CHAPTER 16
ALESSIA P.O.V.
The office smells like ozone, expensive leather, and the lingering copper tang of my own blood.
I sit perfectly still in the massive desk chair, drowning in Leon’s charcoal-grey dress shirt.
The hem hits my mid-thigh, the fabric still carrying his body heat, and the sheer absurdity of my situation is scraping against my skull.
I am sitting in a cartel boss’s chair, wearing his clothes, obsessively picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve while my freshly bandaged arm throbs with a dull, rhythmic heat.
My fingers tremble slightly, snagging the thread, pulling it tight.
I’m wired. The adrenaline from the drive-by is still kicking through my system, a nasty, electric hum that refuses to die down.
I should be terrified. I should be formulating an escape plan.
Instead, I’m just trying to keep my skin from crawling right off my bones, hyper-fixated on the sensation of the medical tape pulling tight against my flesh.
Leon steps into the doorway. He moves with that predatory stillness of his, his large silhouette blocking the light from the hallway.
He’s already changed into a fresh suit, the sharp lines of the dark fabric mocking the absolute chaos of the last hour.
The only visible evidence of the violence on the street is the raw, reddened state of his knuckles.
"Does it still burn?" he asks, his voice entirely too calm.
I keep my eyes on the thread. "I've had worse paper cuts."
"You look small in that chair, Alessia." He walks in, the door clicking shut behind him, sealing us in the soundproof vault of his world. "The adrenaline is a hell of a drug, isn't it?"
I finally look up. "Don't look at me like I'm the one who pulled the trigger on the street."
He doesn't flinch. He just walks right past the desk and heads straight for the wet bar in the corner. He’s deliberate, focused, moving with calculated intent as he grabs a heavy crystal tumbler.
He pours two fingers of dark, peaty bourbon.
He doesn't offer me a choice. He walks back and sets the glass directly in front of me on the mahogany desk. Without waiting for a thank you, he turns and taps a glass panel on the wall. The room’s ambient lighting instantly drops, the warm gold fading into a deep, technical blue that makes the shadows in the corners look razor-sharp.
He picks up a pair of silver tongs, grabs a single ice cube, and drops it into my glass. The sharp clink echoes against the walls.
"Drink," he says. "It’ll settle the nerves you’re pretending not to have."
"I don't want a drink. I want a minute to think."
"We’re done with the soft parts of the evening." He leans against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. "I need your eyes on something."
I push the glass a fraction of an inch away. "I’m off the clock."
"The bourbon is older than your career. Respect it."
I ignore the drink and watch as the far wall of the office suddenly wakes up.
A massive interactive digital map of the city blooms across the screens, the brightness forcing me to squint.
It’s a fucking masterpiece. My reflection is caught in the glossy screen, laying my face right over a grid of red zones and moving blips.
I recognize the back-end coding almost immediately.
It’s a corrupted, unauthorized version of the FBI’s own Sentinel software, tweaked and fed with illegal data streams to show real-time movements of police cruisers, rival stash houses, and flickering heat signatures.
"Where did you get military-grade mapping?" The question slips out before I can censor my own professional curiosity.
"I bought it from a man who used to sit three desks down from you," Leon says flatly.
"This is a violation of a dozen federal statutes."
"Look at the blue lines, Alessia." He points to the clusters of police cruisers patrolling the outer districts. "That’s your former life."
"My current life," I snap back.
Leon ignores the correction. "The city looks different when you aren't looking through a badge, doesn't it?"
He taps a knuckle against the screen, right over a blinking red cluster in the industrial district. The digital map ripples under his touch. "They missed the kill, but they smelled blood."
"It was a drive-by, Leon. A sloppy one."
"In this world, a graze is as good as a death sentence if you don't bite back." His voice drops into a cold, lethal register. "I want them erased. Not disciplined. Erased."
I stare at the blinking red cluster. He’s not talking about a warning shot. He’s talking about a massacre. If he doesn't respond by dawn, the blood in the water is going to bring every rival in the five boroughs straight to this penthouse. And I am standing right in the blast radius.
"By sunrise, I want their flagship operation in ashes," he says.
Leon steps back from the wall and gestures toward the console built into the desk.
