Alex and Natasha moved like they belonged there—close enough to be seen together, far enough apart to work the room without drawing suspicion.
Natasha's emerald eyes flicked subtly toward the far end of the ballroom. Alex followed her gaze.
The target, Victor Draavos, had arrived.
He was every inch the picture of arrogance—immaculately groomed, navy three-piece suit tailored so sharply it could cut glass, flanked by two men whose expressions screamed "bodyguard" even more than the discreet earpieces in their ears. Draavos carried himself like a man who thought he owned every pair of eyes in the room… and maybe he did.
Natasha's lips barely moved as she murmured into the comm hidden in her earring. "Target in sight. Maintain cover."
Alex gave a subtle nod, the movement disguised as taking a sip of champagne. He scanned Draavos's entourage, noting the way they scanned the crowd, the way their hands stayed unnervingly close to their jackets. Not amateurs.
For the next hour, they played their parts—Natasha mingling with diplomats and old-money heirs, Alex leaning on the bar, catching whispers and fragments of conversation that painted a clearer picture of Draavos's operations.
Every so often, their eyes met across the room—quick, precise, like passing coded messages without a single word.
Finally, the moment came. The gala's host tapped a glass, drawing attention to the center of the room for a brief, lavish toast.
Natasha drifted close to Alex, her voice low. "Crowd's distracted. After this, Draavos will head toward the east terrace for his private meeting. That's where we make the move."
Alex's crimson gaze swept toward the terrace doors, already mapping exits, sightlines, and choke points.
"Got it," he murmured. "You want him to walk out on his own… or should I give him a reason to?"
Her smirk was faint but dangerous. "Let's see if he takes the bait first."
The toast ended, champagne glasses clinked, and just as predicted, Draavos began moving toward the terrace, his bodyguards clearing a subtle path.
Natasha's eyes caught Alex's one last time.
Showtime.
Draavos stepped onto the east terrace, the muffled hum of the ballroom replaced by the cooler, quieter air of the city night. Strings of warm light crisscrossed overhead, casting golden halos across the sleek marble floor.
His bodyguards flanked him like shadows, scanning the area as he leaned casually on the balcony rail, a cigar between his fingers. From up here, the skyline stretched like a jeweled crown, glittering against the dark.
Alex emerged a moment later, slipping through the glass doors with the smooth confidence of someone who belonged. He had ditched the champagne flute but kept the easy smirk.
The nearest bodyguard clocked him immediately, stepping forward.
"This area is private," the man said, voice flat.
Alex tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes locking onto Draavos. "Good thing I was invited."
Draavos took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling smoke that curled in the cool air. His gaze swept over Alex with casual disdain. "And you are?"
Alex didn't answer—just stepped aside, letting Natasha appear behind him as if she'd been there the whole time. The gown caught the terrace lights, the slit revealing the holster strapped to her thigh for just a fraction of a second.
"Old friends," Natasha said smoothly, her voice silk over steel.
Draavos's eyes narrowed, his smirk faltering. "Romanoff."
One of the guards shifted, hand twitching toward his jacket. Alex's crimson eyes caught the movement instantly.
"I wouldn't," he said, his voice low, dangerous.
Natasha stepped closer, her heels silent against the marble. "You've been working with Halvorsen. Kidnapping mutants. Selling them to private collectors. We both know how this conversation ends."
Draavos gave a slow, mocking laugh. "You think you can just walk in here and—"
Alex moved before he could finish. In one fluid motion, he caught the nearest guard's wrist, twisting sharply until the man's sidearm clattered to the floor. The second guard lunged, but Alex sent him staggering with a single, precise strike to the throat.
By the time Draavos realized what was happening, Natasha was already on him—pressing a slim, silenced pistol under his jaw. Her eyes burned cold.
"No one will find you," she said quietly. "And no one will miss you."
The muffled pop of the shot was almost lost in the sound of traffic below. Draavos slumped against the railing before his body tipped silently over the edge, swallowed by the night.
Natasha holstered her weapon. Alex adjusted his cufflinks like they were still mingling at the gala.
"Nice party," he said.
She gave the faintest smirk. "And now it's over."
They slipped back into the ballroom, blending into the swirl of laughter and music like nothing had happened.
"Do you have any plans after this?" Alex asked.
"No, just going back and relaxing," she replied.
"I know a relaxing massage," Alex said.
She tilted her head, smiling. "Well, show me then."
They left the ballroom without drawing attention, Natasha walking beside Alex with the same effortless grace she'd worn all evening. The mission was done, the weight of danger slipping away into the background hum of the city.
When they reached the quiet upper floor of a luxury hotel, Alex unlocked the door to a private suite. The dim golden light spilled across polished wood and soft velvet, the city skyline glittering beyond the tall windows.
Natasha stepped inside, pausing in the center of the room. "So," she said softly, "about that relaxing massage you promised…"
Alex gave her a crooked smile. "Thought you'd never ask."
She turned to face him, eyes glinting in the low light. "Show me."
He closed the distance between them in two unhurried steps, one hand brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She tilted her head just slightly, lips parting, and before either could say another word, Alex leaned in and kissed her.
It was slow at first, a quiet testing of boundaries, then warmer, deeper—Natasha's hand resting lightly on his jaw, his arm sliding around her waist. The faint hum of the city outside became a distant echo, the world narrowing to the space between them.
When they finally broke apart, Natasha's gaze lingered on his, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Not bad," she murmured.
"Not done," he replied, brushing his thumb along her cheek.
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