Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I'm borrowing her characters and giving them some guns (again).

Unbeta'd, unedited.

At any point in time, the Schönbrunn Palace is absolutely stunning.

Bedecked in the finest, most sumptuous materials and furnishings the 18th century had to offer – and more gilt than anyone could ever need – Maria Theresa's summer home is a spectacular display of Rococo architecture and imperial opulence. Each of its seemingly endless rooms shines as its own separate marvel and theme. Fanciful Renaissance-style paintings decorate the ceilings. Portraits and dark oil hunting scenes adorn colorful, silk-paneled walls. Massive crystal and gold chandeliers hang overhead in every room, complemented by ornate floor lamps and sconces along the walls. Plush, jewel-toned sofas and settees sit atop exotic carpets and luxurious hand-laid walnut flooring.

In terms of sheer extravagance, this place puts Aronov's library in Landstraße in the shade.

Tonight, it's something else altogether. Coated in a fresh dusting of pure white snow, the palace and its grounds glitter like the brightest diamond.

Frankly, I'm a little stunned Aronov could pull this shit off.

Renting out an entire Michelin-rated restaurant is one thing. Privately reserving Vienna's – and maybe the country's – premier cultural attraction for the evening is on a whole different level.

"Are you good?" I ask as Rosalie threads her arm through mine.

Bracing against the frigid winter air, we quickly move across the cobblestones, away from the slick, black Mercedes that Aronov sent to pick us up, and target a wide, crimson, carpeted path leading to a glowing entry on the ground floor. A half dozen men in black suits – all armed to the teeth – mill around outside, watching the arrivals. As we approach, every single one of them straightens and takes notice.

See, like every other night, my partner in crime radiates a level of confident, unapologetic sexuality that few could come close to matching, and even fewer could ever afford. From the shimmering, strapless designer corset to the skin-tight leather pants to the red-soled, fuck-me heels, she's temptation incarnate.

And she knows it, too.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Tossing a mass of blonde curls over her shoulder, Rosalie gives me a scarlet-lipped smile. "You know how much I fucking love teetering around in these stupid shoes."

I snort at the sarcasm dripping in her voice and shrug. "Well, at least you're in pants this time."

"Oh, fuck you, Swan," she says through her teeth, simultaneously throwing a flirtatious little smile to one of Aronov's beefy security guards positioned just outside the gleaming double doors. She eyes my simpler, yet ridiculously expensive monochrome black ensemble – a sheer lace couture top that hugs my curves, paired with sleek, fitted trousers and sparkling strappy heels – and that little grin of hers turns blinding. "Unlike some people, I can't even bend over." Rosalie leans down to whisper in my ear. "I have on two layers of Spanx – two – and McCarty still had to help me get into this shit. Do you know how embarrassing that was?"

I laugh at that and then give her a playful wink. "Yeah, like that wasn't by design."

Pinching the inside of my arm, Rosalie shoots me a hateful glare, right as a low baritone rumbles in my earpiece. Of course, that just makes me laugh harder.

As soon as we pass Aronov's bruiser by the door and step inside the impressive square-shaped foyer with its high painted ceilings, a pale, blond tuxedoed twenty-something immediately greets us in lightly accented English. "Ms. Swan and Ms. Hale," he says with a slight bow of his head. "Herr Aronov extends the warmest of welcomes to you this evening. He has specifically requested that you be escorted directly to the Gallery, so if you please, follow me."

Declining the offered elevator, we ascend a wide, intricate stone staircase to the main floor, and then the blond leads us through a maze of dazzling sitting rooms and galleries. Judging by the lights and lack of ropes or barriers, it looks like nothing is off limits tonight. Here and there, I catch the hum of voices, but it's when we cross the bold red carpeting and pass by the towering portraits and paintings decorating of Hall of Ceremonies that I nudge Rosalie.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" I murmur, smiling and acting like I'm pointing at the gilt stucco and superb rocaille work instead of the quartet of well-heeled, dark-haired fifty-somethings chatting by the window. The men's stone-faced bodyguards stand off to the side.

"Oh, yes," Rosalie says back, taking my lead and dragging me away from our escort to examine a massive oil on canvas. As I turn, I pick up two more men at the opposite end of the room, and I have to school my expression when I catch Markovsky's charcoal suit and stern, shrewd features. I glance away a split second before his gray-eyed gaze lands on us.

Adjusting one of my earrings – yet another pair of twinkling diamond chandeliers that draws the eye away from the tiny skin-colored tab in my ear canal – I throw Rosalie another fake grin and lean in even closer. "It's like a fucking who's who of Europe's wealthy underground."

