Page 82 of Damián

“You take that back, Knox, or I swear you’ll never eat my mother’s tostones ever again.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me.”

“Fine, you monster. The man you don’t care about but are dying to get a text from because of ‘the mission’ isn’t bored with you. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

Knox shifts his weight, catches my arm, ducks his shoulder into my chest, and flips me straight over his back. I slam into the mat with the most painful landing ever.

The ceiling lights spin above me as I lie there, groaning, entirely defeated in more ways than one.

“And that,” Knox says cheerfully, looking down at me, “is what happens when you fight with your feelings instead of your head.”

He untapes his hands and walks away, leaving me flat on the floor, annoyed, sore, and overthinking everything he said.

BZZT. BZZT.

My phone vibrates in my gym bag nearby. I sit up slowly, wincing at the dull ache in my ribs, and pull the phone out.

My heart stops. It’s a text from Oliver.

OLIVER: Come to the house. Serena says we have bathing suits here.

I read it once, then twice, then five times.

Oh shit…

Why does Serena know about me?

And why am I being invited to the main estate?

Going into Elijah’s main home without an extraction plan, without backup, and without a weapon is literally the worst idea in the history of undercover.

It violates every single protocol I have ever been taught at the CIA and during my years at Harknett.

And like me, I’m pretty sure Oliver knows the only answer to this text is “no.”

I should text back with a polite excuse, something like I’m sorry I can’t go, that I got called to appraise a sculpture, or tell him that a client needs me to find the art for the lobby of their hotel.

I should definitely come up with an excuse of why I can’t go.

I mean, that is the smartest thing to do. I should talk this over with the Harknetts and then get back to Oliver with a more appropriate date when we can meet at his house while ensuring everything goes well.

Yes… I should.

…But fuck it.

I type out my reply, grab my gym bag, and head for the showers.

DAMIÁN: See you in fifteen.

After passing through the gates of the West Manhattan mansion, I pull into a huge circular driveway and park Chiquita next to a row full of six-figure cars. I swing my leg over the seat, pull off my helmet, and run a hand through my messy hair.

I pat the gas tank of my bike.

“Behave yourself, Chiquita,” I whisper. “Don’t go flirting with any of these cars; they look flashy, but you have no idea what they could be carrying.”