Chapter 7 The Cover

• The safehouse hums with low voices and old wood creaking as the sun crawls through grimy blinds. The war table’s littered with blueprints, burner phones, half-eaten takeout, and Bishop’s maze of sticky notes that only make sense to him.
• Ellerei stands at the counter, back to the room, bare feet braced on cold tile as she pours hot coffee into the one chipped mug Knox always grabs first. Black, dash of cinnamon, two sugars — muscle memory. She stirs it slow, thumb brushing the rim.
• Behind her, Decker leans against the fridge, arms crossed, watching the plans take shape in Bishop’s sprawl of screens and scrawled code. He doesn’t say much — never does — but the set of his jaw says he’s already weighing the exits, the worst-case, the fallback.
• Knox drifts in late, hair damp from a quick shower that didn’t wash away the sleep dragging at his lashes. Barefoot, sweatpants hanging low, a faded T-shirt he must’ve stolen from Bishop’s laundry pile. He rakes a hand through his hair and zeroes in on her like a moth to flame.
• He grins when he sees the mug. His mug. “You spoil me, Vale.”
• She doesn’t flinch at the name. She just turns, presses the mug into his palm, careful not to linger when his fingers brush hers. Static. Always.
• “You’d starve without me,” she says lightly.
• He chuckles, tips the cup to his lips, and that’s it — the kind of soft moment she hates herself for loving. He doesn’t notice how she watches him sip. How she waits to see the tension slip from his shoulders, the caffeine settle behind his eyes. How she knows exactly when the silence between them stops hurting and starts to ache.
• Bishop clears his throat, drags them all back to business. He taps a finger on the digital floor plan projected onto the wall.
• “Client wants a ledger. Old school — no digital copies. It’s in a private club on the east side. High-rollers, locked doors, no cameras inside the floor show.”
• Ellerei arches a brow. “Floor show?”
• Bishop doesn’t look up. “Strip joint. Fancy one. Invite only.”
• Knox whistles low around the rim of his mug. “That’s classy.”
• Decker just grunts. “Security?”
• “Mobbed up,” Bishop says, eyes flicking to Ellerei’s face just long enough for her to notice. “Mostly muscle. Couple inside guys we can grease if needed.”
• Knox tips back in his chair, boots planted wide on the edge of the table. “So what’s the play, mastermind?”
• Ellerei doesn’t answer right away. She’s staring at the blueprint — the back hall, the VIP rooms, the staff-only door tucked behind the main stage. She’s already pulling threads, knotting them tight behind her teeth.
• She knows how they’ll do it. How she’ll do it.
• She just hates how she’ll have to look doing it.
• “Someone needs to get inside,” Bishop says when she doesn’t speak fast enough. “Club’s owner has the ledger on him at all times. Locked in his office safe — only he has the key. No brute force without setting off the whole block.”
• Ellerei’s jaw ticks. “And?”
• “And the only ones who get anywhere near him are the girls he likes to show off,” Bishop says flatly. His eyes don’t soften. He knows her tells too well.
• Knox blinks, glances between them, piecing it together slow. “Wait — you want her to—?”
• “It’s the cleanest in,” Bishop says, unbothered by Knox’s tone. “Decker can’t pass for eye candy, I’m not pretty enough, you’re too obvious. But her? She’s got the face, the moves—”
• “And the scars,” Ellerei cuts in, voice sharp enough to slice the air between them. “You forget those parts?”
• The room goes still. Decker’s arms tighten across his chest — but he doesn’t interrupt. He just waits.
• Knox frowns, mug lowering to his thigh. “Scars? What scars?”
• Ellerei doesn’t look at him. She looks at Bishop. Daring him to push.
• Bishop lifts a shoulder. “No one’s looking that close in a place like this. Not when you do what you do.”
• Knox’s frown deepens. “You don’t have to, Elle—”
• She shoots him a look that shuts him up cold. She hates how it feels — the way he tries to be gentle with her in moments that cost nothing but still cut deep.
• “I know I don’t have to,” she says. “I know I will.”
• She turns back to the blueprint. Traces a finger over the back hallway. There — the supply door, the side entrance, the guard shift change at one-fifteen. She’s ten moves ahead already — even while her skin crawls thinking about neon lights, hands grabbing, eyes on her ink.
• The tattoo — his mark — hidden all these years beneath fabric, laughter, armor. The thought of peeling it back for strangers makes bile rise in her throat.
• But the job’s the job.
• No one ever got rich keeping their secrets safe.
• Knox watches her in silence. He doesn’t know what he’s seeing. Not really. He just sips the coffee she made him — perfect, exactly how he likes it — and doesn’t taste the blood it costs her to keep her hands steady.
• Decker shifts, picks up the plan where she leaves off — the exit routes, the muscle placement. Bishop runs the tech overlays, cameras, comms, payout estimates.
• Ellerei just listens. Eyes on the paper, mind on a collar long buried. She tastes his voice again — Mine. She swallows it down, pushes it into the dark, and taps the ledger’s location with her nail.
• “When’s the buyer want it?” she asks.
• Bishop smirks. “Next week.”
• Knox grins, clueless, teeth white against the bruise on his lip. “Plenty of time. You got this, Elle.”
• She forces a smile he can’t see through. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I got this.”
• But under her clothes, she swears she can still feel the ink burn under her skin — the mark she’ll never wash off, no matter how many lies she sells to survive.