KNOX’S POV
Rafael Montenegro has always known exactly how to get under my skin.
It’s a talent, really.
A decade of watching him perfect it at summits and treaty negotiations and the occasional high-stakes poker game where we both pretended we weren’t calculating how to destroy each other.
He does it with that smile, that lazy aristocratic charm that makes everyone else see a gentleman while I see the predator under.
Takes one to know one, I suppose.
I find him in the small galley near the cockpit, because of course he has a fully stocked bar on his private jet, because of course Rafael Montenegro can’t travel without the finest whiskey and crystal glasses and every creature comfort money can buy.
He’s pouring two fingers of something amber and expensive when I round the corner, and
