CHAPTER 13
ALESSIA P.O.V.
I lock myself in the guest suite, the heavy click of the deadbolt sounding entirely too loud in the sudden, suffocating quiet.
The smell of expensive floor wax and the distant, sterile hum of the penthouse climate control grate against my nerves.
I drop to my knees beside my discarded tactical boots, my fingers trembling so badly I can barely pry at the interior lining of the left heel.
I dig my nails in, tearing the leather until I extract a slim, professional-grade tension wrench and a rake pick.
My psychological eject button. The very last tangible proof that I am a federal agent.
I sit back on my heels, repeatedly clicking the tension wrench against my thumbnail. Snick. Snick. Snick. The rhythmic, metallic sound is the only thing keeping me from screaming.
"Just one door. One lock," I mutter, staring at the thick mahogany paneling. "I could be out of here in three minutes."
The cold bite of the steel against my palm is supposed to feel like freedom, but my skin is still humming from the way Leon’s hand gripped the back of my neck during that logistics meeting.
He paraded me in front of his crew. He claimed me.
And the absolute most unhinged part of it all is that my body had leaned into his touch.
"Where would I even go?"
I shove the lockpick aside on the floor, driven by a sudden, feral need for logistical proof of my own existence.
I lunge for the nightstand and snatch Leon's secondary tablet. He left it here. Careless, or maybe he just wanted to see what I’d do.
I bypass the first layer of security with a numeric code I caught him entering two days ago.
I wipe a smudge of dried blood off the screen—collateral from the meeting downstairs—before navigating to a hidden, encrypted partition.
I type in the credentials for my FBI fallback accounts with frantic, bruising speed.
These are funds meant for a burn scenario.
The Bureau wasn't supposed to be able to touch them.
"Come on, Trenton, don't be that good," I whisper to the empty room. The blue light from the screen washes over my face, illuminating my pale, shaking hands. "If the funds are there, I'm still Alessia. Please, let there be something left."
The first account screen loads. It stalls for a fraction of a second before turning a violent, flat red.
ERROR 404: ACCOUNT TERMINATED.
I don't stop. I swipe out, type in the secondary alias, then the Cayman emergency fund.
Red screen. Red screen. Account Terminated.
Account Terminated. My heart starts hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird throwing itself against a window pane.
I grip the edges of the tablet so hard the casing physically creaks under my fingers. My knuckles are a ghostly white.
"Terminated? No, that’s not possible," I stammer, the high-pitched whine of the tablet's processor drilling into my skull. The bitter taste of bile rises in my throat. The red light makes my hands look like they're soaked in blood. "He’s doing it. He’s actually doing it. I’m still here. I’m right here. "
In a final act of utter masochism, I open a secure browser and run a deep-web trace on my official FBI credentials.
I type in my Social Security Number. The progress bar moves with agonizing, mocking speed.
One by one, the databases for the DMV, the Social Security Administration, and the Bureau of Personnel blink from ACTIVE to NO RECORD FOUND.
I am staring at a flat red screen that essentially says my entire thirty-one years on this planet never happened.
Trenton didn't just burn my operation, he didn't just pull my badge, he is literally scrubbing my genetic footprint from the grid like I’m a typo. I’m thinking about the Cayman accounts, the fallback funds, the shit that the Bureau wasn't even supposed to know about, the money I bled for, the aliases I spent three years meticulously building with fake utility bills and dummy corporations, all of it just gone, vaporized by some corrupt motherfucker sitting in a swivel chair in D.C.
hitting the delete key. If I don't have those accounts, I don't have a passport, I don't have a driver's license, I can't even buy a goddamn coffee without flagging a facial recognition database that will instantly send a heavily armed strike team to put a bullet in my brain.
Even if I used the lockpick right now and walked out the front door, I am a ghost. I am a non-entity.
I have absolutely zero legal right to exist on this earth.
"They’re scrubbing me," I gasp, reaching up to touch my own face, my fingertips pressing into my cheekbones just to make sure my skin is still solid.
The cold air from the vent overhead hits the sweat on my neck, making me shiver violently.
