occupied for the night. He won’t be interrupting our business with Malcolm.”

Rafael moves away from the window, checking his watch. “Good. Malcolm should be here any minute, and we can take care of business.”

I move farther into the room, my men spreading out around me. Even though everyone in this room has a shared goal tonight, there’s still a palpable current of distrust between us. We’re criminals who have spent years looking over our shoulders, making and breaking alliances as needed. Trust doesn’t come easily to any of us.

But tonight, we’re united in a single purpose—Malcolm Mercer has to die.

The minutes drag by like hours as we wait, the silence is only occasionally broken by briefly whispered conversations or the soft click of a lighter as someone lights a cigarette. I’ve taken a seat near the door, and my heart is beating so loudly I’m sure everyone can hear it.

What if Malcolm doesn’t show? What if someone tipped him off? What if Ronan changed his mind and called to cancel? What if one of the people in this room is playing both sides?

My mind cycles through every possible way this could go wrong, and there are so many. We’re risking everything on this play—if Malcolm walks out of here alive, none of us will survive his retaliation.

I catch Nico watching me from a few feet away, and his expression tells me everything he can’t say out loud. We’ve got this. We’re together. Whatever happens, we’re facing it as one.

I take a deep breath and nod, drawing strength from his certainty. We’ve come too far to back down now.

Cassandra checks her watch for the third time in as many minutes. “He’s officially late.”

“Malcolm is never late,” Owen mutters, pacing near the window. “Something’s wrong.”

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