The room was velvet-dark and hushed like a tomb.
Alina wore no armor. Just a fitted black dress that clung to her curves like a whisper, thigh slit high, no straps, no mercy.
This wasn’t an ambush.
It was a seduction.
A test.
A trap.
Lorelei’s private penthouse in the East District had been rumored to be untouchable. The nerve center of her empire. Alina didn’t care. She walked in like she owned it.
Because tonight?
She did.
Nicholas waited outside. This was her fight.
Her reckoning.
Alina stepped into the gold-lit lounge, heels echoing against marble. Red drapes swayed with the wind from an open balcony. Wine sat half-poured.
And Lorelei?
Seated, legs crossed, cigarette burning between two fingers like the serpent she was.
“You look like hell,” Lorelei said, exhaling smoke.