"I don't exist. Trenton, you motherfucker, you’re burying me alive. "
The lockpick slips from my lap. It hits the hardwood floor with a hollow, pathetic clink. I stare at it. The ultimate joke. I kick the steel rake away with my heel. It skitters under the dresser.
"What am I?" My vision blurs, the edges of the room warping as tears of raw, unadulterated rage well up. "There's nothing left. I’m dead. He killed me."
I scramble backward away from the tablet, my legs hitting the edge of the bed frame.
I slide down the heavy wood until I'm huddled on the floor, clutching my chest. My lungs feel like they've been filled with wet concrete.
The room is actively shrinking, the walls leaning in to crush me.
The sound of my own irregular, frantic heartbeat is deafening.
I dig my nails into my bare forearms, dragging them down the skin, trying to use the sharp physical sting to force my lungs to operate.
"Breathe. Just breathe," I choke out, my chest heaving in shallow, useless spasms. "I can't... I can't catch it. Please..."
"You were busy while I was on the phone."
Leon’s voice is a low, flat rumble that instantly sucks whatever remaining oxygen was left out of the room.
He stands in the doorway, a monolithic silhouette against the warm hallway light.
He doesn't rush to me. He doesn't offer a hand.
He walks over to the tablet lying on the floor, his sharp ice-blue eyes scanning the red screens, taking in the scattered lockpick tension wrench.
He absorbs the absolute destruction of my life in a single, cold glance.
He bends down, picking up the tension wrench between two large fingers. He examines the thin metal like it’s a curious, dead insect, then casually slips it into the pocket of his tailored charcoal suit.
"Checking the damage, little bird?" he asks, the scent of expensive tobacco and cedar rolling off him. "The Bureau moves fast when they want someone gone."
The sheer, detached audacity of him standing there smelling like wealth and control while I bleed out digitally snaps something deep in my prefrontal cortex.
I launch myself off the floor. The panic weaponizes into a blind, hysterical rage. I slam into him, my fists hammering against his solid chest. I scream, the sound tearing out of my throat raw and jagged. I blame him for the meeting, I blame Trenton for the burn, I blame the entire fucking system.
"You did this!" I shriek, swinging wildly, my knuckles cracking against his collarbone. I tear at the lapel of his suit, my nails catching and snagging on the fine wool. "Kill me! Just put a bullet in me and finish it! I hate you. I fucking hate you!"
He takes the first four blows like a brick wall.
He doesn't even flinch. Then, with a terrifying, liquid speed that a man of his size has no right to possess, his hands snap out.
He catches my wrists mid-swing, wrenching my arms down with bone-jarring force.
He doesn't just hold me; he dominates the space, his grip a brutal physical reminder of exactly how much power he has over my body.
"Are you finished?" he demands, his voice completely level.
I thrash against him, kicking his shins. "Let go of me!"
He squeezes my wrists, just enough to grind the bones together, forcing a sharp gasp out of me. He uses the leverage to jerk me forward, forcing me to look up into his eyes. They are terrifyingly still.
"Hit me again," he says softly. "See if it brings your name back. Stop. Look at me."
His thumbs press into my pulse points. I feel the fight rapidly draining out of my muscles, replaced by a hollow, sickening submission.
He doesn't release my wrists. Instead, he starts walking forward, using his massive frame to back me across the room.
I stumble backward until the small of my back slams hard into the edge of the heavy oak desk.
He steps directly into my space, pinning my arms to my sides, using his thick thighs to wedge my legs apart.
I am completely, utterly immobilized against the furniture.
The sharp edge of the wood digs into my spine. It hurts, and the localized pain finally forces a long, shuddering breath into my starving lungs.
"You’re not going anywhere, Alessia," he says, leaning his weight against me. The cold, polished wood at my back perfectly contrasts the heavy, suffocating heat of his body crushing my front. "The world outside is empty for you now. Face the truth."
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut as silent, racking sobs finally tear through my chest.
Leon leans down, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear. "Alessia Heller is dead. Let her burn."
I flinch, a fresh sob breaking in my throat.
"She was a pawn. A number on a spreadsheet," he rasps, nipping the edge of my earlobe. The sharp sting cuts straight through the noise in my head. "The Bureau threw you to the wolves. I’m the only one who didn't bite."