Shadows of Loyalty

Chapter 32

Quinn adjusted his cuffs and slipped effortlessly into character as he approached the man in the gray suit with the black-and-gold mask.

Dominic Virelli.

Arms dealer. Italian aristocrat. Charming, confident, dangerously persuasive.

Beck turned as Quinn arrived, his eyes sharp and guarded behind the ornate mask.

“Mr. Virelli,” Beck said with a slight smirk, offering his hand. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

Quinn took it with a firm shake, lips curving into a slow smile. “Then I hope you’ve only heard the good parts, Marcel Beck.”

The Italian accent slid from his tongue like warm oil — smooth, seductive, with just enough grit to make it believable.

Beck chuckled, motioning to a servant for another glass of champagne. “You know what they say — the more interesting the man, the worse the stories. But I’ve been told you might be… useful to certain parties.”

Quinn tilted his head. “Only to the right ones.”

They bantered like old acquaintances fencing with hidden blades. Beck probed for information. Quinn gave him half-truths, careful hints, enough to keep Beck intrigued but not suspicious. He leaned into the Virelli persona — boastful yet controlled, intelligent yet relaxed, the kind of man people wanted to trust and feared not to.

But even as he played the part flawlessly, his eyes drifted.

Scanning. Searching.

Still no Sasha.

Beck lifted his glass. “I must say, your timing tonight was impeccable. That dance — my god. You and that woman… what was her name?”

Quinn’s jaw tensed slightly. “Florence LeBlanc,” he said smoothly. “A friend. Of sorts.”

Beck gave him a look that said you lucky bastard.

Then—

“Pardon!” came a soft voice behind them.

Both men turned.

And there she was.

Sasha — Florence — had stumbled into their small circle, her hand on her chest in an apologetic gesture, the other clutching a small glass of wine.

“I’m so sorry,” she said in her delicate French accent, eyes wide with innocence. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was looking for the powder room again — these halls, they twist like a maze.”

Beck’s expression changed instantly, his entire focus now on her. “Mademoiselle LeBlanc,” he said smoothly, the name tasting luxurious in his mouth. “I must say, your performance on the dance floor was… breathtaking.”

Quinn couldn’t speak.

His eyes were locked on her — the way she stood, the subtle hesitance behind her smile, the way her eyes flicked to his and lingered just a moment too long.

She wasn’t just in character.

She was hurting.

Beck took a step forward, gently taking her hand and brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

Quinn’s breath caught in his throat.

Sasha smiled — but not her usual sly, confident smile. It was small. Soft. Almost apologetic.

“Of course,” she replied, her voice light but her eyes unreadable.

Beck offered his arm, which she took with a graceful hand. As they turned toward the dance floor, Beck’s hand found her lower back… then slowly drifted lower, his fingers pressing just below her waist in a way that was too familiar, too presumptuous.

Something snapped in Quinn’s chest.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. He kept his face neutral, but the burn of jealousy surged through him like a lit fuse. Beck’s hand wasn’t just on a colleague. It was on her. And she let him.

She had to.

He watched them walk away, Beck whispering something that made Sasha fake a light laugh.

But then — she glanced back.

Over her shoulder. Past the chandeliers and the music. Past the crowd and the pretense.

She looked at Quinn.

And what he saw in her eyes was not seduction. Not confidence.

It was sympathy.

A look that said, I wish this were different.

A look that said, I don’t want to do this.

A look that whispered the words she could never say aloud:

I wanted it to be you.

Quinn swallowed hard, his chest tightening.

She didn’t want Beck.

She wanted him.

And now she had to go pretend.

While he stood here — helpless.

The moment Sasha and Beck reached the center of the ballroom, the music shifted to something slower. Rich with violin and piano. Soft but intimate.

Beck placed his hand firmly on her waist, the other wrapping around her hand. She allowed herself to be pulled into the rhythm, matching his steps flawlessly.

But inside, Sasha wasn’t dancing.

She was calculating.

Each pivot, each graceful turn, she used to let her hands subtly explore his jacket, brushing down his side beneath the pretense of flirtation. Her fingers glided lightly across his chest, over his ribs, around the back of his waistband.

Nothing.

No device. No outline of a hard drive. No pocket bulk. Nothing concealed beneath his suit.

