Page 45 of The Hunter's Empire

I stare at him. "That seems excessive."

His gaze meets mine briefly. "They find it effective." The simple certainty in his voice makes my stomach tighten.

Until now, the operation has existed mostly on paper. Files. Security reports. Intelligence briefings. Now it feels real. Dangerously real.

"What happens if someone ignores the rule?"

"They get searched."

"And if they are caught?"

A brief silence passes between us.

"They stop being guests." The answer is calm enough to be unsettling.

I study him for a moment. "You are serious."

"Very."

Rain continues to strike the windows while the cabin settles into silence.

For the first time since leaving Manhattan, I become aware of how isolated we are about to be. No phones. No contact with my team. No way to reach anyone outside the estate. No easy exit if something goes wrong.

"How are we supposed to communicate if we get separated?"

Domenico doesn't seem remotely concerned by the question. He slips on his coat and glances toward the cabin door. "We will figure it out."

I stare at him in disbelief. "That is your plan?"

"It has worked so far."

"That is not reassuring."

He smirks faintly. "It wasn't meant to be."

Irritation immediately tightens in my chest. I prefer plans. Structure. Contingencies. Domenico, on the other hand, seems perfectly comfortable operating on instinct and experience alone.

It is one of the things I find most frustrating about him.

"You realize most people would consider ‘we'll figure it out’ a terrible strategy."

"Most people do not get invited." The answer is so casually arrogant that I almost regret asking.

Before I can argue further, he opens the cabin door and gestures toward the exit. "Come on, Elf."

I hate how much he enjoys being vague. Even more, I hate that he somehow manages to sound confident while doing it.

A few minutes later, we leave the jet. Cold Irish air immediately wraps around me. The rain is light but constant, hanging in the darkness like mist. Runway lights glow through the fog while black vehicles wait in a perfectly organized line nearby.

And then I notice the men standing beside them. At first glance, they look like drivers. At second glance, they clearly are not.

Dark tailored suits. White shirts. Black gloves. Small earpieces hidden beneath neatly trimmed hair.

They stand with the kind of stillness that only comes from extensive training. No unnecessary movement. No idle conversation. No visible distractions. Every one of them is watching.

Their attention shifts toward us the moment we descend the stairs. I feel their eyes assess everything. My clothes. My posture. My expression. The distance between Domenico and me. Nothing escapes their notice.

One of the men steps forward. He is older than the others, perhaps in his forties, with sharp features and the calm confidence of someone accustomed to authority.