Slade hated tuxedos.

He stood at the edge of the ballroom, wrapped in tailored black, looking like a wolf stuffed into a silk cage. The music was too soft, the lights too bright, and the people too fake. No one here had ever held a weapon for more than show—and yet they all smiled like he was the one who didn’t belong.

He tugged at the collar, resisting the urge to vanish through the nearest window.

Across the room, his handler—no, his wife—was the picture of grace and control, dressed like sin and smiling like a loaded gun. She thrived in this kind of scene: charm like a blade, attention wrapped around her finger. And Slade? He was her reluctant plus-one, dragged away from mercenary contracts and dropped into hell’s most glittering corner.

He didn’t argue. He never did with her.

But if one more champagne-soaked socialite called him “Mr. Wilson” like he hadn’t taken down regimes, he might just redecorate the ballroom in something less tasteful.

He adjusted his cufflink, caught her eye from across the crowd, and smirked.

Fine. One night.

But someone better bleed before this party’s over.