CHAPTER 7
ALESSIA P.O.V.
The elevator ascends from the soundproofed basement in a smooth, sickening rush.
I’m staring dead ahead at the brushed steel of the doors, catching my reflection in the metal, but the blurred, pale ghost staring back isn't me. It can't be. The silence in this fucking metal box is deafening, punctuated only by the soft, mechanical hum of the motor and the frantic, uneven thud of my own heart threatening to crack my ribs open. I am repeatedly curling and uncurling my fingers, digging my nails into my palms, trying to scrub away the phantom weight of the cold steel pistol I was just forced to hold. My skin feels like it’s crawling with maggots. The faint, metallic stench of copper and industrial bleach from downstairs is literally clinging to my hair, soaking into my pores. It’s a scent I know too well, but this time, I was on the wrong side of the room.
Russo’s wet, guttural screams are stuck on a goddamn loop in my head, grinding against my skull, and I can't find the off switch.
"Don't look at the floor, Alessia," Leon says. His voice is a low, even vibration in the small space. He’s standing entirely too close. Calm, perfectly observant, radiating a steady, infuriating body heat that makes me want to scream.
"The air in here is too thin," I manage to choke out, keeping my eyes locked on the steel doors. My teeth are actually chattering. I am freezing cold from the inside out.
"Stop shaking," he replies, not an ounce of pity in his tone. Just a directive. "It’s over."
The pulse-lock chimes with a cheerful, electronic chirp that feels like a physical blow to the side of my head.
The doors slide open, and we step out into the penthouse.
It’s a world of soft sandalwood, buttery leather furniture, and perfectly tuned ambient lighting.
The sheer normalcy of this luxury is jarring.
It makes the concrete basement feel like a violent fever dream I can’t wake up from.
How the fuck can this exist directly above a slaughterhouse?
My brain is misfiring, the juxtaposition of the violence I just abetted and the absolute serenity of his sanctuary creating a violent cognitive dissonance that makes me want to throw up all over his imported silk rug.
I try to step out, but my coordination is totally shot.
My hand shoots out, catching hard on the metal elevator frame as I stumble over the threshold.
"It smells like... nothing happened," I say, my voice sounding thin and ragged. The scent of expensive Santal 33 candles is suffocating me. The distant hum of the city traffic sixty floors below sounds like a joke. "Everything is too bright." I squeeze my eyes shut. "Christ, I can't do this."
I make it exactly three steps into the living area before the floor seems to tilt at a vicious forty-five-degree angle.
The strength just drains out of my quadriceps.
Someone pulled the plug. I am a highly trained agent, I have survived live combat, and my fucking body is surrendering before my mind is even ready to admit defeat.
"My legs..." I gasp, my vision tunneling fast until all I can see is the dark grain of the marble floor rushing up to shatter my teeth. "I'm fine, just let me—"
"Shit."
Leon is there before I can even process the fall.
His hands—massive, heavily calloused, and impossibly warm—clamp hard around my waist. The cold rush of air from falling stops immediately.
He doesn't just catch me; he hauls me back upright with a terrifying, effortless display of raw physical power.
I am pulled flush against the solid, unyielding plane of his chest. His thumb hooks aggressively into the waistband of my slacks, locking me in place so I don't slide right back down into a pathetic puddle at his feet.
"I've got you," he says, the rumble of his chest vibrating straight into my spine.
I’m trapped in the exact embrace I should be running from, finding physical safety in the motherfucker who just broke me.
The heat of his palms burns through my thin silk camisole.
I can smell his cologne—peppercorn and cedar, clean and sharp—and feel the abrasive scratch of his wool suit jacket against my bare arms.
"Stand up, Alessia," he orders, a rough edge of command slicing through the haze. "Don't go weak on me now."
He feels like a goddamn mountain. Immovable.
And the worst, the absolute most sickening part of it all, is that for a split second, a pathetic, feral part of my brain just wants to melt into him and let him carry the weight.
But the moment I feel my feet solid against the marble, survival instinct kicks back in.
I shove against him. It’s a weak, embarrassing movement, my palms sliding uselessly against the crisp cotton of his dress shirt, but he allows it.
