Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

“If action is taken against him during his trip, my sister may not make it out alive,” Atlas snapped.

Papers rustled and there was the telltale creak of an office chair moving. Jasper sounded a bit more contrite when he said, “I’ll speak with my employer, Mr. Kinkaid. I am certain she would not wish Beatrice to be put in any danger. That is not our goal, after all.”

Atlas drew up, frustration simmering over until no movement was enough to contain it. “Let me put this plainly,” he bit out. “I joined this scheme because your employer said Scarsdale would be safer if I helped her. My sister getting dragged deeper into this clusterfuck is not what I consider safer. If your employer can’t guarantee Bea will be kept out of this, I’m done.”

Jasper coughed delicately. “I see. I shall be sure to share your rather strong sentiments with my employer. We truly value you, Mr. Kinkaid, and—”

Atlas hung up, too angry to listen to any more of Jasper’s polite and empty promises, and glanced at the series of text messages he’d received while on the call. They were all from Cristian, and he groaned as he tried to scroll back to find the start of the one-sided conversation.

This week was the anniversary of Vasilica and Dinu’s entry into the Vladislavic family, and Cristian had been plotting the celebration for days. The only time he could talk about his plans without alerting the pair was when he was in the car with Atlas. It meant Atlas had become a coconspirator despite his best efforts to avoid it. He mostly grunted in response to Cristian’s questions about activities or venues, only adding in his two cents if he had a security concern. Judging from how many messages he’d sent in the last ten minutes, Cristian had finally decided his final plans.

Atlas eventually found the first message, which stated unhelpfully, It’s Cristian. Before he could read further, an incoming call blocked his view of the other texts. He closed his eyes tightly, prayed for patience, and answered. “Mr. Slava.”

“You weren’t responding,” Cristian said.

“I was reading your messages.”

“And not responding.” He made a thoughtful sound when Atlas growled and continued, “It seemed easier to call.”

“I thought you preferred text for secrecy’s sake.”

“Not right now. Andrei distracted them for me. Dinu’s new espresso machine arrived and they’re in the kitchen setting it up. Ioana is watching the hall for me while I talk to you

.”

“Then talk.”

“I got reservations at La Palourde for Thursday evening.”

“I’m happy for you,” Atlas replied idly. Thursday evening, so the night before Bea was set to leave with Decebal. Delightful. He’d have plenty of time to worry about his sister becoming a target for the Wharrams while Cristian and the crew indulged on fine wine and extravagant entrees.

“Do you even know what La Palourde is?” Cristian asked without any real heat. “It’s—you know what, never mind. Look it up.”

“Fine.”

“And wear something nice. Not black tie. Maybe the blue suit. I won’t have you embarrassing me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Atlas lied, tilting his head back so he could stare up at the ceiling. For an immortal creature, Cristian worried far too much about appearances.

“Cristian,” Ioana warned in the distance.

“Shit, I have to go. Blue suit. Thursday night. And it’s a secret, so don’t mention it between now and then.”

The call cut off. Atlas dutifully looked up the restaurant, which was located in the wealthiest part of Scarsdale proper. No wonder Cristian wanted him in a suit. The place looked ridiculously overpriced, though its ambiance almost made up for it. He flicked through the website’s pictures, noting the illuminated stained glass panels and Belle Epoque–inspired decor. Private dining rooms branched off from the main eating space, which surrounded the bar. Cristian had probably reserved one of them. Atlas made a face. More rooms meant more security risks, with more places for unsavory characters to hide.

He stiffened. More places to hide. He swiped through the photos again, forcing himself to examine them from an offensive, rather than defensive, perspective. He noted the location of the bar, of the restrooms, of the entrances and exits. An idea sparked in the back of his mind and began to grow. He dialed Jasper’s number again, not bothering to apologize for his earlier comments when the man picked up with a surprised, “Mr. Kinkaid?” Instead, he kept focused on his mission.

“I need to speak to your employer.”

“I’m afraid she isn’t available—”

“I have new information. She won’t regret speaking to me, I swear.”

Jasper sighed. “One moment.” The flat quiet of the line told Atlas he’d been put on hold. After what felt like a lifetime, Jasper came back on. “She is not pleased,” Jasper murmured, “but I’m putting you through.”

With every ring, he tightened his grip on the phone. At last, a refined voice came on the line. “Mr. Kinkaid. Mr. Rhodes has spoken to me about your concerns. While I appreciate how love for a sister can lead someone to action, I would caution you to not overstep your place.”

“Please,” Atlas said. “Mr. Rhodes said you need collateral before you’ll confront Decebal.” When she didn’t speak, he pushed aside the last of his doubts and added, “I can get it for you.”