Page 25 of Ruthless

"Asset?" His eyebrow arched. "Like property?"

"Like under my protection. One of the few statuses that grants a civilian entry."

The elevator jolted to a stop, doors sliding open to reveal what even I had to admit was an impressive sight.

"Holy shit," Vincent breathed, momentarily forgetting his composure.

The Acropolis sprawled before us, a hidden underground city bathed in artificial Mediterranean light. Soaring columns supported vaulted ceilings painted with mythological scenes. Marble pathways wound between azure water channels. Market stalls reminiscent of ancient Greek agoras lined walkways where assassins, fixers, and information brokers lounged and shopped and ate.

Somewhere distant, metal rang against metal in rhythmic percussion, blending with the gentle burble of water and the low murmur of dozens of hushed conversations. Despite being underground, the temperature remained perfectly cool without being cold.

"Welcome to my world," I said, unable to suppress a smirk at his gobsmacked expression.

Vincent recovered quickly. "Fascinating. A parallel society with its own economy, architecture, presumably governance... hidden directly beneath the everyday world."

I guided him forward, my hand instinctively settling at the small of his back. He tensed, but didn't pull away.

"More importantly, it's the one place we can't be touched. The rules here predate America itself. No contracts fulfilled on Acropolis grounds."

"Rules enforced by whom?" Vincent asked.

"By the Judges," I said. "Break sanctuary, and you're fair game for anyone with a weapon. Even I still have protected status here, despite everything."

Vincent nodded slowly, processing. "So there's a hierarchy. A system of justice even among assassins."

"We're not animals, doc," I said with a half-smile. "Just very specialized professionals. Even Prometheus has to follow the rules."

"Prometheus," Vincent repeated, the name clearly filing itself away in his mental database. "Your boss?"

"My creator," I corrected, not really meaning to reveal so much. Something about Vincent loosened my tongue in dangerous ways. "Director of North American operations."

His steps faltered. "Why would someone want a therapist dead? What could I possibly know that's worth killing for?"

"Good fucking question. One we need to answer if we want to stay alive."

I steered him toward the central registry, where Charon, the Acropolis' concierge, stood sentinel behind an onyx desk. Tall, elegant, with close-cropped silver hair and skin the color of aged mahogany, Charon wore his perfectly tailored suit like armor.

"Mr. Aleksandar," he greeted me, voice a cultured baritone. "It has been some time."

"Charon," I replied with a nod. "I need accommodations. For two."

His obsidian eyes flicked to Vincent, assessing and dismissing in a single glance. "This is not a hotel for civilians, as you well know."

"He's my asset," I said firmly.

Charon's eyebrow rose fractionally. That was the equivalent of shocked disbelief from anyone else. "And does he understand what that entails?"

"I'm working on the orientation pamphlet," I replied dryly. "In the meantime, we need somewhere secure."

"You should know that your status has been... updated in our system as of forty-three minutes ago."

My stomach twisted into a frigid knot. "How updated?"

"Priority red," Charon replied, watching me carefully. "Along with your... asset."

Fuck. Priority red meant Prometheus had already discovered Hector's body and connected the dots. This wasn't just a standard contract violation; this was personal.

"I see," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Then it's fortunate we're here, isn't it? Given the rules of sanctuary."

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