Page 75 of Forged

Gabriel reaches the table just as the song fades and the next one begins. He sits smoothly, picking up his champagne flute. The ease of it sends another shiver down my spine.

“What did you say to her?” I ask, unable to keep the curiosity from my voice.

“I told her that she had another admirer,” he replies. “And that her current client would be compensated for his inconvenience.”

“And he just…agreed?”

Gabriel’s eyes flick briefly toward the stage. “He understood.”

There’s no arrogance in his tone.

Lars leans back in his chair, studying him. “Are you always this bold?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you used to getting what you want?” I ask before I can stop myself.

His gaze settles on me, and for a moment, I forget the music entirely. “Not always,” he says quietly. “But I try to be persuasive.”

I blink, my heart still racing. “What did you say to the man she was dancing for?”

He shrugs, lifting his glass. “Everyone has a price. This place isn’t any different.”

“And what price did you offer?”

He meets my eyes, a spark glinting there. “The man was easy, a hundred dollars stopped his protests. For her, I wanted to make sure she knew I was serious, so five grand.”

My jaw drops. “She asked for five grand?”

“No, that’s what I offered,” he says, grin sharpening. “I wanted my number to be effective. I don’t like negotiating.”

It shouldn’t thrill me, but it does. The fact that he made it happen with one whisper and an outrageous figure, leaves me unsettled. Lars stays silent beside me, but I can feel the weight of his attention pressing toward the same question I can’t shake—who is this man?

The redhead keeps her word.Five thousand dollars is pocket change for me, and I had no patience for negotiating a price for something Neomi wanted.

I’ve earned millions over the years, being one of the highest skilled hitmen in the world. I’ve worked for fifteen years in the shadows of the underground. Even organized crime families like the Marchettis, the Falcos, and the Maravillas don’t know my name or my face. I work mainly for the elite upper cusp of secret societies, silencing the people who stand in their way of what they call ‘progress.’ And they pay well for it.

When this assignment landed in my lap, I decided it would be my last. I don’t usually deal in intelligence with the option to kill only if needed. I usually hunt down men to hide information, not bring it to light. But the price was right and the Marchettis have ruled the Chicago territory for decades, so the challenge to gain information on their inner workings, well frankly, it sounded like the perfect challenge and low risk for a last mission.

I turned forty this year and I’m done with hiding. It’s a lonely life, full of changing locations and changing faces. No opportunityto belong to a place or to people. Once I deliver the one piece of information that I was contracted for, I can attempt to blend back in with society and live a normal life.

This last mission brings me here, seated across from Lars Marchetti and his new, beautiful, blushing bride.

But watching them at this moment, I realize the mission won’t be as easy as I thought it would be.

When the song fades, the entertainer makes her way to our table. She’s in just her black thong and stilettoes, accentuating her long, toned legs. She stops at the edge of the table, offers a coy smile, and waits for direction.

I lift a hand to flag down our waitress. “Another bottle please and put it on my tab with the bar.”

The dancer leans toward me, perfume thick and sweet, gaze flicking between the three of us. I don’t give her much instruction, just a single nod toward Neomi.

“Christy, the lady here requested your company. I believe she needs a dance.”

The redhead’s smile deepens, something wicked hidden behind it. Then the next song rolls in, slow enough to be seductive.

She turns toward Neomi, closing the space between them. Her hands find the back of the chair for balance as she hovers over Neomi, hair falling forward. Her thong sits above the curve of her ass as she slides down until she’s kneeling in front of Neomi.

Her palms glide slowly up Neomi’s thighs, parting them. As the fabric shifts, Neomi’s breath catches. The woman knows exactly how to build anticipation. Neomi leans back against the cushion, eyes dark, chest rising faster.