Page 90 of Goldflame

I’d initially wanted to go after Gregory Whitman next—the man who organized “games” where my mother was the prize, letting men take turns with her when they won. He was also the one who was overly eager to have me when Lady Harrow brought all her friends to burnme with a cigar. He’s a bastard and a pig and I want him dead.

Adrian said he wouldn’t stop me—which I appreciated—but he gave a good reason to wait on Whitman. Lorenzo has seen Gregory hanging around Julian a lot, making him a risky first target. If I take out Whitman, Julian will get suspicious. So, Adrian said to start with DeMarco because he’s less connected to Julian and less likely to draw immediate attention. Also, his drug addiction will make his death seem like something inevitable.

As always, Adrian’s logic was impossible to argue against. And, compared to Julian who loves to keep secrets, I appreciated that Adrian told me why I shouldn’t kill Whitman yet. He trusted me with the truth instead of demanding things and expecting me to just obey.

I drift through the crowd, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing server. I won’t drink it—I need to have a clear head—but it gives me something to do with my hands. And the weight of the emerald necklace against my throat reminds me of Adrian’s presence, of the purpose we share tonight. I’m not alone. Not anymore.

It makes my heart dance.

The room opens into a series of connected spaces, each more depraved than the last. In one area, naked bodies mash together on plush couches. In another, lines of white powder are arranged on black marble tables, guests bending down to inhale.

I scan faces, listening to snippets of conversation,hunting for information about Francis, but come up empty.

Twenty minutes pass too quickly. I return to our meeting spot, scanning the crowd for Adrian. He appears at my side a moment later, right on time, as promised.

“Any news?” he asks, guiding me toward a quieter corner with a light touch at my elbow.

I shake my head. “You?”

“Yes. It seems Francis will arrive soon, supposedly with a new product that’s stronger than fentanyl.” Adrian’s expression darkens beneath his mask. “Carfentanil, most likely. It’s been showing up on the east coast. A hundred times more potent than fentanyl. A few grains can kill. Francis also lost heavily at Whitman’s casino last night. He’s desperate for cash, which explains the new product push.” Adrian’s voice drops lower. “And he’s been complaining about Julian not leading things to his satisfaction.”

Julian. The name sends a shiver through me, a mixture of rage and pity.

“Is he?—”

“Not here,” Adrian assures me quickly. “He won’t be. He’s too busy playing leader at the moment.”

Relief washes through me, followed immediately by a spike of determination. I need to focus. I’m not here to dwell on Julian. I’m here for Francis. For my mother. For everything he watched them do to her while he laughed.

A commotion near the entrance draws our attention. The crowd parts like the Red Sea as a newcomer strides in, flanked by two hulking bodyguards. Even without the intel, I’d know this was Francis—he carries himself withthe arrogance of a predator who’s never had to fear becoming prey.

Until now.

“That’s him,” Adrian confirms, his eyes tracking Francis’s movements. “That silver briefcase likely has the samples.” Adrian offers me his arm. “Shall we?”

I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, steel settling into my spine. We move through the crowd with purpose, working our way closer to where Francis is now sitting on a velvet couch.

“… medical grade, pure as they come,” Francis is saying to the small crowd. “One dose and you’ll feel like God himself is massaging your brain.”

I roll my eyes.

Adrian leans down as if whispering sweet nothings in my ear. “I brought a solution for our friend,” he says, his breath warm against my skin. Butterflies erupt in my stomach, despite the situation.

“Ketamine mixed with morphine and a touch of potassium chloride,” he continues. “Shouldn’t be traceable in standard tox screens. Given his history with substance abuse and recent rehab stints, an overdose won’t raise eyebrows.”

My lips part and my pulse races, but it has nothing to do with fear. Why is plotting death with Adrian so damn sexy? Our bodies are close enough that I can feel the steady rhythm of Adrian’s breathing against my neck, and I’m tempted to take him to one of the side areas where we could play and have fun.

I’ve missed him.

But we have a mission.

“How do we get it to him?” I ask.

Adrian’s smile is devilish. “We don’t. We let him come to us. He loves going after other men’s women.”

My heart flutters.Is he saying I’m his?

He guides me closer to Francis’s circle, positioning us just at the edge of the group. I feel Adrian’s hand slide to the small of my back again, his touch electric through the thin fabric of my dress.

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