Three Days Later
Daphne stood at the National Gallery.
Hair pinned in soft curls, her green eyes masked behind a veil of dark lashes. Her floor-length black gown hugged her in all the right places, a masterpiece of elegance and misdirection. No one would look at her and think killer.
But the blade hidden in her thigh holster didn’t care what they thought.
She moved through the crowd, champagne flute in hand, like she belonged. Every sense was alert. Her target, Viktor Petrov, hadn’t arrived yet. She had time to prepare. Time to breathe.
She had mapped the exits. Clocked the guards. Noted the cameras disguised as ornamental fixtures. All the little details that would save her life if things went sideways and they always did.
Daphne sipped her champagne, lips barely brushing the rim. H
