Chapter 210
Raven
The day had finally arrived.
I stood on the deck of The Acheron—a superyacht so obscenely massive it made Titanic look like a bathtub toy—and adjusted the diamond choker that wasn't mine. The face reflected in the polished brass railing wasn't mine either.
Marianne Goodman stared back at me. Forty-six years old, Botox-perfect, with that specific brand of cruelty that came from decades of getting everything she wanted.
God, I hate her face.
Next to me, Nash—no, Anthony—was doing his best impression of a man who'd built his fortune on the backs of exploited labor and had zero regrets about it. The nano-fiber mask made him look exactly like the real Anthony Goodman: jowly, red-faced, with the kind of smug expression that made you want to punch him on principle.
He'd even nailed the walk. That bowlegged swagger of a man who thought his money could buy him out of any consequence.
Method acting my ass. He's enjoying this too much.
"Marianne, darling," Nash rumbled in Anthony's gravelly baritone, his hand finding the small of my back with possessive pressure. "Try to look less like you want to murder everyone. We're here to make friends."
I plastered on Marianne's signature smile—the one that said I'm better than you and we both know it—and leaned into him with practiced ease. "Of course, sweetheart. Though if Chandler serves me another glass of that pedestrian Cristal, I might reconsider."
His fingers tightened briefly. Warning. Stay in character.
Two crew members in crisp white uniforms materialized before us, their deference so perfectly choreographed it had to be rehearsed.
"Mr. and Mrs. Goodman," the taller one said, bowing slightly. "Mr. Kovacs has been expecting you. If you'll follow us to the main salon?"
"Lead the way," Nash commanded, his tone dripping with the casual arrogance of someone who'd never been told 'no' in his life.
We swept through the yacht's interior like royalty inspecting conquered territory. Everything screamed obscene wealth—Carrara marble floors, Swarovski crystal chandeliers, original Rothkos on the walls that were probably stolen. The kind of place where human trafficking profits got laundered into "legitimate business ventures."
And here we are, walking straight into the belly of the beast.
The crew practically tripped over themselves opening doors for us. I caught one of them eyeing my emerald earrings—each one worth more than his annual salary—and I made sure to look right through him like he was furniture.
Marianne would never acknowledge the help.
We entered the main salon, and I had to suppress the urge to whistle. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Mediterranean, the afternoon sun turning the water into liquid gold. Leather seating that probably cost more than a house. A bar that could stock a small hotel.
And filling the room with cigar smoke and the stench of corruption: the shareholders.
"Anthony! Marianne!"
Chandler Kovacs himself came forward, arms spread wide. Mid-fifties, Hungarian accent, with the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. CEO of Helix BioGen and—according to Finn's intelligence—a man who'd personally overseen "drug trials" in three different black site prisons.
I'm going to enjoy destroying you.
"Chandler!" Nash boomed, gripping Chandler's hand and pulling him into one of those aggressive bro-hugs that were really dominance displays. "Good to see you, you magnificent bastard. When you said 'international waters,' I thought you meant a fishing boat. This—" he gestured expansively, "—this is how you do business!"
Chandler laughed, the sound oily. "Only the best for our most important investors. Marianne—" he took my hand, kissing it with European flourish that made my skin crawl, "—radiant as always."
"Chandler, darling," I purred, retrieving my hand and immediately wiping it on my dress in a gesture Marianne would call 'casual' but that I hoped conveyed my disgust. "You know how to make a girl feel special. Though I do hope the entertainment tonight is more... stimulating than last time. That opera singer you hired in Monaco was dreadfully off-key."
His smile tightened. Good. Marianne was a bitch who kept people off-balance.
"I assure you, tonight's presentation will exceed all expectations." He guided us deeper into the room. "Come, let me introduce you to the others."
The next twenty minutes were a masterclass in playing reprehensant humans.
There was Dmitri Volkov—no relation to the Volkovs I'd dismantled in LA, just another Russian oligarch with blood money—who spent five minutes bragging about his "private security contracts" in Syria. Translation: he ran a mercenary company that made Blackwater look ethical.
Chen Wei, a pharmaceutical executive from Hong Kong, who casually mentioned how Synthesis-47 had "solved the labor unrest problem" in his factories. Which meant drugging workers into compliance.
And Maria Santos, a prison privatization mogul from Brazil, who actually had the audacity to call herself a "humanitarian" while discussing profit margins per inmate.
These people made my old life look noble.
I played Marianne perfectly—laughing at their jokes, agreeing with their horrifying worldviews, my hand possessively gripping Nash's arm. He was doing his part too, Anthony's bombastic personality filling every silence with crude jokes and aggressive posturing.
But underneath the performance, my mind was cataloging. Exits. Security positions. The slight bulge under Chen Wei's jacket that suggested a ankle holster. The way Santos kept glancing at the door like she expected trouble.
Good. You should be nervous.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Chandler called out, moving to the front of the room where a massive screen had been set up. "If you'll take your seats, I believe it's time for the main event."
Nash and I settled into a leather sofa, his arm draped over my shoulders, his thumb tracing circles on my bare skin in a gesture that looked affectionate but was actually morse code: Ready?
I leaned into him, my lips brushing his ear as I whispered, "Try not to enjoy the show too much, darling."
His jaw tightened. The only sign that he'd heard me.
Chandler picked up a remote, his expression shifting from jovial host to corporate predator. "What you're about to see represents three years of research, two billion dollars in development costs, and a breakthrough that will fundamentally reshape how we think about human capital."
The lights dimmed. The screen flickered to life.
And my blood ran cold.