Chapter 145
Raven
The leather seat beneath me was worth more than most people's monthly rent, but Garrett couldn't stop fidgeting like a kid who'd just gotten away with shoplifting.
"Miss Martinez, I—I can't thank you enough." His hands gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. "I had no idea you were the Phoenix Syndicate's second-in-command. The subtlety, the discretion—it's remarkable, really. Truly remarkable."
If only you knew the half of it.
I wasn't listening. Not really. My fingers traced the edge of a small piece of paper I'd palmed from Warlock's desk—so smoothly he probably thought the breeze had stolen it. The address was scrawled in hasty handwriting: 2847 Mulholland Terrace.
Volkov's address.
My pulse didn't quicken. It never did anymore. But something cold and sharp settled in my chest, the kind of focus that used to precede a kill.
"Mr. Davenport." I glanced up, cutting through his nervous monologue. "Take me to Mulholland Terrace. Drop me near 2847."
"Of course! Of course." He practically tripped over his agreement, already adjusting the GPS. "Anything you need, Miss Martinez. Anything at all."
The city blurred past the tinted windows. Garrett kept talking—something about market shares and shipping routes—but I was already three moves ahead, mentally mapping the terrain, calculating entry points, cataloging potential threats.
The car slowed to a stop two blocks from the address. I reached for the door handle, but Garrett's voice stopped me.
"Miss Martinez?" He turned, his earlier nervousness replaced by something almost... giddy. "The ten million. I've already transferred it to your account. Please, check whenever you're ready."
I paused, one foot already out the door. "That fast? You haven't even earned the money yet."
His laugh was sharp, almost self-deprecating. "I know the rules, Miss Martinez. No delays, no excuses. I'm hoping—" He cleared his throat. "I'm hoping you'll consider me under your... protection. Moving forward."
Everyone wants a shield. No one wants to be one.
I could've said a dozen things. Could've played the power game, made him sweat, extracted more promises. Instead, I just looked at him—really looked at him—and thought about Leo. About the way his father had torn into him at that party, the way Leo had flinched like he was used to it.
"In the future," I said quietly, "pay more attention to Leo."
Garrett blinked. "I—what?"
I shut the door before he could respond.
---
The house at 2847 Mulholland Terrace was... disappointing.
Seriously. I'd expected something dramatic—marble columns, gold-plated gates, maybe a few gargoyles for ambiance. Instead, I got a two-story Spanish revival with peeling stucco and a mailbox that looked like it had survived three earthquakes.
If this is where billionaires hide, I've been doing wealth wrong.
I kept my head down, hands in my jacket pockets, just another pedestrian cutting through the neighborhood. But my eyes were working overtime, cataloging details: the security camera angled too low to catch the roofline, the reinforced doorframe hidden behind decorative trim, the way the windows reflected just a little too perfectly.
Bulletproof glass. Nice.
Two blocks down, I spotted a three-story apartment complex with rusted fire escapes and laundry lines strung between balconies. Perfect.
The climb took thirty seconds. The lock on the rooftop access door took five.
From the roof, I had a clear sightline into 2847's upper windows. I pulled out a compact monocular—Scarlet had called it my "Peeping Tom Special" once, and I'd nearly thrown her off a moving train—and adjusted the focus.
The exterior was a lie.
Inside, the house was a goddamn palace. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, artwork that probably cost more than my entire neighborhood. Servants moved through the rooms like synchronized swimmers, arranging flowers, polishing silver, adjusting place settings with military precision.
A party. They're preparing for a party.
My grin felt sharp enough to cut glass.
I swept the monocular left, tracking movement near what looked like a library. A servant opened a bookcase—because of course it was a hidden door—and descended into darkness. I counted: three more servants followed, each carrying trays of champagne.
Underground. There's a whole network down there.
I shifted angles, checking the foundation. The lawn was too flat, the flowerbeds too symmetrical. Ventilation shafts disguised as garden sculptures. Reinforced basement windows painted to look like decorative stonework.
Escape routes. Plural.
This wasn't just a house. It was a fortress pretending to be a fixer-upper.
And then the guests started arriving.
Black cars, sleek and anonymous, pulling up one by one. The passengers stepped out in designer suits and evening gowns, but every single one wore a mask. Venetian, leather, feathered—some ornate, some minimalist, all expensive.
A masquerade. How delightfully pretentious.
I watched a woman in a crimson gown and a golden phoenix mask glide through the front door. A man in a tailored tuxedo and a silver wolf mask followed. Then another. And another.
What are you hiding, Volkov?
My phone buzzed. I answered without looking. "Scarlet. Please tell me you're still in LA."
Her laugh was warm honey laced with venom. "Raven, darling. Do you have something fun for me? Because I was just getting comfortable with a very talented bartender."
"Define 'fun.'"
"Chaos. Danger. Possibly illegal."
I grinned. "All three. How fast can you get to the gas station on Mulholland and Laurel Canyon?"
"Fifteen minutes if I speed. Ten if I don't care about traffic laws." A pause. "Should I not care about traffic laws?"
"Bring two masks."
"Masks?" I could practically hear her eyebrows rising. "What kind of masks, love?"
"Surprise me."
I hung up before she could ask more questions.
---
Scarlet's car—a jet-black Audi R8 that probably violated at least three international treaties—pulled into the gas station twelve minutes later. She stepped out in a leather jacket and heels that could double as weapons, her red hair catching the neon lights like a warning flare.
She tossed something at my face.
I caught it one-handed. "A bunny?"
It was a white rabbit mask, all soft curves and innocent eyes, with pink-tipped ears and delicate whiskers painted in gold.
Scarlet smirked, sliding on her own mask—a sleek fox design in crimson and black, sharp angles and knowing eyes. "What? You were expecting something darker? Edgier?" She tilted her head, the mask catching the streetlight. "Darling, back in the day, I would've given you a raven skull dripping in blood. But now?" She gestured at me, her grin widening. "Look at you. High school student. Perfect grades. Adorable family dinners. You're basically a Disney character. The bunny fits."
"I hate you."
"You love me."
Debatable.
I yanked the bunny mask on, adjusting the elastic strap. It fit perfectly, because of course Scarlet would know my measurements down to the millimeter. The world narrowed through the eyeholes, sharp and focused.
"Come on." I started walking toward Mulholland Terrace, Scarlet falling into step beside me like we'd done this a thousand times before.
We had.
"So," she said, her voice light and curious beneath the mask. "What kind of party are we crashing?"
"No idea."
She laughed. "You dragged me out here for a party you know nothing about?"
I glanced at her, my grin hidden behind white plastic and painted whiskers. "Well, you asked the wrong person. But don't worry." I gestured ahead, where 2847's lights glowed against the darkening sky. "We'll find out soon enough."