I did it, Mango thought, a small wave of relief washing over her.

She took a sip of her drink. John followed suit, tilting his glass back and taking a long, slow gulp. She wiped a stray drop of sweat from her forehead—just a flicker of strain, nothing that would break her composure. Besides, she was having fun.

“Britney, Britney, Britney,” John said, smirking. “I see her alcoholism isn’t taking a break tonight.”

“Actually, I think it’s her low tolerance that’s the problem.”

John chuckled, and she smiled in return. They both took another sip.

The ice in his glass clinked as he swirled it around. His cup was already empty.

Perfect.

Mango loved getting people drinking. Men, women—it didn’t matter. The moment they started to relax, they became easier to control. Easier to attack.

There were only two types of drunks: angry drunks and lazy drunks.

Lazy drunks sat back, melted into the room, easy prey. Angry drunks got hyped, unpredictable, requiring a different strategy.

John was clearly the lazy kind.

Which would make this easy.

Though, if she was honest… she kind of hoped he was an angry drunk.

Half a million dollars was on the line, sure, but she wanted it to be fun. And so far? Things were going too smoothly.

“You’re done already?” she teased. “Damn. You’re a fast drinker.”

John smirked. “I don’t have the tolerance problem.”

Mango grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the kitchen.

John jerked slightly at her touch, his body stiffening.

Mango stopped, glancing back at him. Too much?

She took another step, challenging him to follow.

After a beat, he stepped forward.

Good.

His hand was large, rough with calluses. She could feel the faint ridges of old scars, or maybe burns. Not the hands of someone who sat behind a desk all day.

The hands of someone who had done rough things. He was still young so whatever happened either happened when he was a child or is still happening but often enough to where his hands have layered scars.

She filed that detail away in her mind as she led him to the kitchen.

This time, there was no line.

Lea, the bartender, saw them approaching and—without hesitation—began making another drink.

Mango took notice.

Was that for her?

Or did Lea know John too?

Lea slid a glass toward him. “Here, Johnny,” she said softly. “I know you need it.” She leaned in just slightly. Lea was also clearly sticking her chest out to show the shape of her large breasts. “If there’s anything you do need, you know you can just ask.”

John didn’t pick up the drink.

Mango raised an eyebrow, watching him the way you watch a kid who’s just fallen off a bike—waiting to see if they’ll cry.

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Something was off.

His face, usually indifferent or hardly smiling, had darkened. His expression was unreadable, but there was something beneath it, something she hadn’t expected.

Not anger.

Sadness. Genuine sadness.

An odd look for a man like him. Was he a sad drunk? That didn’t seem right.

John cleared his throat. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice low, monotone. He grabbed his drink.

Lea hesitated. “You know… you didn’t have to come.”

John’s jaw tightened. “Don’t, Lea.”

“John—”

“Just don’t.” His voice was firm now. Final.

Mango watched carefully as Lea reached for his hand, gripping it between both of hers.

Uh oh.

They knew each other. Well.

Mango’s mind worked quickly.

Lea would be a problem.

Because if Lea was watching John and possibly her, then she would have to watch Lea.

John looked down at her, eyes hollow. Lea, in contrast, radiated warmth. She gave him a soft smile, squeezing his hand.

“You’re strong,” she said gently.

John exhaled, then pulled his hand away. “Thanks.”

For the first time that night, Mango started to worry.

She was losing him.

She needed his focus—on her, and only her.

Not because she cared, of course.

This isn’t jealousy, she told herself. It’s the job.

Still, whatever history existed between them… it was something Mango hadn’t accounted for.

And as long as Lea was around, John would be harder to separate from the crowd.

She had to turn up the heat.

She opened her mouth to speak—

But before she could say anything, John abruptly turned and stormed off to the balcony.

Mango’s eyes narrowed.

She grabbed her drink followed him.

John stood outside, leaning against the white railing. The balcony was small but intimate. The wooden floor creaked slightly beneath his weight, while the freshly painted metal railings gleamed under the dim party lights. Beyond them, a thick stretch of trees stretched toward the edge of campus, their dark silhouettes swaying in the night breeze.

Mango stepped out, her heels clicking softly against the wood.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Nothing.” His voice was sharp, low.

Now he was angry.

Mango needed to figure out why—and fast—if she was going to steer this back in the right direction.

She took a slow breath, then placed a gentle hand on his back. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice honeyed, warm.

John exhaled hard. “I’m fine. I’m fine, okay?” His tone was clipped, impatient. “It was nice meeting you, but if you don’t mind… I’d like to be alone.”

Oh no.

Mango’s stomach tightened. I’ve lost him.

If she didn’t find a way to break whatever was walling him off, this wouldn’t work. And if this didn’t work, she’d have to do things the old-fashioned way—messy, loud, and with a lot of blood.

That wasn’t her style.

More importantly, her employer had explicitly asked for discretion. Gunshots, cops, and a body count were not discreet.

She needed to fix this.

“What’s your problem?” she asked.

As soon as the words left her lips, she blinked.

She hadn’t meant to say it like that.

It hadn’t come out as concern. It had come out as… irritation. As if they were an old couple bickering over something petty.

That wasn’t professional.

John turned to her, his expression dark. “What’s my problem?” He let out a humorless laugh. “What’s your problem? Why is some stripper so interested in me?”

Mango felt her blood heat.

Stripper.

She used the male gaze like a weapon. She manipulated it, bent it to her will. But the moment a man tried to use it against her—

“I am not a stripper,” she snapped.

John smirked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh? Then why don’t you go gold-dig someone else?” He tilted his head in a mocking manor. “Or is no one else sweet enough for you, Mango?”

Her eyes narrowed.

I’m killing this guy now, she thought.

Her fists clenched.

She was done playing games.

This wasn’t fun anymore.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed back inside, leaving her drink on the railing.

John glanced at it and rolled his eyes as if he’d have to babysit it for her.

***

Back inside, Mango looked for the bathroom. Across the living room, two girls stumbled out of the bathroom, laughing.

Mango didn’t hesitate.

She beelined for the door.

Inside, she locked it behind her, pressing her hands against the sink.

Her breath came short, sharp.

He got under my skin.

She didn’t know how or why, but he had. Too quickly.

That wasn’t like her. She was usually better than this.

Mango exhaled hard, letting her hair fall loose over her shoulders. Then, carefully, she slipped off one of her heels and flipped it over.

The sole popped open, revealing a slender, carefully placed knife.

She glanced down at her thigh, where her other knife was holstered beneath her dress.

Too thick.

A serrated blade made too big of an opening—messy, brutal. She had assumed John would be a bulky guy, but up close, she could see he was all lean muscle.

For a man built like that, a flat blade was better. Precise. Clean.

She swapped them out, slipping the slender knife into her thigh holster and tucking the other back into the hidden compartment in her shoe.

With practiced ease, she adjusted the sole, pressed her heel back on, and smoothed down her dress.

Then she met her reflection in the mirror.

She fixed her hair. Straightened her posture.

Took one last breath.

Enough games.

Now?

Now it was time for this prey to meet his maker.