Shadows of Loyalty

Chapter 29

Sasha was already up before the sun had fully claimed the sky. The dull ache across her ribs and spine was constant, but tolerable. She’d felt worse — far worse. A few painkillers, another brutal ice bath, and a wrap of gauze around her waist helped numb the worst of it. Her lungs were still a bit tender, and every deep breath felt like swallowing broken glass, but she wasn’t one to complain. Not out loud, anyway.

She stood barefoot at the edge of the balcony, overlooking the sprawling vineyards behind Calvin’s chateau. A loose hoodie hung over her shoulders, her hair pulled back in a loose messy knot, and a cup of black coffee steamed between her fingers. The morning wind kissed the side of her face, and for once… she allowed herself a moment of peace.

That moment didn’t last long.

Inside, the scent of garlic and eggs wafted through the open French doors. Gary, apron tied crookedly over his t-shirt, was already cooking enough breakfast to feed a battalion. Quinn sat at the wooden island, his eyes still heavy with sleep but fixed on Sasha as she walked in.

“You’re up,” he said, a note of surprise in his voice.

“Unfortunately,” Sasha muttered, easing herself into the chair beside him. She kept her back straight, refusing to let anyone see how much she was still hurting.

“Jesus,” Gary turned from the stove. “You’re like a cockroach. Impossible to kill.”

Sasha raised her cup in mock salute. “That’s what they used to call me in training.”

Gary handed her a plate stacked with eggs, avocado toast, and roasted potatoes. “Breakfast for the unkillable.”

Sasha offered a ghost of a smile. “Thanks.”

They ate quietly for a few minutes, the occasional clink of fork against plate breaking the silence.

Quinn couldn’t stop glancing at her. Watching how she moved, how carefully she avoided twisting her torso. She was trying to hide it, but he could see it — the way her hand trembled slightly when she lifted her fork.

“You sure you should be up?” he asked finally.

Sasha didn’t look at him. “I don’t like staying still. Makes me feel like I’m waiting to die.”

Gary looked between the two of them, then shook his head. “She’s got the emotional range of a landmine.”

Just then, Calvin strolled into the kitchen, crisp as ever in his tailored slacks and navy shirt. He didn’t greet them right away — just walked to the counter, poured himself a coffee, and turned to face them with that look in his eyes. The one that meant trouble.

“Tell me something,” Calvin said, sipping his drink. “Either of you two know how to dance?”

Quinn and Gary exchanged a confused look.

“I mean… I dance fine,” Gary said cautiously. “At weddings. Drunk.”

Quinn tilted his head. “Yeah? Why?”

“Because in two days, we’re going to a ball.” Calvin leaned against the counter. “Paris. And you’ll both need to be able to blend in. Preferably without embarrassing me.”

Sasha narrowed her eyes. “Define ‘ball.’”

Calvin grinned. “A very expensive, very exclusive masquerade hosted by one of Europe’s most elite financial circles. The kind of party where billionaires discuss arms deals over champagne. And one of those billionaires — a former Swiss intelligence officer — is carrying the last piece of the list.”

“The list?” Quinn asked, setting down his fork.

“The Hand of Justice’s master list,” Calvin said. “The one that documents every corrupt official, operation, and asset laundering scandal tied to the old administration. It’s the last part they need before they can go public. Which means…”

“Ryan and Alicia will be there,” Sasha finished, her expression darkening.

“Exactly.” Calvin pointed at her with his coffee. “They’ll come after it. Probably by seducing it out of him. Or stabbing him in the heart and taking it. Either way, we need to get to him first.”

Gary leaned back in his chair. “So what? We just waltz in, grab the list, and waltz out?”

Calvin chuckled. “Oh, you’ll be doing a lot more than waltzing, sweetheart. You’ll need new identities, proper attire, invitations, and cover stories. You’ll need to know who to charm and who to avoid. This isn’t just infiltration — it’s theater.”

Sasha let out a breath. “Then we better start rehearsing.”

