Chapter 108

Chapter 108

Later, as the sun dipped behind the villa, he wouldn’t remember much.

Just that the wine had been strong.

The women mysterious.

And his credit card was missing.

He’d discover the stolen USB drive days later. Maybe even the note hidden inside the vintage crate labeled For Future Ruin.

It read:

"Cheers, darling. We came. We sipped. We sabotaged. —XOXO, The Brunch Btches."

Dessert, Detonators, and the Delight of a Well-Timed Kick

The vineyard dinner was the kind of event designed for magazine covers and criminal entrapment.

Fairy lights draped over olive trees. A private chef flown in from Milan. A menu that used words like “deconstructed,” “infused,” and “suspicious.” We were seated at a long, rustic-luxury table that screamed rustic poor, luxury assassin. And at the head of it all sat Santiago McCray, swirling red wine with a wolf’s grin.

I wore black silk and a necklace that doubled as a garrote. Mylene was in sequined burgundy and heels that could pierce a windshield. Jhing Jhing had on a white jumpsuit with “unbothered but packing” energy and lip gloss that glittered like a threat.

Joe was thirty yards away in the hills, in tactical gear and a bad mood.

“Do not engage,” I whispered into my comm.

Joe: “I’m just watching.”

Pause.

“Also judging the risotto plating.”

Santiago stood to toast.

“To new alliances, beautiful guests, and unforgettable endings.”

“Unforgettable?” I said with a slow blink. “Sounds ominous. You hiding poison under the panna cotta?”

He laughed. “Only charm.”

I leaned forward, flashing a slow smile. “Good. Because I brought my own poison.”

He didn’t know how to read that. Which was fair—most men didn’t expect a mother of three to know 23 ways to break a trachea with a breadstick.

Then came dessert.

The cart rolled in like a promise.

Creme brûlée, chocolate tart, affogato—and underneath it?

C4.

Tucked inside a hollow compartment, courtesy of Jhing Jhing’s “contacts” in catering and chaos.

Santiago stood, swirling more wine. “Catherine, walk with me.”

I did. Slower than usual. Controlled. My heels clicking like countdowns. His guards subtly repositioned. Idiots. We’d already mapped their blind spots.

We walked to a candlelit archway just outside the vineyard villa.

Santiago turned. “You’ve been playing a game, haven’t you?”

“Guilty.”

He stepped closer. “I don’t mind a little danger.”

I let him get just close enough to think he had me.

Then I kicked him in the balls.

Hard.

Precise.

Cathartic.

He dropped like an outdated bank account.

“Oh dear,” I said, crouching beside him, deadpan. “Did your masculinity fall out of your pocket again?”

A gun clicked behind me.

I didn’t flinch.

Because Joe was already behind him.

Two clean shots. Two unconscious guards.

“Backup plan,” Joe said, not even smug. “You’re welcome.”

I patted Santiago’s cheek. “This is for Tuscany. For the sesame. For the patriarchy. Also, your wine sucks.”

Mylene and Jhing Jhing casually walked in, wine glasses in hand.

Jhing: “Is he napping? Cute.”

Mylene: “I say we burn the villa. For ambiance.”

I handed Joe the detonator from my clutch.

“Light it up,” I said.

Moments later, the villa exploded behind us.

Fire licked the stars.

Grapes turned to ash.

Santiago’s empire crumbled like an overbaked soufflé.

We didn’t look back.

We walked in slow motion, wind in our hair, revenge in our blood, and dessert still in our teeth.

Jhing Jhing raised her glass. “To brunch. To bombs. And to btches who don’t wait for permission.”

Mylene: “Next stop?”

Me: “Venice.”

Joe groaned. “I hate gondolas.”

I smiled. “Good. That means you’re driving.”

Welcome to Venice—where the water whispered secrets, the moon wore pearls, and the masquerade ball glittered like a bribe wrapped in silk.

The invitation was delivered in black wax, sealed with a serpent swallowing its own tail.

A masquerade.

Of course.

Because nothing screams "welcome to my black market underworld" like brocade masks, stolen art, and a string quartet playing Vivaldi while someone buys a nuke in the balcony.

And tonight?

Joe was Santiago McCray.

Hair slicked back. Beard perfectly trimmed. A golden mask molded like sin. And a tuxedo sharp enough to assassinate egos.

"How do I look?" he asked, adjusting his cufflinks that, yes, hid retractable garrote wire.

"Like a rich bastard with too many offshore accounts and not enough guilt," I purred, smoothing the slit in my velvet gown and adjusting my feathered mask. "Perfect."

Mylene strutted behind me in blood-red silk, twin daggers strapped to her thighs, disguised as garters. “Don’t talk to me unless your name ends in diamonds or danger.”

Jhing Jhing was already halfway to the bar, blowing kisses and memorizing faces.

Tonight, we were Joe’s hired bodyguards. Silent. Deadly. Dangerous.

And very, very overdressed.

Inside the ballroom—gold chandeliers, foreign dignitaries, and enough smuggled weapons to start a small revolution.

Our job?

Walk the perimeter. Play the part. And while Joe negotiated a fake weapons deal as Santiago, we were to gather names, evidence, and the location of Santiago’s next major shipment.

Simple.

Until—

“Darling,” purred a voice behind us, silkier than satin and twice as smug.

The real Santiago.

We turned. He was leaning casually against a marble pillar, wearing a silver mask, a champagne glass, and a look that said: I’m either flattered or five seconds from murder.

“Did you think I wouldn’t attend my own party?”

Joe blinked once. Then smiled slowly. “Of course not. I just figured I’d beat you to it. And your money.”

A beat.

Then Santiago… laughed.

Full-bodied. Wicked. Impressed.

“I like you,” he said. “You’ve got balls impersonating me in front of a Croatian arms dealer and half of Interpol.”

“I moisturize,” Joe deadpanned.

I stepped forward, eyes scanning for exits, hands hovering near the blade hidden in my clutch. “Play nice, boys. Or I’m flipping this party faster than a tax audit.”

Santiago lifted his glass in salute. “Let’s make this interesting, shall we? A wager. If you can survive the night without getting caught… you can keep your little act.”

“And if we don’t?” Mylene asked, arching a brow.

He grinned. “Well… Venice is famous for its watery graves.”

We danced.

We mingled.

We flirted with assassins and bribed sommeliers.

And behind every mask, a secret unraveled.

By midnight, we had files, intel, and a sapphire brooch with a microdrive full of Santiago’s contacts.

At 2 a.m., we leapt off the back balcony into a gondola that may or may not have belonged to a retired smuggler named Luigi.

And by sunrise?

We were back in our safehouse, drinking espresso, counting bruises, and laughing like maniacs.

Joe raised his cup. “To pretending.”

I smirked. “To surviving.”

Mylene groaned. “To shoes that weren’t made for sprinting through an 18th-century palazzo!”

Jhing Jhing twirled. “To Venice, baby. Where the men are dangerous, the masks are glittery, and we still look fabulous running from international war crimes.”