Lyra's POV
V-VIP invitation arrived by drone. Sleek. Black box hovering outside my 40th-floor window. Inside: platinum card, tracking chip (disabled immediately), and a note.
To the Seller of the Widowmaker: We look forward to your presence. Do not disappoint us.
No signature. But the scent of cedar and ozone clung to the paper.
"He knows," I said. Tossing the card onto the kitchen table.
"He suspects," Leo corrected. Pushing his glasses up. Rewiring a miniature EMP device disguised as a Nintendo Switch. "If he knew, he would have sent a tactical team. Not an invite."
"Or he's playing with his food," Cyra chimed in. Currently raiding my makeup bag. Face a canvas of blue eyeshadow and red lipstick. "Can I wear this to the party?"
"No one is going to the party. You three are staying with Mrs. Gable."
"Mrs. Gable smells like mothballs and despair," Aries groaned from the floor. Sit-ups. "And she doesn't have Wi-Fi."
"It's a black market auction, Aries. Not a petting zoo. Criminals. Warlords. Your father."
"Correction," Leo said. Tapping his screen. "According to the security schematics... high-class criminals. Security tight. Bio-scans at every checkpoint. If you go alone, you'll be flagged. Unregistered."
Turned the screen towards me.
"...Family Exemption Clause."
Narrowed my eyes. "Explain."
"Guests bringing minor dependents under six are exempt from retinal scans. Protect the 'privacy of the heirs'. Loophole for rich mafia dads."
Stared at him. "You want me to bring three five-year-olds to a gala hosted by the man who wants to hunt us down?"
"Perfect cover," Cyra said. Applying more lipstick. "Who brings kids to a serious business deal? Clueless mom."
"Trophy wife," Aries added. "No brain."
Looked at them. My genius, dangerous, terrifying children.
Right.
Damon was looking for the "Shadow Lord"—ruthless, solitary assassin. Not a frazzled, tacky, gold-digging mother dragging her spoiled brats.
"Fine," I sighed. "Need a disguise. Good one."
Walked to my closet. Pushed aside tactical gear, trench coats, practical boots. Reached into the back. Garment bag I hadn't touched in years.
"What's that?" Cyra asked. Eyeing the sequins.
"This," I said. Unzipping the bag. Dress equal parts fabric and bad decisions. "Is our armor."
Leopard print gown. Tight. Low-cut. Slit up to my hip. Screamed 'new money'. 'Bad taste'.
"Ew," Aries said.
"Perfect," Cyra grinned.
Two hours later.
Stood in front of the full-length mirror.
Woman staring back wasn't Lyra Vane, Shadow Lord. Wasn't Lyra Vane, quiet neighbor.
Something else.
Hair teased into a massive, spray-stiffened bouffant. Makeup heavy—thick eyeliner, fake lashes like spiders, lips painted a shade of pink that didn't exist in nature. Enough gold jewelry to sink a boat.
"Ridiculous," I muttered.
"Look like you married for money and plan to spend it all in one night," Leo said approvingly. Tiny tuxedo. Sequined bow tie. "Ver convincing."
Cyra in a frilly pink dress. Cupcake explosion. Aries in a matching suit. Looking like he wanted to punch someone.
"Remember the roles," I commanded. Slipping into five-inch heels.
"Spoiled princess," Cyra said. Twirling.
"Brat who breaks things," Aries grunted. "Easy."
"Genius ignored by mother because he's not 'manly'," Leo recited. "Handling tech disruption from the playroom."
"Good." Deep breath. "And me?"
"Bimbo," Cyra said sweetly. "No offense, Mom."
"None taken." Grabbed a clutch purse covered in rhinestones. Inside: Widowmaker, disassembled. Hidden in a hollowed-out compact and lipstick tube.
"Let's go," I said. Striking a pose. Hip and attitude. "Let's go steal from your father."
The Obsidian Gala.
Venue: Sky Garden atop Storm Tower. Glass walls. Floating platforms. View of the city that cost a billion dollars.
Arrived in a rented limousine (white, stretched, tacky). Paparazzi flashing cameras at the entrance.
"Smile, cubs!" Chirped. Stepping out. Waving wildly. "Look rich!"
Swept past the red velvet ropes. Security guard—burly Wolf, scar—stepped forward. Scanner in hand.
"ID."
"Oh, hold on," Giggled. Fumbling with my purse. Dropped my lipstick. "Oopsie!"
Bent down (giving cameras a view they didn't need). Leo activated the jammer in his watch.
Scanner beeped. Error. Family Exemption.
"Ugh, these machines," Complained. Standing up. "My husband said this pass was VIP! Do you know who my husband is? He's... very important! Somewhere!"
Guard looked at me. Leopard print. Hair. Screaming kids (Aries kicking a potted plant). Looked at the scanner.
Sighed.
"Go ahead, Ma'am. Family entrance left."
"Thank you!" Blew him a kiss. "Come along, sweethearts! Mommy needs champagne!"
Walked into the lion's den.
Ballroom filled with elite underworld. Arms dealers in tuxedos. Drug lords in silk. Mercenaries sipping martinis.
Center of it all. Raised platform. Dark god.
Damon Storm.
Devastating.
Black suit. Black shirt. No tie. Top button undone. Tattoo on his throat visible. Presence sucked the air out of the room. Scanning the crowd. Golden eyes sharp. Predatory.
Hunting.
"Looking for the Shadow Lord," Whispered to Cyra. Adjusting fake boob tape. "Looking for danger."
Grabbed a glass of champagne. Let out a loud, shrill laugh.
"Ooh! Is that caviar? Aries, honey, don't eat it with your hands!"
Damon's head snapped towards us.
Gaze landed on me.
Frowned.
Saw the leopard print. Hair. Chaotic children running around his immaculate floor.
Disgust. Pure disgust flickered in his eyes. Dismissed me instantly as 'irrelevant noise'. Looked away. Continuing his scan.
"It worked," Breathed. Heart pounding. "He thinks I'm trash."
"He hates you," Leo whispered. Checking watch. "Success."
"Mommy," Aries tugged my skirt. "Can I push that waiter into the fountain?"
"Not yet, darling," Smiled. Baring teeth. "Wait for the signal."
Phase One: Infiltration. Complete.
Phase Two: The Dance.
Sipped champagne. Vintage Dom Pérignon.
"Enjoy the party, boys," Murmured. "Because tonight, we rob the King."