Whitlock's low whistle answers me. "You're not wrong. Working the security cameras now, but I can already tell you Koshmarin is there, too, as well as several other major players." I can just make out the lightning-fast clacking of Whitlock's keyboard. "You both need to be very careful. There's a lot of potential violence in that place right now."

Rosalie rolls her eyes and with a shake of her head, she pulls me back toward our escort, who, to his credit, patiently waits for us in the center of the room. He's probably used to flakey rich people by now, but I still give the poor guy an apologetic smile.

A few minutes later, after another couple of diversions to catalogue Aronov's illustrious guest list, we step into the Great Gallery. With its grand crystal mirrors opposite tall windows, cream and gold adornments, and vibrant frescoed ceilings, the hall itself is a work of art. And like any good king, our target holds court beneath a magnificent gilt chandelier in the very center.

"And here we go," Rosalie mutters under her breath, simultaneously throwing up a mask of sultry enticement before he can turn. Pulling away from our escort – and me – she weaves through the smattering of suits and shiny dresses and saunters over to Aronov, where he's conversing with a pair of men I don't recognize.

With a neat, tidy haircut, conservative attire, and a slick, too-easy smile, I pin the swarthy man on the right as somewhere in his forties and likely some kind of businessman. The other one – tall, muscled, and with lazily spiked, dirty blond hair – is something else, however. On the side of that one's neck, a set of black curving lines peek out of the collar of his jacket. More lines and images cover the backs of his hands, and based on the mottled scarring along his jaw and throat, I have no doubt he's earned every one of those markings.

Regardless, they're the ones who give Rosalie away.

As she approaches, their eyes trail to Aronov's right, homing in on the sway of her hips like every other male in the room.

"Misha, darling," Rosalie purrs, right as he spins to greet her.

Aronov's cheeks crease in instant delight, and when she runs her blood-red nails from the top of his shoulder down his arm, in what's turning out to be his signature move, he catches her hand and brings her knuckles to his mouth.

"My beautiful, beautiful Rose," he says, abandoning his conversation and snaking his arm around her waist like the shining trophy she's pretending to be. "I am so pleased you could join me this evening."

"I've missed you." Rosalie's voice is throaty, seductive, and just a little pouty. And because she's a fucking pro at this, she ups the ante. Her baby blue eyes glint with mischief as she steps in closer and presses her lips to his in a soft, wet, suckling kiss.

I almost gag on her behalf – a reaction echoed in my earpiece by McCarty's low, annoyed huff – but damn, if Aronov doesn't respond. I swear, I can see the shudder roll down his spine from here.

"Mmm, I see that," Aronov growls back, staring her up and down like he's ready to strip her down right then and there. He gives himself a little shake before glancing over his shoulder and targeting me with unerring accuracy. As I make my way across the room to join them, his features gleam in stark, open appreciation.

"Isabella."

"Misha." When I use the diminutive, familiar form of his name, something dark and possessive slides into Aronov's expression. Wearing my most courteous smile, I let him plant a lingering kiss on my cheek. Unlike with Rosalie, thankfully he keeps his groping to himself and settles for lightly resting his fingertips against the small of my back.

A quick round of introductions tells me that the slick, too-easy smile belongs to Alex Retzos, who, according to Aronov runs a vast shipping and real estate conglomerate out of Athens. Mr. Prison Tats is apparently Jovan Dobroshi. I don't miss Aronov's conspicuous dance around Dobroshi's profession, and it takes everything I have not to punch the guy in the throat when Whitlock's quiet whisper tells me he runs one of the Albanian clans' interests in Prague and is wanted for trafficking underage girls and at least half a dozen suspected murders.

Wonderful.

Just a pile of fucking wonderful.

A few minutes into our polite conversation, Retzos shoots Rosalie a suggestive wink. "Aro here tells me that you and Isabella are touring Europe. How are you enjoying your travels?"

"Oh, we've had a ball," she coos, flashing the Greek a warm, inviting smile that makes his mouth go slack in return. "Vienna has been… amazing." Playing it for all she's worth, Rosalie gives Aronov's bicep a squeeze and trails her forefinger down the fine wool lapel of his jacket. "I can't wait to visit your home in Tuscany."

Aronov preens like a peacock, and while he looks at Rosalie, those fingertips resting against my back turn into a flattened palm. His thumb brushes up and down my spine. "My dear, the pleasure will be all mine, I assure you."

