Cecilia’s pov
The café tucked away in the alley was the kind of place you’d expect to find struggling novelists nursing lukewarm lattes and existential dread.
Exposed brick, mismatched furniture, faint jazz humming through old speakers. It was cozy, low-profile--perfect for staying off the radar.
Too perfect. Like soone designed it to feel non-threatening. That only made more tense.
We’d been waiting forever. Or at least that’s how it felt.
I stirred my third cappuccino, watching the foam collapse in slow motion.
The bitterness barely registered. My nerves had already burned through the caffeine hours ago.
Tang groaned and sprawled across his chair like a bored teenager at Sunday brunch. "Is Evelyn even coming? Or did she ghost us for a hangover nap?"
Sawyer gave him a look that could’ve been filed under "told you so" in a courtroom. "Our lovely informant probably realized she’d rather not get involved in high-level intrigue today. Can we leave now, or are we still pretending this is a good idea?"
I didn’t bother responding. Just kept stirring.
One hand under the table clenched into a fist, knuckles digging into my thigh. I needed them calm. I needed calm.
"She said she’s waiting on a call from her contact," I reminded them, eyes fixed on the café door. "Just give it ti."
They didn’t push. Maybe it was the tone of my voice. Maybe they were just as keyed-up as I was.
Last night’s conversation with Evelyn had made everything snap into place.
This wasn’t just so "regional diplomatic summit" Sebastian was attending.
It was the Moonveil Ascendancy.
Not a corporation. Not even a traditional cri syndicate.
More like a velvet-gloved power network : billionaires, tech moguls, political puppeteers--and the darker fringe types who never made the Forbes list but held just as much power.
It’s made up of private intelligence brokers, cybercriminals, sanctioned hackers, arms dealers.
People who didn’t play by the rules because they wrote their own.
A modern-day Illuminati, minus the theatrics, but with far more teeth.
The na had hit like a thunderbolt.
I’d heard it before--overheard it, actually--when Cassian was speaking to Sebastian.
They’d ntioned Maggie Locke.
Suddenly, everything made sense. This wasn’t diplomacy. This was infiltration.
And if Maggie Locke was involved, it wasn’t just dangerous--it was personal.
She hadn’t just orchestrated Cici’s escape.
She’d deliberately drawn into her ga at that masquerade ball. I wasn’t just collateral.
I was a target.
And Sebastian? He was walking straight into it. Blindfolded, trusting the wrong people, thinking he had control.
I stared down at the rim of my empty cup, the ghost of foam clinging to the porcelain like it had sothing left to say.
If he thought I was going to sit this one out, he didn’t know at all.
We waited through lunch.
Then through afternoon coffee.
The sun crawled across the window, throwing long shadows across our table like clock hands running out of ti.
The table filled with empty cups and crumpled napkins like the aftermath of a failed stakeout.
Nobody talked much after that. Even Tang had gone quiet, chewing on a straw like it owed him money.
The sunlight had faded into thick, gray overcast, and the vintage streetlamps lining the alley flickered on, casting everything in a warm amber hue that made the café windows glow like a scene from a European indie film.
That’s when the car finally pulled up.
The tinted passenger window rolled down, revealing Evelyn in oversized sunglasses and a smile that looked like it belonged in a luxury watch comrcial.
"Hop in!" she called, cheerful like we were heading to brunch instead of breaking into a secret society’s etup.
The doors unlocked with that signature, muffled thunk only high-end cars have.
Tang and Sawyer took the middle row. I slid in beside Evelyn in the back.
The doors sealed shut with that expensive, soundproof thud only luxury cars have.
Our drivers--two n in matching black suits and mirrored sunglasses--looked like they’d been plucked straight from a spy thriller.
With their stiff postures and zero expression, they could’ve been governnt-issue mannequins.
I shifted in my seat, trying not to laugh. Seriously? Sunglasses at dusk? What’s next, codenas and encrypted comms? Maybe a briefing folder marked "Top Secret"?
Sawyer kept sneaking uneasy glances between our CIA cosplay chauffeurs and the quickly fading daylight.
His fingers tapped restlessly against his knee, eyes darting like he was waiting for hidden caras to drop from the ceiling.
Tang, being completely Tang, leaned forward and clapped one of them on the shoulder like they were old friends tailgating before a football ga.
"Hey, buddy. Quick question--where exactly are we headed?" His voice was light, but there was sothing sharp underneath.
The agent turned slowly, his mirrored lenses reflecting Tang’s face like a poker table bluff. The temperature in the SUV seed to drop five degrees.
Tang didn’t flinch. His expression hardened.
The agent hesitated. "We’re following protocol. Your cooperation is expected."
Tang’s hand didn’t move from the man’s shoulder. "I didn’t ask for protocol. I asked for a destination. Try again."
His fingers dug in. The agent winced.
"Sir, please release him," the driver snapped.
"Not until soone gives an actual answer."
"If this continues, we’ll be forced to remove you from the vehicle."
Tang’s voice dropped lower. His eyes glead with sothing dark.
"You’re welco to try. Just make sure your dental insurance’s up to date."
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was loaded.
Tension stretched tight across the car, vibrating like a held breath. One wrong move, and it would snap.
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