Page 103 of Last Shot

It suddenly dawned on Max that Sophie had soughtherout. Perhaps the desire for a scoop on Max’s time in prison and the trial was more of a lucky bonus, a clever disguise: Sophie the professional reporter, instead of Sophie the ex-girlfriend of Greyson Hawke.

‘You know him well,’ Sophie said.

‘Not at all. He barely speaks to me.’

‘I find that hard to believe. The two of you spent the night in Perth, Nella says.’

Straight to it then.‘Not like that.’

‘Like what?’ Sophie smiled. Not unkindly. But not exactly kindly either. ‘Look, I’m just surprised. Greyson doesn’t really go to Perth. He doesn’t really go anywhere.’ She sighed. ‘Is it really not like that with you two?’

‘It’s really not. We’re working together. Security.’

Fucking in the mud room.

‘Figures,’ Sophie said, tapping her glass with her middle finger. ‘He’s never going to settle down with anyone. If we’d kept going, he probably would have broken it off eventually. No one measures up to the Barbaranis.’ Her eyes flickered over to Luca, who was roaring with laughter with one of Tomaso’s scarf-clad friends – or laughing at them, it wasn’t clear.

Sophie chewed the inside of her lip. ‘I think I just always felt like his Plan B. Like Plan A hadn’t worked out for him – whatever it was or whoever she was – and I was what he’d settled for instead. Not bad, still something he wanted, but never the real thing.’

‘Plan B.’ Max’s throat went dry. All her previous thoughts about Skinner and Raphael pierced through the wobbly membrane she’d cast up around them at Sophie’s arrival. Libby’s voice grated in her ear.Your Plan B needs to be better than Plan A.

What if the bomb had been Plan A?

Forgive us all.

That meant Plan B—

What if Plan B wasMax?

‘Oh shit, guess it’s starting,’ Sophie was saying. ‘Think about what I said, you know – about telling your side ...’

Max didn’t know what she said to Sophie, or if she said anything at all. Giovanni Barbarani was the only person in this place who could command an entire fleet of Australia’s Most-Wanted socialites to a standstill.

There he was, on the landing of the white, marble stairs – an explorer standing on the conquered ridge between two snow-peaked mountains.

A prisoner before a firing squad.

It wasn’t Skinner. It had never been Skinner. He was just an idea, a phantom – Plan B.

So who ...?

Libby had handed her the torch, told her where to point to make everyone look in the wrong direction while ... while what?

Max had to shine the spotlight somewhere – but where? What had she missed?

She pushed through the crowd, ignoring the grunts and gasps as champagne and wine sloshed out of glasses. Giovanni raised his own glass of sangue. Grey said he’d be there, with Giovanni, at the bottom of the stairs – he’d argued he needed to be standing beside him, in case Skinner took advantage of Giovanni’s position.

But Gio had said he’d rather be strung naked from the chandelier and sing the Greek national anthem than make it seem like he needed protection.

And it wasn’t Skinner they were watching for.

Where the fuck was the Fixer?

Everyone Max pushed past was a potential enemy behind their masks of polite intrigue, listening to Giovanni thank everyone for being there in far more humble tones than she would have expected from the man who had yelled at Grey for having a sip of wine not an hour beforehand.

Emilio Barbarani’s portrait glared down at his son. Max’s gaze caught on the old man’s chin glistening in the waxy light of the crystal chandelier.

The jawline. Clean shaven. But still. There was something ...

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