Chapter 32: THE JOKER IN PLAY

The Joker grinned up at us from the desk like it knew something we didn’t. Which, apparently, it did. Steve’s eyes locked on it. Not a flicker. Not even a breath. But I’d been watching him long enough to catch it, the smallest tightening at the corner of his mouth. Barely there, gone before most people would’ve noticed. But I did. And it told me one thing: this one was different.

He picked it up by the edge, holding it like a piece of evidence instead of a playing card.

“Joker,” Dante said from where he stood, arms crossed. “That’s new.”

Steve didn’t answer.

I glanced between them. “Okay. And? What’s the big deal? It’s a card. From a deck. We’ve been getting them like party favors for weeks.”

“This isn’t the same,” Dante said, his tone flat but carrying something underneath. “In coded threats like this, the Joker means you can’t predict the next move. Wild card. Could be anything. Could be nothing. You won’t know until it happens, and by then it’s too late.”

“Fun,” I said, because sarcasm was cheaper than therapy. “So… we’re just supposed to sit here waiting for the mystery piñata to explode?”

Steve set the card back on the desk, face up, the blood smudge catching the light. “No,” he said finally. “We keep moving. And we make sure we’re not the ones being moved.”

I wanted to ask what that meant, but Dante was already pulling a tablet from somewhere inside that jacket of his, fingers flicking over the screen like he was orchestrating a military operation... which, knowing him, he probably was.

“You’ll be with Steve tomorrow,” he said, without looking at me.

“Shocking. And here I thought I’d get a day off to binge old sitcoms and try on impractical shoes.”

“It’s not babysitting,” Dante said. “It’s cover.”

Steve’s gaze flicked to mine. “Charity gala. Manhattan Civic Hall. You’ll stay close, blend in.”

“Blend in?” I repeated. “At a billionaire soirée? Sure. Let me just grab my ball gown and subtle tiara.”

“It’s not a party,” Steve said. “It’s a gathering. People who know things will be there.”

“Right. Because nothing screams ‘safe space for sensitive intel’ like overpriced champagne and a silent auction for a Fabergé egg.”

Dante ignored me. “We’ll have eyes on every entrance, exits covered. Your job is to stick to him.”

I folded my arms. “And when you say ‘stick to him,’ you mean…?”

“Within arm’s reach,” Dante said. “No exceptions.”

“Fantastic,” I muttered. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s accessory.”

The next day came too fast.

I’d barely slept/// too busy running mental laps around the Joker card, the wild card warning, the idea that someone out there was planning something without a clock ticking down this time. Just… open-ended dread.

Dante showed up at the penthouse mid-afternoon with a garment bag and an expression that said don’t argue. Which, naturally, made me want to argue.

“You’re dressing me now?” I asked as he hung it on the back of the bedroom door.

“You want to blend in or not?”

I peeked inside. Floor-length black dress. Sleek. Clean lines. The kind of thing that could pass for both elegant and dangerous depending on the lighting. “This is a lot of fabric for someone whose main skill set is glaring at people,” I said.

“Try it on,” he said, already turning to leave. “Hair up. Minimal jewelry. No weapons where anyone can see them.”

I blinked. “You mean I can bring weapons?”

“Just not where anyone can see them.” And then he was gone.

By the time we pulled up to the Civic Hall, I’d spent a solid twenty minutes practicing the art of not tripping over a skirt while walking in heels. I still wasn’t confident.

Steve was already there, black tux, perfectly cut, tie knotted like he’d personally negotiated with it. He looked like someone who belonged on the cover of a finance magazine under the headline The Man Who Buys Cities.

“You’re late,” he said, even though I knew I wasn’t.

“You’re early,” I shot back.

Dante gave me a look that could have been a warning or just his natural face. “Inside,” he said.

The gala was everything I’d imagined... high ceilings, chandeliers the size of my first apartment, tables covered in white linen and centerpieces that looked too expensive to be alive. Waiters glided past with trays of champagne flutes. A string quartet played something that made me feel like I should apologize for existing in boots last week.

Steve moved through it like he was born here, shaking hands, smiling in that measured way that said I know exactly what you want and I’ll give you just enough to make you think you’re winning.

I stayed close, scanning the crowd the way Dante had drilled into me.

It was easy to forget this was supposed to be about intel. The whole thing felt… too polished. Too insulated. Which, I realized, was the point.

That’s when I saw him.

Over by the far wall, near one of the balcony doors. Dark suit, hair slicked back, posture too stiff to be casual.

I knew that face. Not from here. Not from any polite gathering.

Balcony. Investor meeting. Gun in hand.

One of the attackers.

He was looking right at me.