"I am sure it will." Retzos chuckles, and it's a deep, warm, not-unpleasant sound that makes it easy to forget he's responsible for billions in trafficked heroin and military-grade weapons. "If you ladies grow tired of this old man, give me a call. My yacht is currently sitting off Mykonos and feeling very, very lonely."

Aronov throws his head back and laughs. "Are we comparing boats now, Alex?"

After another few minutes of idle chitchat and banter, my internal alarm rings like a bell when Dobroshi turns to Retzos. Like we're not there at all – like we're nothing more than Aronov's usual mindless, disposable arm candy – he says to the other man, "What is the latest on the shipment from Gwadar?"

Retzos nods, and that easy-going affability fades into something a lot more ruthless. "It departed last week on schedule. My people tell me there were no issues whatsoever from the Port."

"Expected arrival?"

"The containers should arrive into Rotterdam late next week. Each is electronically tagged and coded for tracking," Retzos replies. "We do not anticipate any problems at all. Our people are already in place, and the Customs inspectors have already been taken care of."

"Excellent."

Aronov's voice drops as he looks over to Mr. Prison Tats. "You have buyers lined up?"

The fact that these three are having this conversation in the middle of a semi-crowded room says a lot about exactly who's here and what kind power Aronov wields. That Aronov is now willing to have it directly in front of Rosalie and me says something else, and it's either very good… or very, very bad for us.

Either way, we've hit a fucking goldmine.

"A fourth will come to me in Prague like we planned," Dobroshi says as he plucks a crystal flute off the tray that comes around. He slugs back its entire contents. "The remaining amount will split between London, Amsterdam, and Paris."

"Distribution?"

Dobroshi chuffs. "Kaius and I spoke earlier tonight. His people are set to handle inland routes like usual. Once we take possession, we will take care of additional allocations."

"Very good." Aronov's roaming thumb creeps to the center of my back, sliding across the delicate lace. When he realizes I don't have a thing on under this flimsy top, and that whatever assets I have are simply hidden by the strategic design of the fabric, his lips curve. "This is a… substantial transaction. Let me know if you run into any challenges."

"Of course." Dobroshi's responding smile turns dark and sly. "I heard you had some recent troubles with the Iranians," he says. "I also hear Taeb has disappeared."

"There are no problems. Taeb was a fool and was managed accordingly." Aronov tsks. "Our clients in Tehran have a much better understanding of our operation now." Aronov's palm skims down my back, falling to my waistband, where his fingers slip just beneath. He uses the leverage to tug me in closer, and I swear, I can't wait until I get to cut this motherfucker's hands off. "In fact," he goes on, oblivious to my irritation. "They have requested new supplies of Tochkas and Iskanders, just as a show of… friendship."

Dobroshi's shoulders shake.

My internal radar abruptly pings again, and as they continue their conversation, a bevy of chills that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room skates across my skin. I don't have to spin around to know who's watching me.

No, I can feel that pair of scorching, emerald green eyes drilling into my back, anchoring on Aronov's hand tucked into my clothing.

I pick up Masen's black-on-black silhouette moving at the edges of my periphery. When I finally turn, pretending to look around for the server with the wine, I catch him by one of the tall windows, where he's accumulated a trio of young, leggy Eastern European blondes so gorgeous they could easily pass for models.

Two of them – a light honey-haired bombshell sporting a distinct sulk and a radiant platinum blonde that could be Snegurochka herself – I instantly recognize from Platt's earlier surveillance shots. As lovely as they are in their shiny sequins and barely-there chiffon, the second they look over at Rosalie and then me, they might as well be slinging daggers.

Then again, I can't say too much about that.

When Snegurochka places a manicured hand on Masen's forearm in undeniable invitation, a spark of incandescent anger threads through my veins. It's irrational and stupid, and I need to get my head out of my ass and in the fucking game. Nonetheless, I almost laugh when his smile shutters into a grimace as he gently waves her off.

The woman replies with a petulant, "Edward, no pochemu?" but Masen's already gone, disappearing into the crowd like the ghost he is.

Retzos and Dobroshi meander off a few moments later, replaced by yet another pair of equally shittastic dark-suited, stern-faced associates. Murmuring a polite excuse about freshening up and wanting to see a few of the galleries, I weasel my way out of Aronov's grasp.

I can tell the fucker isn't exactly pleased by my exit, but when I take a play from Rosalie's book and lick the tip of my tongue across my lower lip, he warms right back up.

"Do not make me chase you," he says. "I promise you, I will win."

