Page 26 of Sinful Chains

I pulled my gloves tighter, flexing my fingers inside the leather. Night stretched all around us, filled with the sounds of horns honking, shoes clicking against pavement, conversations spilling out of windows and doors. The city was alive, and we were three ghosts moving through it.

It should have been four.

The Optima loomed in front of us, a cylindrical glass fortress on the outskirts of the city. Cruz was ahead of me moving carefully, his steps calculated. Titan was on my right, scanning the area around us. And I watched for the black Tahoe, ready to get this shit over with so I could get back home to Santari.

We didn’t speak much. We hadn't since Rev died. When he was alive, we bantered a lot before a job, roasting each other, shooting the shit, clowning, enjoying the calm before the storm. It was like a ritual for us. First job after we lost him, the banter felt so hollow, we stopped doing it altogether.

Tonight, everything we had to say had already been said.

Headlights appeared, passing over our faces as the Tahoe rounded the circular driveway and pulled up to the valet. The three of us exchanged looks—it was go time.

The two security guards exited first, their suits perfectly tailored, their movements rehearsed. Professionals, for sure. They surveyed the area, scanning for threats, finally agreeing with a nod that the client was safe.

He stepped out.

We waited a few moments, watching as the guards flanked him and ushered him inside. Then, we moved.

My suit jacket fell into place as I stood from my crouched position and stepped onto the sidewalk. Cruz and Titan followed a few paces behind me, blending into a sea of hotel guests.

The inside of the hotel was ostentatious, full of marble and gold and chandeliers coating the ceiling. The air was perfumed with money and lust. It all looked and felt like Miami.

But we weren’t here to admire the ambience.

The target and his men were already at the elevators. We hung back, seeing no need to rush.

Timing is everything.

Titan broke off and headed toward the concierge desk. His job was to cut the feed to the penthouse suites. Cruz and I made our way toward the opposite bank of the elevators, watching quietly as the numbers ticked upward.

Penthouse.

Three drunk women staggered by, sloppy as hell but in good spirits.

We took the next elevator, riding in silence. My fingers tapped idly against my thigh, my body coiled tight in anticipation. This was it.

I stuck a hand in my pocket, finding lacy fabric. I massaged it with my fingers, hoping Santari's panties brought me some good luck tonight. I also hoped she didn't check her hamper anytime soon, because I hadn't left her with many options.

The doors slid open to an empty hallway. Dim light. Plush carpet. High art. I flexed my fingers. Rolled my shoulders. Looked left and right.

“Let’s go,” Cruz mumbled.

We moved down the hall, approaching the penthouse quietly. My gun, outfitted with a silencer, hung heavily at my side.

Titan joined us just as the two security guards stepped out into the hallway. By the time they got a chance to react, we were already blitzing them.

Cruz got to them first, quick and brutal, ending the first man’s life with the sharp steel of his knife. Throat slice. Clean. Blood sprayed the walls as the body crumpled.

The second guard reached for his weapon, but sadly for him, he was a touch too slow.

I grabbed him by the lapels, slamming him against the wall. His head hit with a sickening crack, but he still had the wherewithal to make a feeble attempt at fighting back. His fist connected with my ribs, knocking the wind out of me for a moment.

Titan moved before I could react, his blade finding a home between the man’s ribs. I heard a gurgling sound, then silence, before Titan shot me a look, probably wondering how the fuck I let that fool land a punch when I had the upper hand.

I sucked in a breath as we stepped over the bodies. Cruz wiped his blade on the dead man’s suit, then nodded toward the door.

I pulled the keycard from my pocket…we’d lifted it earlier. A dizzying case of deja vu washed over me, but I didn't have time to parse the memory. One swipe, then the lock clicked.

Inside, Whitman lounged in a high-backed leather chair, crystal tumbler in hand. His silver hair was neatly combed, his suit jacket draped over the armrest. Just an old man having a drink after work before retiring to bed.

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