Chapter 1 - The Anatomy of a Betrayal
The matte-black disc sat on the polished mahogany table like a dead tick. Its military-grade casing was stamped with a microscopic serial number that only an eye trained in industrial espionage—or high-end tailoring under surveillance—would recognize.
In the high-stakes underworld of Manhattan’s elite, clothing wasn't just fabric; it was armor, status, and sometimes, a death sentence.
Luca Moretti didn't touch the tracker. He didn't have to. His eyes, dark and flat as obsidian, drifted slowly from the small piece of tactical hardware up to the face of Bastion Vera.
Bastion, the legendary designer whose name was synonymous with billion-dollar fashion houses, looked like he had just swallowed a handful of glass. Sweat carved pale tracks through his expertly applied bronzer, soaking into the collar of his custom silk shirt.
“Bastion,” Luca said. The single word carried the weight of an avalanche.
“Mr. Moretti—Luca—I swear to you on my mother’s grave,” Bastion stammered, his hands fluttering in front of him like panicked birds. “I designed every stitch of that garment! The atelier in Milan assembled it under lock and key! We check every yard of wool for RFID chips, for wiretaps, for anything! This... this wasn’t us!”
“Then how did it get inside the lining of a sleeve that only three people in this room have touched?” Luca’s voice didn't rise. It remained dangerously, glacially smooth.
Vivien Cross stepped in, her designer heels clicking sharply against the floor as she rushed to Bastion’s defense. Her diamond necklace caught the penthouse lights, flashing with cold brilliance.
“Luca, this is absurd!” Vivien protested, her tone a masterclass in indignant innocence. She placed a manicured hand heavily on Luca’s arm, though I noticed her fingers were trembling. “You’re letting a nobody—a temporal worker brought in off the street because the regular staff got sick—disrupt our wedding preparations. She probably planted it herself for attention! Or blackmail!”
I didn't flinch. I kept my hands resting on my leather utility belt, right beside my silver shears.
“I’ve been in this room for twenty minutes, Miss Cross,” I said, my voice cutting through her manufactured panic. “And my hands haven’t left my tool belt except to pick up the scissors you told me not to use. Unless I can bend space and time, I didn't plant a military-grade pulse tracker inside a closed seam.”
Vivien’s face flushed a violent, mottled crimson. “You insolent little—!”
“Quiet, Vivien,” Luca ordered.
It wasn't a shout. It was an absolute command. Vivien snapped her mouth shut, though her chest heaved beneath her silk blouse.
Luca turned his attention back to me. The intensity of his gaze felt like a physical weight, pressing me against the fitting table. At forty-three, he was a man who owned half the commercial real estate in Manhattan and control over the rest through fear alone. People didn't talk back to Luca Moretti. They survived him or they disappeared.
“You said, ‘There may be more,’” Luca recalled, his voice dropping an octave. “Explain that.”
I stepped closer to the custom suit draped over the table. With the tip of my silver scissors, I pointed to the heavy shoulder padding.
“A pulse tracker near the wrist is for proximity tracking. It tells someone exactly where you are within a fifty-foot radius—good for an extraction team, or a sniper waiting outside the venue,” I explained, my tone clinical and detached. “But a suit like this doesn't just have one secret pocket. High-end bespoke tailoring uses structural reinforcement. If someone wanted to listen to every word you say in a closed boardroom or track your vitals during a high-stakes negotiation, they wouldn't just put one bug on your arm.”
Bastion let out a high-pitched, terrified whimper.
May you like
“Where?” Luca asked, his jaw clenching so hard muscles ticked in his cheeks.
“The lapel,” I said. “And the spine.”
