CHAPTER 219: SMOKE AND MIRRORS

I didn’t even wait for ARIA to finish her analysis. My thumb was already speed-dialing Charlotte.

"Peter? What’s—"

"We’re going to Miami. Lincoln Heights Airport. Forty minutes. Don’t ask questions, don’t bring anyone else, and for the love of God don’t fucking tell anyone."

"Peter, is this about the compa—"

"Forty minutes. Move."

Click. Call ended. Because in warfare, you don’t waste time on Q&A. You compartmentalize. You control the narrative. And you sure as hell don’t let an emotional heiress spiral into a TED Talk on feelings when the bullets are already flying.

I moved through my room like an algorithm designed for violence. Black pants. Dark gray henley. Boots that could sprint, kick, or stomp depending on the level of foreplay required. This wasn’t a boardroom negotiation. This was a hunt.

Quantum earbud first—ARIA’s invisible little miracle. Neural interface, thought-to-thought link, her voice whispering straight into my skull like a sexy ghost haunting only me.

"Neural link established, Master," ARIA purred. "I can see through your eyes and process in real-time."

Perfect. If I was Batman, she was Oracle—except hornier and with fewer ethical restraints.

Passport next. Redundant since Charlotte’s Gulfstream G650 made TSA obsolete, but paranoia kept you alive. Two phones: one clean for "hi mom" calls, one dirty and packed with ARIA’s cyber-warfare toys. Laptop too—custom rig, ARIA full combat intelligence suite ready to hijack satellites or crash Wall Street if I sneezed too hard.

Then I headed downstairs where my family sat marinating in shock from today’s Madison revelations. Reality TV couldn’t script this better.

"I’m going to be away for a few days," I announced, dropping my voice into that register that made people instinctively shut up and listen. "Charlotte needs help with company business."

Mom looked up from stress-organizing like she was about to interrogate me with Homeland Security authority. "Peter, what kind of—"

"The kind that pays for this house," I cut in. Not cruel, not soft—just final. Conversation closed.

Before anyone could stall me with inconvenient morality, I reached for Madison’s hand. "Come on, princess. You wanted the full ride? Showtime."

Her eyes lit up like Christmas had come early and the gift was danger wrapped in leather. She’d been begging for this—raw, unfiltered Peter Carter and Eros, not just the cleaned-up stories after.

Emma’s voice followed us, thin with worry. "Be careful..."

Cute. But careful was a word other people lived by.

*

Madison’s BMW purred down the street, her hands steady even though she could feel the heat coming off me like a barely-leashed wildfire.

"So," she said with that forced, flirty calm she used when adrenaline made her brave. "Are we about to commit crimes?"

I smirked, leaning closer, letting my voice drip with the kind of menace that doubled as foreplay. "We’re about to prevent them." Beat. "But Madison—listen closely. Charlotte doesn’t know what’s really happening. She can’t. Family on the line makes people stupid. Emotional. Weak. And weakness gets people dead."

Her knuckles whitened on the wheel. "So what’s really happening?"

I looked at her then—my proud little cheerleader, eyes blazing like she thought she was ready for the main stage.

And I almost laughed.

Because if she really wanted to know what was happening, she had no idea just how dark the script was about to get.

I kept my voice low, like a hitman doing TED Talk. "They iced her father. Not natural causes—manufactured stress, systematic pressure until his heart clocked out. Three ex-CIA rejects are stalking her mom Margaret in Miami. They’ll bag her, wave her around like a coupon, and make Charlotte hand over her shares."

Madison’s hands clenched on the steering wheel so tight I thought the BMW was about to file an abuse complaint.

"And Charlotte doesn’t know?"

"She doesn’t need to know until it’s over. Emotional people make bad calls. Tears and tactics don’t mix—unless you’re in a soap opera, and spoiler: we’re not."

"What’s our play?"

"I hunt the hunters. You babysit Charlotte."

Madison’s smile? Pure shark. Victoria’s Secret catalog if they started a Predator Drone division."I can work with that."

Lincoln Heights wasn’t an airport—it’s Beverly Hills with runways. Commercial flyers are basically peasants compared to the oligarch circus here. Private jets lined up like expensive toys, security guys built like they were drafted from an NFL farm team, and enough Botox in the lounge to paralyze an army.

Charlotte was waiting inside, pacing like a coked-up tiger in a designer pantsuit that cost more than most people’s student loans. Normally she’s ice-princess perfect. Tonight? Makeup cracking, stress-frizz in her hair—basically Vogue cover girl doing her first DUI mugshot.

