Undercover Hate

Chapter Eighteen: Not Demure, Not Mindful

It doesn't take a lot of genius to change Ace's alarm to 9:30. I quietly lean over his sleeping form, careful not to wake him. He's still a mess from the jetlag, his tousled hair sprawled across the pillow like a dark cloud. The dim light filtering through the hotel curtains paints a soft glow around him, but it's not enough to distract me from my own mission. I tiptoe out of the room, my heart racing with excitement and a hint of anxiety.

Once in the hallway, I take a deep breath, savoring the thrill of my independence. I have a chance to gather valuable information, and I intend to make the most of it. The streets of Paris are alive with the scent of fresh pastries and the distant chatter of locals. I blend into the crowd, the city buzzing around me as I embark on my stealthy reconnaissance.

As I stroll through the bustling streets, I make my way toward a small café that sits just off the main avenue. The air is filled with the rich aroma of coffee and the sweet scent of croissants. I take a seat at a table outside, ordering a café au lait while my ears are attuned to the conversations around me.

At the next table, a pair of well-dressed art dealers discuss the upcoming gala, their voices hushed but animated. I catch phrases like "insider trading" and "high-profile investors," and my interest piques. It seems that the art on display is not just for admiration; it's a potential hotbed for shady dealings and covert exchanges. The names they drop—those of influential figures and notorious collectors—are enough to keep my mind racing.

I shift to another café, eavesdropping on a group of artists huddled in an animated discussion. They're talking about a controversial piece rumored to be included in the gala—an installation that some claim is tied to a major money laundering scheme. "The artist has connections with the underworld," one of them whispers, their voice laced with intrigue. "If it's true, this show is going to attract more than just art lovers." My pulse quickens at the thought of untangling the connections between art and crime.

I continue my reconnaissance, moving from gallery to gallery, each stop a new opportunity. In one, I overhear a whispered exchange between two patrons about an old rival, someone who might disrupt the gala with unexpected revelations. "He's been quiet for too long," one of them says, a hint of fear in their tone. "We need to keep an eye on him."

The mention of threats draws me in further. I jot down notes on my phone, carefully documenting names, locations, and any hints of hidden agendas. I make mental notes of faces that flash through the crowd, trying to match them with the names I gather. The players involved in this art show are not just artists; they are puppeteers in a larger game, and I'm determined to pull their strings.

As the sun begins to rise, the sky turning more orange by the minute, I find myself at a small bar, where the atmosphere is lively and warm. Here, the patrons seem more relaxed, and I take advantage of the moment. A conversation catches my ear about the gala's security measures. "They're expecting trouble," a man says, his voice low. "Rumors of a hit on someone important. Better safe than sorry, right?" My heart skips a beat. The stakes are rising, and I know I need to be prepared for anything.

By the time I slip back into the hotel, I can almost taste the success of my efforts. I'm bursting with the information I've gathered, a jigsaw puzzle of names and connections. This night could turn out to be pivotal, and I'm determined to make the most of it. I got lucky, though. There was no way I could've gotten this information at any other time.

But when I step inside our room, the atmosphere shifts. Ace is awake, his expression thunderous. The moment he sees me, his fury radiates off him like heat from a flame. "Where the hell have you been?" he demands, the accusation clear in his voice.

I cross my arms defiantly. "Out gathering intel. You wouldn't believe how easy it is to blend in here."

"Do you think this is a game?" His tone is sharp, slicing through the tension like a knife. "You could've gotten yourself killed!"