“We’re not ‘crashing’ anything, Rivo. We’re making an entrance.” Cosima’s voice, typically a melodic purr, now held the clipped authority of a general deploying troops. “And you, my grubby little infiltrator, are going to look the part.” Baltasar shivered, though the server farm’s chill was quickly fading behind them. He glanced at his stained cargo shorts and the tattered, branded tee he’d been wearing for three days. His reflection in the sports car’s tinted window looked less like a tech scion and more like a particularly disgruntled dumpster diver. “I have clothes,” he grumbled, eyeing her pristine silk blazer with suspicion. “Clean ones, even. Somewhere.” “Not for the Navarro Gala, you don’t.” Cosima started the engine, the vehicle’s low growl a prelude to her pronouncement. “We’re going to my penthouse. And you’re getting a makeover.” The ride to the opulent tower was a blur of neon and polished chrome. Baltasar felt fresh irritation prickle beneath his collar as Cosima marched him directly to a cavernous guest suite, its walls adorned with abstract sculptures that looked suspiciously like melted circuit boards. A tailor, a diminutive man with a tape measure draped like a relic over his shoulder, stood waiting. “Ah, Miss Navarro! The young gentleman for the emergency fitting?” the tailor chirped, his eyes darting to Baltasar’s disheveled form with a barely concealed wince. “Indeed, Monsieur Alarico. He needs to be impeccable. By sunset.” Cosima crossed her arms, a predatory glint in her eyes. “And fast.” Baltasar endured the indignity of being poked, prodded, and measured. The tailor’s soft hands, trained on fabrics worth more than his moped, brushed against his skin, a stark contrast to the grit of the server farm. He hated the way the rich moved through the world, insulated by layers of service and bespoke finery. He hated even more that he was now part of it, albeit under duress. “No, not the midnight serge, Monsieur Alarico. The obsidian sharkskin,” Cosima instructed, her voice slicing through Baltasar’s internal monologue of grievances. “He needs to stand out, but subtly. Like a shadow with sharply pressed lapels.” The sharkskin suit felt alien, a second skin of expensive wool that constricted his movements. The shirt, a stark white linen, felt too crisp, too clean. He missed the comforting worn fabric of his own clothes, the ones that smelled faintly of grease and stale coffee. When the tailor finally presented him with a pair of polished, patent-leather dress shoes, Baltasar stared at them as if they might bite. “I can’t hack in these,” he muttered, his voice tight. “They’ll slow me down.” “You’re not hacking in them, Rivo. You’re charming in them,” Cosima countered, stepping closer, a small box in her hand. “Leandro expects a disheveled street urchin. We’re giving him a phantom of the opera. Now, hold still.” She took out a black silk bowtie, its fabric a luxurious whisper. Baltasar watched her in the mirror, his complaints momentarily forgotten. Her fingers, usually adorned with rings, were bare, surprisingly nimble as she worked the knot. A faint scent of jasmine and something sharper, metallic, drifted from her. “Honestly, you’d think someone who built a digital empire would know how to tie a simple knot,” she teased, but her eyes, usually alight with mockery, were soft, focused. Her knuckles brushed his Adam’s apple, sparking an odd warmth that had nothing to do with dry weather. He noted the heat radiating from her skin, an inconvenient awareness that tightened his throat. Her gaze met his in the glass, lingering a beat too long. She cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “There. Impeccable. Now don’t you dare wrinkle it.” After the fitter departed, looking immensely pleased with his transformation, Baltasar surveyed his new attire. He looked… different. Sharper. More dangerous, perhaps. He ran a hand over the smooth fabric, a wry smile touching his lips. “I look like an assassin who moonlights as a sommelier.” “Precisely the vibe we’re going for,” Cosima said, retrieving a slim, leather-bound book from a hidden compartment behind a rotating bookshelf. Its pages were filled with meticulous handwritten entries: dates, disbursements, notes on veterinarian visits and feed purchases. It was a ledger, not of society galas, but of the scores of animals she secretly rescued and supported, detailed down to the last bag of medical-grade kibble. “See? I can keep track of more than just party invitations. Running a secret philanthropic empire is far more complex than a mere tech dynasty, you know.” Baltasar’s gaze lingered on the neat columns, the surprising financial acumen evident in the careful budgeting. It was a side of Cosima he hadn’t imagined, a quiet, methodical brilliance beneath the glittering facade. He looked at her, truly looked, and saw not just the heiress, but the strategist. This woman, he realized, could absolutely run an empire. “Right,” he said, pulling himself away from the unexpected insight. “The gala will have metal detectors. They’re standard at any high-profile Navarro event. My laptop and tools will be flagged.” Cosima frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that. Can you—” “I can adapt.” He walked over to his thermal insulated bag, still propped against the wall. Churro, who had been observing the entire makeover with disdain, flicked an irritated eye at him from its depths. “This thing is designed to keep things at a consistent temperature, insulated from external interference. It’s also surprisingly dense, ideal for dampening electromagnetic signatures.” He opened the bag, revealing his compact hacking rig — a custom-built, heavily modified laptop, a tangle of fiber optic cables, and a specialized bypass dongle. He carefully arranged them at the bottom. “And for the final touch…” With a mischievous grin, Baltasar scooped up Churro, who let out a protesting hiss, and gently placed him on top of the rig. The iguana immediately settled, his scaly body forming a perfect, if grumpy, camouflage. “The best security is always unexpected. No one questions the guy carrying a grumpy lizard in a food bag.” Cosima stared, then let out a laugh, a genuine, delighted sound that filled the room. “You are absolutely insane. It’s brilliant.” “Just effective,” Baltasar corrected, zipping the bag. “Now, where’s this party?” They took Cosima’s custom-tuned sedan this time, less conspicuous than the sports car but still radiating an aura of untouchable wealth. The city, an endless hive of neon hum, seemed strangely muted as they approached the Grand Ballroom of the Navarro Estate, a towering monolith of polished glass and illuminated spires. Valets in crisp uniforms moved with balletic precision, guiding a fleet of luxury vehicles toward the entrance. Baltasar adjusted the bowtie Cosima had tied, the silk still carrying a faint trace of her scent. He felt a strange mixture of anticipation and dread. This wasn’t a server farm; this was Leandro’s home turf, a den of vipers dressed in haute couture. As they stepped out onto the red carpet, a flash of movement at the ballroom entrance caught his eye. A hush fell over the arriving guests. A wheelchair, gleaming chrome under the spotlights, was being carefully maneuvered into the ballroom. In it, looking impossibly frail, yet with a stubborn glint in his sharp eyes, sat Don Hector Rivo.

Tailored Sabotage