Page 56 of Jewel of the Assassin
He bows his head slightly. “Understood.”
I leave him in the corridor, his thoughts trailing behind me like incense smoke.
When I reach my office, I lock the door, sit, and activate the encrypted interface. Next, I open my glass mini freezer and pour myself two shots of vodka.
My system opens like a blooming wound—black-market contracts, bounty commissions, organ trades, crypto assassinations—all part of my kingdom’s bloodstream.
One name catches my eye.
ACHERON
BOUNTY: 12 MILLION USD
LOCATION: UNKNOWN
REPUTATION: HIGH-RISK. HIGH REWARD.
My interest sharpens. I stroke my jaw, intrigued.
I know the name. Who the fuck doesn’t? World-class masked stage artist. Abducted some unknown virgin and turned her into an exhibit. Everleigh something. I received an invitation to the performance. Wild story—but Acheron is unhinged in more performative ways than I. I had no doubt the exhibit would be as insane as he is artistic.
But I know a few things the bounty doesn’t list.
He steals art. Not for profit—for reparation. Holocaust pieces. Family treasures stripped by monsters and returned byanother kind. I’ve tracked his paths in Budapest and Warsaw. A ghost with purpose.
I flex my knuckles, considering it. I could take him if I wanted. But it would be messy. Unfulfilling. I don’t get hard for ghosts. And I respect him.
I archive the bounty. Decline the contract.
I have more important prey to protect. And she’s sleeping in my bed.
Let someone else try to kill the masked collector. I’d love to be there when they try, but I won’t be leaving Valentina anytime soon. I’ve earned myself some holiday time.
I’ll spend every moment with her. Mostly? Inside her.
I toss back the last of the vodka, letting the ice and fire settle in my throat. Then I kill the screen, lock down the system, and rise—already thinking of sliding back beneath the sheets beside her.
But a sharp knock hits the door. And urgent.
I make my way to the door and swing it open to find Yuri, my chief of security. He’s wearing his tactical gear, soaked from the rain.
“What is it?”
“Storm’s coming in harder than forecasted,” he says. “But that’s not why I’m here. There’s something you need to see.”
Veins throb with tension in my arm as I ball one hand into a fist. I follow him down the hall, past the west wing, until we reach the security center. Monitors line the walls, most showing thermal sweeps, drone feeds, radar blips, and rotating infrared scans from the outer perimeter—both sky and sea.
He taps a screen. “This is fifteen minutes ago. Look here.”
The grainy video shows two vessels circling slowly. Big ones. Not fishing boats.
“Coast Guard?” I ask.
“Unlikely,” Yuri mutters, eyes narrowed. “No official transponder signals. No lights. They’re dark-floating. Could be private yachts, but?—”
Private yachts would not be out in rough weather.
He taps another angle from a low-flying recon drone. A momentary blur reveals a figure moving on deck. Tactical vest. Something slung across their back.