He lets go instantly, stepping back and holding his hands up in a mocking gesture of surrender.
He just stands there, watching me with those analytical, ice-blue eyes, calculating my exact breaking point.
I furiously wipe my palms against my thighs, trying to scrub away the lingering sensation of his heat on my skin. I hate that his touch was the only thing keeping me off the floor.
"Get off me," I snap, my chest heaving. "I said I'm fine."
"Sure you are."
"Don't touch me." I look down, intending to pivot and walk away, to lock myself in a room and process the absolute annihilation of my career, but my gaze catches on the toe of my left shoe.
Three tiny, perfect crimson dots are splattered across the white leather.
Russo's blood. The physical evidence of my crime.
A permanent, undeniable record that I stood in that room and did nothing while a man was torn apart.
The dots seem to pulse with every erratic beat of my heart.
The dam in my head officially cracks. I begin to furiously rub the toe of my shoe against the back of my other calf, a frantic, useless motion trying to wipe the stain away.
"Is that...?" I choke out, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding the back of my throat. The red is so obscenely bright against the white. "No, no, no." I rub harder, almost losing my balance. "It won't come off."
That’s not just blood. That’s the end of my badge.
That’s the absolute burial of Alessia Heller.
I stumble backward blindly, my heels clicking a frantic, erratic rhythm against the marble as I retreat from the spots on my own goddamn shoe.
I don't stop until my spine slams hard into the floor-to-ceiling glass wall.
The sudden, biting cold of the surface shocks through my thin clothes.
I am pinned. Trapped between the dizzying blur of the city lights reflecting behind me and the monster standing perfectly still in front of me.
I reach into my bra, my fingers shaking violently as I adjust the hidden access card stashed against my ribs. It’s suddenly chafing my skin like a hot coal, a pointless piece of plastic for an agency I can never go back to.
"I can't breathe," I gasp out, my chest hitching hard. The vastness of the skyline behind me is just amplifying the suffocating claustrophobia of this golden cage. "The windows... they don't open."
I claw at the collar of my white blazer, trying to loosen a garment that isn't even buttoned. My throat feels like it’s being crushed by an invisible vice.
My vision starts flickering, black spots dancing aggressively at the edges of the room.
The fight-or-flight response is completely haywire, redlining an engine that has nowhere to go.
I am a federal agent trained for this exact kind of psychological warfare, and I am standing here drowning on dry land.
"Make it stop," I whisper, sounding like a dying animal. "Please... I can't... Help."
Leon doesn't rush. He moves toward me with the terrifying, fluid grace of a predator who knows the prey is already boxed in.
He sheds his suit jacket in one smooth motion, tossing it carelessly onto a nearby leather chair.
He steps directly into my space, his shadow completely swallowing me whole.
He slowly rolls up his sleeves, revealing the thick, corded muscle of his forearms and the faint, jagged white scars on his wrists.
The heavy, expensive watch on his wrist clinks softly in the quiet room.
"You’re not dying, Alessia," he says, his voice flat and absolute. He is taking up all the fucking oxygen in the room. "Stop fighting the air."
He steps closer, the shift in the room's barometric pressure making my ears ring. "Focus on me."
I press myself harder against the glass, shaking out of control. He slams his hand flat against the window right next to my ear. The sharp crack of his palm on the reinforced glass echoes like a gunshot, making me flinch hard. He leans down, towering over me, forcing me into his shadow.
"Look at me," he commands. His voice drops into that low, vibrating register that bypasses the brain and demands pure physical obedience. He uses his free hand to catch my chin, his long fingers gripping my jaw tightly, tilting my head up so I have absolutely no choice but to meet his eyes.
"Breathe, Claire."
Hearing my undercover name feels like a knife twisting in my gut. He is using it on purpose. Reinforcing that the agent is dead, and only the corrupted, ruined persona he broke remains.
"I didn't give you permission to fall apart," he says, his ice-blue eyes boring into mine, entirely devoid of panic. He is a machine. "Look at my eyes. Claire. Answer me."