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The sun dipped low behind the Paris skyline, bathing the city in hues of soft gold and blushing rose. The chateau had transformed into a frenzy of movement — tailors finishing the last stitches, agents passing off encrypted messages, and Calvin barking final instructions like a conductor directing his orchestra before the curtain rose.

The main hall echoed with the sound of polished shoes across marble as Quinn descended the staircase, fastening the last button of his dark charcoal tuxedo. The suit hugged his frame perfectly, tailored to show the hard lines of his shoulders and the lean strength beneath. His tie was black silk, sharp and crisp, and a silver watch glinted on his wrist. His hair was neatly combed back, revealing the chiseled edge of his jaw, freshly shaved. He looked every bit the part — dashing, dangerous, and undeniably captivating.

Gary waited near the foyer mirror, fiddling with his cuff. His tux wasn’t as elegant — more off-the-rack than custom — but he cleaned up surprisingly well. He muttered under his breath as he tried to fix his bowtie, ultimately groaning and yanking it loose.

“Can’t believe I’m going to a billionaire masquerade dressed like a damn penguin,” he grumbled. “I was gonna wear my vintage Nirvana tee.”

“You look fine,” Quinn said without looking. “Not like anyone’s gonna be checking for concert merch.”

“I just better not have to dance.”

“You will,” came Calvin’s voice from the hall.

The older man strolled in, adjusting his onyx cufflinks as he walked. His navy tuxedo was clearly expensive, subtly patterned and paired with a rich black mask resting in his hand. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, like a gentleman from a different era. He looked more like a prince than an ex-operative.

Quinn looked around. “Where’s Sasha?”

Calvin smirked faintly as he fastened the final button of his jacket. “She’ll meet us there. You know women — fashionably late and all that.”

Quinn frowned slightly but said nothing.

A black limo pulled up to the drive, its sleek frame gleaming beneath the chateau’s exterior lights. The driver opened the rear doors, and the three men stepped inside. Leather seats, dark-tinted windows, and the subtle scent of expensive cologne filled the space.

Calvin opened a small metal briefcase resting on the seat beside him.

“Your covers,” he said, handing out the false IDs. “Quinn, tonight you’re Dominic Virelli — an Italian venture capitalist with ties to rare art. Gary, you’re his assistant, Marcus Hale. And I’ll be posing as Serge Renoux, your financial adviser.”

He handed them each a thin card — a high-resolution photo of a man in his late fifties with deep-set eyes, slicked-back silver hair, and a slim scar beneath his left eye.

“This is our target. Name’s Marcel Beck, Former Swiss intelligence — now working as a neutral broker for high-level data trades. Think of him as the black-market librarian for European secrets.”

Quinn studied the photo. “He’s carrying the last part of the list?”

“That’s the intel. A physical drive, likely encoded with biometric security. He’s been keeping it close, probably in a secure pocket or under his suit. If Ryan and Alicia are there, they’ll be going for it too.”

Gary leaned back in his seat. “So what’s the plan? Just… find him, sweet-talk him, and walk out with the drive?”

Calvin laughed softly. “If only it were that easy. No, we observe first. Beck’s a paranoid bastard — he’s not handing that drive to anyone without feeling them out first. We’ll need charm, subtlety… and if it comes to it, leverage.”

Quinn’s eyes lingered on the photo, jaw tightening. His thoughts drifted for a moment — not to the mission, but to Sasha. He could still remember the way her body had felt under his arms just days ago, barely breathing, blood staining his hands. And now she was walking into danger again, alone. It unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

He pocketed the ID. “Let’s just hope we get to him before they do.”

Calvin smirked, sliding his mask over his face. “Gentlemen, welcome to the stage. Let the performance begin.”

The limo sped through the streets of Paris as the lights of the city flickered to life around them. Their destination: Le Palais d’Éclipse — a centuries-old estate turned event venue, where only the wealthiest and most dangerous dared to play.