Page 26 of Ruthless

"Indeed," Charon agreed. "Although I should remind you that sanctuary has its limitations. You are safe within these walls, but only within these walls."

Translation: we were trapped. The moment we set foot outside The Acropolis, we'd have a target on our backs that would make JFK's final drive through Dallas look like a relaxing sightseeing tour.

"We understand the constraints," I said, though Vincent clearly didn't. "Accommodations?"

Charon tapped something into a tablet, then removed a small copper key from a drawer. "Suite forty-two, East Wing," he said, sliding the key across. "Your biometrics have been updated in the system. Your... asset will need to be registered before accessing secured areas."

"We'll take care of it," I promised, pocketing the key.

"Luka." Charon's voice stopped me. His eyes darted to the security cameras before he leaned slightly forward. "Rhadamanthys has reserved his suite starting tomorrow afternoon."

My blood ran cold at the Judge's name. For Charon to actually volunteer that information meant the situation was far worse than I'd thought. "Understood. Thank you."

I nudged Vincent away from the desk, guiding him toward one of the smaller bridges leading to the East Wing. He stayed silent until we were halfway across, water flowing gently beneath us.

"What was that about? Priority red?"

"It means we're thoroughly fucked. The highest level of contract has been placed on both of us. Every professional in the northern hemisphere will be looking for us with shoot-to-kill authorization."

Vincent stopped walking, face paling. "Both of us? Why you?"

"Because I killed Hector instead of you," I explained with a shrug, like it was nothing more serious than a parking ticket. "And because Prometheus doesn't tolerate failure. Especially not from me."

"Why especially you?" Vincent asked, eyes narrowing. "What makes you different?"

The question hit something raw and tender inside me, a wound I hadn't realized was still bleeding. Images flashed. A bombed-out building in Bosnia, a little boy with a homemade knife, Prometheus pressing a special penny into my palm. Milan, when I was eighteen. Champagne I couldn't remember drinking. Hotel sheets against bare skin.

I swallowed hard, shoving those particular memories back into their box. "I was his prize specimen," I said flatly. "His perfect little experiment in creating the ideal assassin. Twenty-six years of conditioning, training, and psychological manipulation, all undone because I couldn't put a bullet in your brain."

Vincent studied me. "What did he do to you, Luka?"

My stomach churned. "Nothing worth talking about. What matters is what he'll do to us both if we step outside these walls."

We reached our suite, located up a wrought iron staircase that clung to brick walls like industrial ivy. I unlocked the door, revealing a surprisingly spacious apartment finished in classic Cycladic style with curved white walls, azure accents, and terracotta floors.

"Home sweet home," I announced, tossing the key onto a stone side table. "At least until we figure out how to get out of this mess without getting our heads blown off."

Vincent moved cautiously into the space, taking in the open-concept living area, small but well-appointed kitchen, and door presumably leading to the bedroom. "This is... not what I expected."

"What were you expecting? Bodies hanging from meat hooks? Torture devices? Sorry to disappoint."

"Something less... civilized," he admitted, running his fingers along a marble countertop. "This whole world of yours is disturbingly elegant."

"Death is a business like any other," I said, heading straight for the fridge. "And business is good." I grabbed two bottles of water, tossing one to Vincent. "Drink. Adrenaline dehydrates you."

He caught it without looking, his mind clearly racing. He took a long swig, throat working in a way that momentarily distracted me. When he lowered the bottle, his eyes had that focus I recognized from our therapysession.

"Why would someone want me dead? Someone with enough pull and resources to hire an assassin of your caliber."

I stared at him, suddenly struck by the absurdity of it all. Vincent Matthews, trauma therapist, standing in an assassin's sanctuary, strategizing his survival in the same calm tone he probably used to discuss treatment plans.

"You're taking this surprisingly well," I observed.

"I work with cult survivors," he replied, straightening his shoulders. "I'm familiar with parallel societies, hidden hierarchies, and charismatic leaders who inspire blind loyalty. Your Prometheus sounds like a typical cult leader, just with better resources."

The comparison sent an electric jolt down my spine. "The Pantheon isn't a cult."

"Isn't it?" Vincent set down his water bottle carefully. "You were isolated from normal society. Taught to kill without question. Given special tokens as rewards for loyalty. These are classic grooming techniques. Textbook conditioning."

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