"Rightâ there." The assassin replied, gesturing with no more than a tilt of the head, his tone a conspiratorial whisper. "Ten oâclock."
He had turned towards her and leaned down in order to be heard over the steady burble of cheerful voices and the clink of glasses, a smile on his lips and good-natured innocence in his eyes â anyone who happened to be watching the two (And they did draw the eye, dazzling young couple that they were), would merely see the gentleman making some privately amusing remark. Just like Lailani, he had dressed for the occasion in a sleek, dark suit and red-and-gold waistcoat, the deep crimson of his tie precisely matching the shade of her gown.
The mark happened to be a wealthy Scottish gentleman who had left a trail of fractured marriages to a series of increasingly powerful women in his wake. Hell hath no fury, Lionel supposed, because the spurned ex-wife of two marriages prior had secured his services, with a hefty bonus offered if the kill was made during this gala, hosted in order to celebrate his ninth engagement. The man in question currently stood at the center of a throng of famous faces, his latest fiancee on his arm and a champagne glass in his hand, blissfully unaware of his own impending demise.
It was a terribly public manner in which to dispose of a mark, even for Leo, who specialized in the grand and dramatic, and it was this fact that had Leilani at his side. Her methods differed decidedly, and yet he could easily appreciate her careful combination of artistry and finesse â an ideal skillset for a diversion that would never be recognized as that.
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