Chapter Text
ASHA
The Casino de Monte-Carlo at half past ten on a race-week Thursday night was a living, breathing organism of excess. Crystal chandeliers dripped warm gold across ceilings painted with cherubs and clouds, marble floors polished to such a sheen that every heel click echoed like a warning shot. The air was thick with the scent of aged cognac, Cuban cigars, and the faint metallic undercurrent of money changing hands faster than most people could breathe. Outside, the Mediterranean night pressed against the tall windows, black and velvet, broken only by the distant shimmer of superyachts anchored in the harbour and the occasional roar of a sports car tearing along the Corniche.
I stood backstage in the small green room reserved for performers, adjusting the strap of my guitar. The instrument felt solid and familiar against my body — warm mahogany body, strings tuned to perfection earlier that afternoon in the quiet of my apartment. I had chosen the white silk camisole again tonight, the one embroidered with delicate silver stars that caught the light when I moved just so. It clung to my skin in the humid warmth of the casino, innocent enough to pass for stage costume, practical enough to conceal the thin wire of the earpiece nestled behind my ear and the slim blade strapped to my inner thigh beneath the tailored black trousers. The diamond necklace rested against my collarbones, cool and reassuring, its chain strong enough to serve purposes far beyond ornamentation.
Selina would have approved of the outfit. Diana would have reminded me to keep my centre of gravity low in any confrontation. I pushed both voices aside and focused on the task at hand.
The earpiece crackled to life with a faint static click.
“Testing,” came Jason’s voice, low and rough, that familiar Gotham drawl cutting through the British crispness of my own thoughts. “You copy, princess?”
I touched the wire discreetly, pretending to adjust an earring. “Crystal clear. And if you call me that again over open comms, I’ll short-circuit your bike’s ignition myself.”
A soft, amused huff. “Noted. I’m at the high-roller table, in the north-east corner. Black shirt, sleeves rolled. Chips are mine for the taking. Target at my three o’clock — the man in the charcoal suit with the gold pinky ring. He’s been flashing an encrypted fob every time he checks his watch. Syndicate middleman. He’s carrying the auction manifest.”
I glanced at the small mirror on the wall, confirming my stage makeup — subtle kohl lining my eyes to make the deep brown of them pop under the lights, lips a neutral rose that wouldn’t smudge. “I see him. Maintain distance. We observe first. No direct approach until I give the signal.”
“Copy that, boss.” The sarcasm dripped like honey over broken glass. “Because nothing says ‘subtle infiltration’ like waiting for permission from the woman who once knocked me out with a pressure point because I wanted to shoot the hostage-taker instead of talking to him.”
I suppressed a smile. “That was Marrakesh. And the hostage lived.”
“Barely.”
The stage manager knocked twice on the door. “Two minutes, Miss Kaur.”
I picked up the guitar case — the real one this time, no false bottom needed tonight — and stepped into the wings. The house lights were already dimming. Applause rippled as the previous performer, a jazz pianist, took his bow. I walked out onto the small raised stage with measured grace, the silk of my camisole shifting like water under the spotlights. The diamond necklace caught the light and threw tiny sparks across the front rows.
I settled onto the stool, crossed my legs at the ankle, and let my fingers find the strings. The first notes of a slow, haunting cover of “Hallelujah” — the Jeff Buckley version, stripped back and dangerous — filled the room. My voice followed, low and smoky, British accent softening the edges just enough to sound intimate rather than performative.
Across the sea of tables, I found Jason immediately.
He sat like he owned the felt — shoulders relaxed, one arm draped over the back of his chair, the other lazily tossing chips into the pot. The black shirt stretched across his chest when he leaned forward, the top two buttons undone in deliberate carelessness. His hair was still slightly damp from what I assumed had been a quick shower after evening practice laps, curls falling into his eyes in that infuriatingly attractive way. The scar through his left eyebrow caught the light every time he grinned at the dealer.
He looked every inch the Red Bull golden boy. No one would suspect the man beneath carried two concealed pistols, a lifetime of resurrected rage, and a burning hatred for the very idea of being controlled.
JASON
The cards in my hand were shit, but the pot was beautiful. I tossed in another stack of chips with a lazy flick of my wrist, watching the Saudi prince across from me sweat through his thousand-euro collar. The table smelled of expensive cologne and desperation, the kind I’d grown far too familiar with since Bruce had decided playing dead in a shallow grave wasn’t enough punishment and dragged me back into the world of the living.
I hated this part of the cover sometimes. The smiling. The charm. The pretending I gave a single fuck about vintage champagne or engine specs when all I wanted was to put a bullet between the eyes of every Syndicate bastard who thought they could play in my city — my world — without consequences.
But tonight was different. Tonight I had a shadow with a guitar and a voice that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Asha.
I could hear her singing now, clear and low over the casino murmur, that voice wrapping around the lyrics like smoke around a blade. Hallelujah. Of course she’d chosen something biblical and broken. Fitting.