Her stomach knotted. He didn’t have the list on him. It had to be somewhere else. Somewhere nearby.

Beck leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.

“You move like a dream,” he murmured, his lips grazing the edge of her lobe. “I have a private suite reserved upstairs. If you’d like to escape all this noise…”

His hand drifted slightly lower, pressing possessively at the small of her back.

Sasha’s jaw tightened behind her smile. She wanted to recoil — to twist his wrist, snap his nose bone, rip away from him and run straight back to the one man who could actually make her feel something.

But she didn’t.

Because if the list wasn’t on him… it had to be in that room.

So she tilted her head, just enough to let her lips brush his cheek and whispered in her French accent, “You are very forward, Monsieur Beck.”

He grinned, clearly taking it as a yes.

Across the room, Quinn stood like stone.

He watched as Beck’s hand roamed where it didn’t belong, fingers grazing over Sasha’s lower back again — and this time, she didn’t move away.

Quinn’s jaw locked, his throat dry.

The sight of her dancing with Beck — elegant, radiant, pretending — twisted a white-hot blade in his chest. Every inch of her body pressed against a man who didn’t deserve to touch her. A man who saw only the surface, who would never know the pain she carried, the ghosts she buried.

A man who didn’t know her laugh.

Her scars.

The way her voice cracked when she was angry, or the storm behind her eyes when she was silent.

She was dancing with him, yes.

But it wasn’t her out there.

It was the mask.

The same mask she wore for everyone else.

Not the Sasha who faced bullets without flinching.

Not the Sasha who let him hold her in the dark when no one else was watching.

Not the woman who stood in the kitchen barefoot, half-awake, mumbling about coffee.

And still—he couldn’t stop watching.

Every time Beck touched her, Quinn's pulse screamed.

Every time she smiled, it cut deeper.

But then — for a fraction of a second — their eyes met across the room.

Beck didn’t notice.

But Quinn did.

And so did she.

Behind her mask, behind the act, behind the fake laughter and graceful spins…

Sasha’s eyes said it all.

I hate this.

I don’t want to be here.

I wish it were you.

Then she looked away. And Quinn felt something inside him crumble.

Beck’s hand never left the small of Sasha’s back as he led her away from the dance floor. His smile was smug, like a man who’d already won. Sasha kept her expression coy, her eyes half-lidded, lips curled in flirtation—but inside, her nerves were wound tight, her mind moving faster than her feet.

They passed through the crowd like royalty, and the path cleared naturally for them, people sensing the money, the influence. A powerful man with a beautiful woman. No one looked twice. No one questioned it.

At the edge of the ballroom, Beck leaned close and whispered something in her ear that made her skin crawl. Then he pressed a keycard into the security panel and a nearby elevator door slid open with a soft chime. Sasha gave one last look back over her shoulder.

Quinn was still watching.

She didn’t smirk. Didn’t wink. Didn’t tease.

This time, her eyes simply said: I’m sorry.

The doors closed between them.

Quinn’s jaw flexed so hard he thought his teeth might crack.

He gripped the edge of the bar, knuckles white, glass still half-full in his hand. The ice clinked against the rim from the tremor in his grip.

Then came Gary.

The poor bastard didn’t know he’d just lit the match.

Gary, cheeks flushed from a few too many celebratory drinks, swaggered up beside him and took a long swig of champagne.

“Damn,” he muttered, watching the elevator close. “Somebody’s gettin’ lucky tonight.”

Crack.

Quinn slammed his glass down so hard it fractured, shards spider-webbing from the base. Liquid bled across the counter. His breathing was shallow, chest tight with fury he couldn’t place — or rather, didn’t want to admit.

Gary blinked. “Whoa, man—easy. I was just—”

Quinn didn’t answer. He shoved off the bar and stormed away, each step a beat in the war drum pounding in his chest.

He couldn’t watch this.

He couldn’t feel this.

What the hell was happening to him?

He turned a corner too fast, shoulders tight, vision tunneling—

And slammed straight into someone.

“Careful,” came a voice. Smooth. Icy. Familiar.

Quinn’s breath caught in his chest.

It was Alicia.

Her eyes locked with his instantly. The mask couldn’t hide the surprise flickering in her face. Or the sudden tension that coiled between them like a live wire.

Neither of them spoke.

Not yet.

But the air thickened with something dangerous.

And unfinished.