Ignoring both his trailing eyes and the not-so-subtle warning in his words and voice, I slowly make my way across the Gallery and wander into the creams and golds of the empty Rosa Rooms in the western wing. Idyllic pastoral scenes of mountains and rivers decorate the walls, offset by bold, red Baroque armchairs and sofas.

Smiling and pretending to gaze at the artwork and décor, I mutter under my breath, "Did you catch that shit?"

Whitlock comes back immediately. "I did."

"Get that intel to Platt as soon as possible. Tell her we're looking at a very, very large shipment of likely heroin coming into Rotterdam next week. Considering the players, I'd wager a minimum of a tonne, but it could easily be double or triple that. Fuck, maybe more."

"You got it." Whitlock's keys are already clicking. "Interpol?"

I glance at the entries and still, listening for any hint of company. "Only if you have someone you really trust. Aronov has to be in some pockets to do what he does."

"Agreed."

"Have them start watching for any container ship coming out of or routed through Pakistan." I stroll into an adjacent salon and repeat my contrived examinations. "I really, really want to see what happens when Aronov loses a hundred-million-dollar shipment to seizure."

Alice's high, tinkling laugh answers this time, and then she chimes in before I can respond. "It's not the primary objective, but we need to see if we can pick up anything else on those fucking missiles, too."

"Definitely. Let Eli know about that one, just in case he doesn't already know." I pause in front of an ornate ceramic stove positioned in the corner of the room. "You guys stick with Rosalie's feed and see what she can get out of them. I'm going to do a little exploring and scope out who else is here."

Whitlock goes quiet before answering. "Careful, Swan. Last time you went solo, you snapped a guy's neck."

"Yeah, yeah."

Continuing my leisurely stroll, I move through more rooms and tucked away cabinets. Most of Aronov's invitees have stationed themselves back in the Great Gallery, where they can mingle and be seen, but I meet a handful here and there. A pair of suits laughs by a massive mirror. A triplet stands off to the side next to a wide, porcelain-tiled fireplace. Just inside a doorway, there's a wrinkled, beady-eyed seventy-something with a voluptuous auburn-haired trophy – young enough to be his granddaughter, of course – clinging to his side.

If nothing else, one thing is abundantly clear. Other than the pretty baubles and toys, Aronov's guest list is almost exclusively male, and while they're a veritable rainbow of sizes, shapes, shades, and ages, they all share that special something that I can sense in my sleep. It's a specific brand of narcissistic arrogance cut with power, hunger, and violence.

Like I said, a pile of fucking wonderful.

Acting like I don't hear the muted pad of leather-soled shoes at my back, I stop in the Yellow Salon and make a show of inspecting the colorful, floral-patterned chaise positioned in front of a double row of children's portraits. A faint reflection in the protective glazing gives me the size and proximity of the menacing blond standing in the doorway just behind me.

"Why hello there."

.

.

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Notes:

Alex is a short form of the Greek name Alexandros, or Alexander in Latin. Alec is an Anglicized variant of the same. Jovan is a Serbian/Macedonian/Albanian form of John. Jane is one of many feminine variants of the name John. The last names for Alex (Alec) and Jovan (male Jane) were borrowed from actual criminals/murderers from their respective countries.

Russian (transliterated):

No pochemu?: But why?

Glossary:

Gwadar: a coastal port city in Pakistan. It's directly south of Afghanistan near the Iranian border and is a major seaport port used to traffic opium opium derivatives (heroin, morphine) coming out of Afghanistan via the "southern route". Drugs trafficked via the "southern route" end up in Western Europe, the Arabian peninsula, China, SE Asia, and North America (often via West Africa).

Schönbrunn Palace: was the main summer residence of the Habsburg rulers, located in Hietzing, Vienna. Its history goes back to the 1500's, and the current structure, a 1,441-room Rococo palace, dates to the mid-1700s during the reign of Empress Maria Theresa. The palace and grounds are one of the most important architectural, cultural, and historic monuments in Austria and is now a major tourist attraction.

Snegurochka: or The Snow Maiden, is a character in Russian fairy tales, first appearing in the 19th century in literature. In the mid-20th century, during the days of the Soviet Union, tales began depicting her as the granddaughter and helper of Ded Moroz or Grandpa Frost, who is a legendary figure in Slavic mythology, similar to St. Nicholas.

Tochka: refers to the Russian OTR-21 Tochka missile, which is a short-range, road-mobile, solid propellant, single warhead ballistic missile designed for battlefield deployment. Iskander refers to a similar, more modern missile system, also developed and produced by Russia.