"Peter! Thank God you’re here. What’s going on?"

"Company crisis," I said, slicing through her panic like Gordon Ramsay with a vendetta. "We handle it in person."

Her eyes ping-ponged between me and Madison. "Why is Maddie here?"

"Because she understands corporate warfare," I said. Translation: Because you panic like a freshman at her first frat party, and Madison plays chess while eating men alive for breakfast.

Madison swanned forward, voice dipped in venom and honey. "Charlotte, baby, Peter’s got this. You? Just breathe pretty."

Hierarchy established: Charlotte = client. Madison = power broker. Me? The nuke in human skin.

*

Her jet sat on the runway like a Bond villain’s side piece—sleek, arrogant, begging to be Instagrammed. $75 million of airborne flex. "QUANTUM TECH" written down the side in the kind of font that screams Daddy built an empire, and I inherited it with matching heels.

Walking up the stairs felt like entering Versailles with turbulence. Inside? Cream leather seats that smelled richer than most families, wood polished so hard I saw my sins in it, and carpet so thick it probably had its own mortgage.

Fourteen seats, each a personal suite. Legroom that could host a yoga retreat. The conference table practically whispered boardroom threesomes.

The galley? Five-star restaurant disguised as a kitchen. Wine rack deeper than my patience for Charlotte’s meltdowns. Coffee machine that probably requires a PhD in engineering just to press "brew."

But the real flex was the tech suite. Satellite comms, multiple screens, secure networks. Basically, a war room wearing Gucci.

Once we were airborne, I cracked open my laptop and jacked into the jet’s systems. Could’ve lit the cabin with raw intel—targets, patterns, their digital fingerprints. But no. I played it soft. Boring financial projections on the screens, because Charlotte wasn’t ready for Jason Bourne: The PowerPoint Edition.

She didn’t need truth. She needed calm. And calm meant lies.

I shut my eyes and letting the system combat flow in me. Floor plans, weapons specs, exit routes—it was like Pornhub for psychopaths, except instead of naked people it was blueprints and suppressed MP5s.

"ARIA, give me Margaret’s status."

"Target currently lives at the Fontainebleau Miami," ARIA purred in my head, like Siri if she’d done black ops. "But right now she’s attending Amanda Kellerman’s engagement party. Second marriage. Very exclusive. Amanda’s in the rooftop venue, being watched by Ellis, Samuel Sloane, and Oliver Kane—three ex-CIA clowns LARPing as professionals, blending into the hotel like herpes at Coachella."."

"Timeline?"

"They’ll wait until the party at night. Grab her during champagne chaos. Too many people drunk-dancing to Dua Lipa to notice one rich mom getting bagged."

Charlotte was frowning at the display in front of her, scanning what she thought were quarterly reports. Poor girl thought she was doing homework while I was quietly planning homicides.

"Peter, these numbers look... actually better than expected. Is this really crisis mode?"

"The crisis isn’t what you see," I said, voice wrapped in silk but sharpened like a shiv. "It’s what’s happening behind the curtain. Competitors, spies, threats you don’t see until your throat’s cut."

Translation: Stay in your Barbie dream boardroom, honey. Daddy’s doing the real work.

Madison flicked me a subtle nod. She got it. She always got it. Keep Charlotte pacified with spreadsheets while the adults sharpen the knives.

"So what’s our strategy in Miami?" Charlotte asked, her tone all MBA-case-study serious.

"Intelligence gathering," I said smoothly. "Meet allies. Eliminate threats before they eliminate us."

That last part made her blink. Madison, though? Her lips curved in a smile like she’d just been handed a live grenade and thought, finally, some fun.

"Peter," Madison whispered to me softly, studying me like she could see the shadows flexing behind my eyes. "What exactly are we about to do in Miami?"

I opened my eyes. Whatever softness I’d been wearing for Charlotte vanished like makeup in a hurricane. Gone was Boyfriend Peter™, Empire Builder Peter™, PR-friendly golden boy. Sitting there was something else entirely—something that didn’t negotiate, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink.

"We’re going hunting," I said, voice calm enough to freeze champagne mid-pour. "And we’re about to remind some ex-spooks what happens when they aim at the wrong family."

The Gulfstream hummed south, a luxury missile carrying three very different archetypes: the heiress cluelessly reading fake spreadsheets, the queenpin smiling like she already owned the war, and me—the main event, the nightmare with better hair.

And through it all, one thought burned like gasoline in my skull:

These washed-up CIA dickheads had no idea they’d just signed up for my reality show.

Spoiler alert: nobody leaves with all their limbs.