Page 5 of Kill, Sleep, Repeat: Vol II

Back outside, I pull out my phone and skim through the dossier Carlo sent. Celeste’s name catches my eye, her photo pinned to the page, her face frozen in time.

Celeste Smith. Lounge owner. NYC.

The notes are brief, but the warning is clear:Protection likely.

I swipe the screen, the words lingering in my mind. Celeste is smart, methodical, and ruthless. She doesn’t leave loose ends, which makes her both a threat and an opportunity.

Sophie appears suddenly, her expression as stormy as the dark clouds rolling in over the city. “I can’t do this,” she says. “Turns out, I hate people.”

“I see.”

She shifts, restless. “So what now?”

“Now,” I say, “we catch a cab. Time to learn the streets.”

Her eyes widen in disbelief. “Wait, really?”

I don’t look at her as I speak. “Welcome to the real world.”

She doesn’t ask questions. She slides into the cab besideme, her posture stiff as we pull away, the city already pulsing around us.

The cab swerves through traffic, the scent of tar and exhaust mingling with the faint odor of musty upholstery. The list I’m mulling over feels heavy as the cab picks up speed, weaving between pedestrians and honking cars.

Celeste doesn’t know we’re in town, but she will soon enough.

And Sophie? She’s about to learn what it really means to adapt.

4

CHARLOTTE

The 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—shewas.”

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