Rocco leaned back against the edge of a weather-worn balcony, cigarette caught lazily between his lips, the cold night air brushing over the rooftops of Zandor—a city known for its secrets, not its mercy. The skyline gleamed with lights from clubs and shadowy dealings alike. Down below, King's Claw men moved like whispers through alleys.
He watched. He always watched. It was part of why they called him Ghost.
Then came the high heels.
Click. Click. Click.
"I know you're up here pretending to be broody and mysterious again," Maeve said behind him, her voice like crushed velvet wrapped around a blade. "But we've got a job to do, sweetheart."
Rocco didn't turn. He just blew smoke into the night air. "You missed me."
"In your dreams, lover boy."
Maeve Delacourt was all leg and fire—5'9" without the heels, long auburn waves pulled into a low braid, a single scar on her collarbone from a job gone sideways in Prague. Lips like sin, eyes like mischief. Every time she walked into a room, it was like the music changed. And she knew it.
She strutted over, grabbing the cigarette from his mouth without asking. "You'll wrinkle that pretty face."
"You like this face," he said, lazily.
She took a drag and handed it back. "I like it better when it's shut."
They stood in silence, the kind of silence that burned. That buzzed under the skin. This was their rhythm—mockery, tension, and a clock always ticking in the background.
Their mission tonight was simple: infiltrate a black market gala in the southern district where rogue syndicates were auctioning off King's Claw intel. Someone was leaking. Reginald wasn't having it.
And when the Claw wanted something done with flair and violence, they sent Rocco Moretti and Maeve Delacourt—the most chaotic pairing in the entire organization.
They'd been in the Claw for nine years, handpicked by Reginald after a bloodbath in Marseille that Maeve orchestrated with nothing but a high heel and a bootlegged flashbang. Rocco? He was ex-Special Forces, turned rogue, turned ghost-for-hire until the Claw made him an offer. Together, they were thunder and lightning. Predictable in their unpredictability.
Their subordinates called them "SmokeandHoney."
Smoke, for the way Rocco vanished into shadows.
Honey, because Maeve lured her victims in sweet—before snapping their spines.
As they walked toward the gala's side entrance, dressed to kill (and possibly literally), the sexual tension between them crackled so hard it was practically its own entity. Maeve's hand brushed his shoulder as she adjusted her earring.
"You're wearing that cologne again," she said, voice low.
"You hate it."
"I do," she lied.
He smirked. "Then why'd you lean in?"
They slipped through security like water through cracks, their forged invites scanned without issue. Inside, the gala was opulence on steroids—crystal chandeliers, floor-length gowns, masked criminals toasting with expensive champagne. And somewhere among the perfume and lies, a traitor was lurking.
Maeve leaned in. "Eyes up. Level three. Man with the blue mask."
Rocco clocked him, but his eyes were still on her. "We could kill him now."
"No," she said. "We wait until he leads us to whoever's paying him."
They moved separately, Maeve gliding through the crowd like a socialite, Rocco vanishing into shadows. When they regrouped twenty minutes later in a dim corridor, Maeve's dress was askew from a fake stumble and Rocco's collar undone from a "friendly" conversation with a suspicious arms dealer.
He pressed her lightly against the wall, eyes serious now. "We're being watched."
"Oh? By who? You?"
Rocco stepped closer. "Always."
There was a pause—just a breath—and for a second, it felt like the mission stopped mattering. Her hand brushed his jaw, fingers slow, exploring. He tilted forward. Inches.
And then a crash. Shouts.
The auction had gone live—and someone tripped the alarm.
"Damn it," Maeve muttered, drawing a hidden blade from her thigh holster.
"Guess the flirting's over."
"It never is, Rocco."
They bolted. Through gold-lined halls and smoke, gunfire and glass. At one point Maeve dove over a table, landed atop Rocco with her chest pressed to his, breath hot on his face.
"If you make a joke about me on top of you, I swear—"
"Too easy," he whispered. "But God, do I love this view."
They didn't kiss. Not yet. But it was right there.
By the time they'd slaughtered the buyers and extracted the mole, Maeve was bloodied and breathless, Rocco's shirt was torn, and the black market gala looked like the set of an apocalypse movie.
"Want to grab dinner?" he asked casually, stepping over a corpse.
"Only if we're eating on your kitchen table."
He choked on a laugh. "Maeve."
"Rocco."
Another pause.
Still no kiss.
They walked out into the night, smirking and bruised, side by side. The wind smelled like smoke and champagne and something unspoken. Like maybe, just maybe, next time...
They wouldn't stop.