My earpiece buzzed faintly.
“Target just checked the fob again,” she murmured between verses, so softly only I could hear. “He’s nervous. Pulse elevated. We wait.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Instead I leaned back in my chair, stretching my legs under the table, feeling the reassuring weight of the compact Glock tucked against my lower back. The scar along my side — the one that still ached when the weather turned or when the Joker’s laugh echoed too loudly in my nightmares — pulled tight as I moved. I remembered the last time I’d ignored a warning and charged in half-cocked. The Pit had brought me back, but it hadn’t taken away the rage. Nothing ever did.
“Copy,” I replied under my breath, lips barely moving as I pretended to study my cards. “But if he reaches for that fob one more time like it’s a panic button, I’m not waiting for your royal permission to move.”
A soft exhale from her end — half irritation, half something warmer. “Your impulsiveness is going to get us both killed one day, Todd.”
“Hasn’t yet,” I shot back, voice pitched for her ears only. “And I’ve died once already. Gives me perspective.”
I won the hand with a bluff so outrageous the entire table groaned. Chips slid toward me in a satisfying clatter. I raked them in with a grin that felt more like a snarl, then let my gaze drift casually toward the stage.
Asha sat under the spotlight like she belonged there, dark hair straight and shining, falling over one shoulder as she bent over the guitar. The white silk clung to her in ways that should have been illegal in a room full of billionaires. Her fingers moved with precision I envied — no wasted motion, every note deliberate, every breath controlled. The diamond necklace sparkled against her skin, and for one dangerous second I remembered how that same necklace had looked in the dim light of my safehouse last night when she’d stepped close enough for me to feel her warmth.
I shoved the memory down hard. This was work. Not whatever twisted thing had always simmered between us.
The Syndicate middleman in the charcoal suit shifted again, checking his watch, thumb brushing the encrypted fob like a talisman. He was sweating now. Good.
“Target’s getting twitchy,” I muttered. “I could end this in thirty seconds. Walk over, charm him, relieve him of the fob, be back before the next hand.”
“No.” Her voice was steel wrapped in velvet, still singing the chorus without missing a beat. “We need the full manifest, not one page. Observe. Catalogue. We extract later, cleanly.”
I felt the old familiar burn crawl up my spine — the same burn that had made me walk away from Bruce’s rules years ago. The no-kill rule. The endless waiting. The lectures about justice versus vengeance while the Joker laughed in my head on repeat.
“Cleanly,” I echoed, voice dripping acid. “Like Prague, when you waited so long the asset nearly bled out before you decided intervention was acceptable? I remember that one, princess. I remember carrying him three blocks with a bullet in my shoulder because you wouldn’t let me put a round in the shooter’s knee when I had the shot.”
Silence on the line for three full heartbeats. Then her voice, quieter now, edged with something that might have been regret if she ever allowed herself that luxury.
“That asset lived because I waited. Your way would have started a war in the streets.”
“My way works.”
“Your way leaves bodies.”
I laughed under my breath, the sound rough even to my own ears. “Bodies are the point sometimes.”
Across the room her eyes flicked to mine for the briefest moment — brown meeting blue-green across the haze of smoke and crystal. The contact hit like a live wire. I saw the micro-tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened fractionally on the fretboard. She felt it too. The pull. The clash. The thing neither of us would name.
I broke first, turning back to the table and calling another raise with cards that were absolute garbage. The Saudi folded. Another win.
The middleman stood abruptly, smoothing his jacket, fob still clutched in his fist. He was heading toward the private lift that led to the lower auction levels.
“Target moving,” I said, already rising. “I’m following.”
“Jason —”
“Relax. I’ll be a ghost.”
I left the chips where they lay — a calculated loss that would look natural — and moved through the crowd with the easy stride of a man who had nothing to hide and everything to lose. The earpiece stayed silent, but I could feel her watching me, calculating every step.
Halfway to the lift I felt a hand brush my arm — deliberate, precise.
Asha had abandoned the stage mid-song, slipping through the crowd like smoke in a white silk camisole that should have made her stand out but somehow made her disappear instead. She fell into step beside me without looking at me, her guitar left safely backstage.
“Change of plan?” I murmured, not slowing.
“Adaptation,” she corrected, voice low. “He’s heading to the service corridor. We flank him together. You take left, I take right. No shooting unless he draws first.”
I felt my mouth curve into a sharp grin despite myself. “There she is. My favourite control freak.”
Her elbow nudged my ribs — hard enough to remind me she could drop me if she wanted. “And you’re still the reckless idiot who thinks guns solve everything.”
We moved in perfect, unwilling sync toward the corridor, two shadows in a room full of light.
The night was young.
The relic was close.
And for the first time since Bruce had forced our hands, I realised I wasn’t entirely sure which one of us scared me more — the Syndicate, or the woman walking beside me who knew exactly how to break me and put me back together in the same breath.