Page 12 of Hunt Me
My phone vibrates. Alert from the financial system.
Then another.
Three more in quick succession.
“Shit.” My fingers fly across the screen, pulling up live feeds. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“What?” Dmitri moves closer, blocking the view of nearby guests.
“They’re hitting us. Right now. Multiple entry points I thought I’d—” I watch in real-time as elegant code slips through my defenses like water through a net. “How did they know about the backup servers in Frankfurt?”
“Alexi—”
“I have to go.” I’m already moving toward the exit, pulling up remote access protocols. “Tell Nikolai the Phantom just declared war.”
“The gala isn’t over?—”
“Neither is my patience.” I don’t look back, too focused on the catastrophe unfolding across my screens.
“Nikolai says you need to stay at least an hour.”
“Nikolai can?—”
The words die in my throat.
She walks through the entrance like she owns the room, and maybe she does, because suddenly I can’t remember what I was saying. Platinum blonde hair swept into an elegant updo. A black dress that’s more armor than fabric, sleek and dangerous. But it’s her eyes that catch me—ice blue, scanning the crowd with the kind of calculated awareness that doesn’t belong at charity events.
“Earth to Alexei.” Dmitri waves a hand in front of my face.
I barely register it. She moves through clusters of conversation with practiced ease, accepting champagne from a waiter without breaking stride. There’s something off about her presence here. Too self-contained. Too aware.
“Who is that?”
Tash follows my gaze. “No idea. Haven’t seen her before.”
I don’t wait for more analysis. My feet carry me across the ballroom floor before my brain catches up with the decision. The Phantom evaporates from my thoughts. The code, the breach, the hunt—all of it dissolves into background noise.
She’s examining a painting on the far wall when I reach her. Abstract piece, probably worth more than most people’s houses. She doesn’t turn, but her spine straightens slightly. Aware of my approach.
“Rothko.” I stop beside her, close enough to catch her scent—a clean scent like ozone and expensive soap. “Most people find him boring.”
“Most people don’t understand minimalism.” Her voice is smooth, controlled. She still doesn’t look at me. “They need their art to be obvious.”
“And you don’t?”
Now she turns, and the full force of those blue eyes hits me like a system crash. Sharp. Intelligent. Dangerous.
“I prefer things that make me work for it.”
My pulse kicks up in a way that has nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the challenge in her tone.
“Alexei Ivanov.” I extend my hand, watching for recognition. Everyone in Boston knows the name.
Her expression doesn’t flicker. She takes my hand—cool skin, firm grip, gone too quickly.
“Iris Mitchell.”
The name means nothing to me, which is rare in Boston circles. Everyone here is connected—old money, new money, criminal money. But Iris Mitchell? Blank.