He slides the heavy mechanical keyboard across the wood.
The sound of it scraping against the mahogany is loud as a gunshot in the quiet room.
It hits the edge of my notebook and stops perfectly centered in front of me.
"My lieutenants are hammers," Leon says, his eyes locking onto mine. "I need a scalpel."
I stare at the keys. "Are you insane?"
"Plan it. Every entry point, every extraction."
"I’m a federal agent."
"You know the FBI's blind spots better than God," he fires back. "Don't look horrified. You’re already an accomplice. Might as well be a useful one."
The sheer audacity of this man. I grip the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles turn white, perfectly mirroring the bruised, raw state of his hands. "I am not a hitman, Leon."
"I’m not asking you to pull the trigger."
"There’s a line between surviving and... this." I push the drink entirely away from me, the glass nearly tipping over and spilling the liquid. "If I do this, I’m exactly what they said I was. I validate Trenton. I validate every lie he put in my file."
"Alessia—"
"Go to hell. Plan your own slaughter."
Leon doesn't yell. He doesn't even raise his voice. He just stalks around the desk and boxes me in, placing his hands on either side of my body, caging me against the back of the chair. The heat radiating off his chest is immediate, mixing with the scent of woodsmoke and expensive wool.
"Trenton didn't just burn your file; he burned your life," Leon says, his voice low and vibrating with a terrifying kind of logic. "Your 'brothers in arms' are the ones who leaked your location today."
"You don't know that."
"Who do you think provided the rival gang with my SUV's route?"
I flinch. The logic is a steel trap snapping shut on my ankle. The Bureau has access to the traffic cams. Trenton has access to the surveillance net. The rivals couldn't have timed that hit perfectly without someone feeding them the GPS coordinates.
"The Bureau doesn't want you back," Leon whispers. "They want you buried."
He reaches out, his movement deceptively slow, and his thumb traces the very edge of the white medical tape on my arm. The contrast of his bruised skin against the pristine white bandage makes my stomach twist. "This is just the first scar they'll give you."
His thumb slides down, brushing the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, pressing right over my frantic pulse.
"I’m the only one who cares if you breathe tomorrow," he says softly. It’s manipulation 101, and I know it, but it’s also the absolute truth. "Let me be your shield, Alessia. But you have to give me the sword."
I try to pull my arm away, but his grip tightens just enough to keep me anchored.
"They think you’re a traitor already," he murmurs. "Prove them right."
I look past him, my gaze drifting involuntarily toward the glowing map.
I hate that my brain is already working.
The tactical data pulls at my mind like a magnet.
I can see the flaws in the rival's security grid without even trying. The gaps in their camera coverage. The bottlenecks in the supply routes behind the warehouse. I’m analyzing the geometry of the streets, calculating response times based on shift changes.
I unconsciously reach out, my fingers hovering over a silver pen sitting on the desk.
Leon tracks my hand. A dark, satisfied smile touches the corner of his mouth. "You’re already doing it, aren't you?"
"Shut up."
"You see the weakness in Sector 4."
I swallow hard, my throat feeling like sandpaper. I shouldn't know this. I shouldn't be thinking about how a three-man team could breach that loading dock in under forty seconds using a thermal lance.
"Tell me what you see, Agent Heller."
I squeeze my eyes shut. "This goes against every protocol I was ever taught."
"Don't fight the instinct. It’s the only honest thing you have left."
I reach out and take a small, shaky sip of the bourbon. The liquid burns a harsh trail down my throat, grounding me in the immediate reality of the room. "Those rules exist for a reason," I whisper, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears. "Rules of engagement. Civilian safety."
"Those rules were written by men in offices who never bled." Leon leans closer, his eyes utterly unforgiving. "There are no civilians in this war, only targets and survivors."
"It’s not a war."
"Protocol didn't save you today. I did." He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Stop lying to yourself, Alessia. It’s beneath you."
He leans in until his chest is brushing my shoulder. The proximity is entirely suffocating. His breath stirs the loose strands of hair at my temple, sending a violent shiver down my spine. "They were afraid of what you could do without their leash."
"I don't need a leash."
"I’m not going to leash you, Alessia. I’m going to unchain you." His voice is a low vibration against my ear. "You’re a predator. Stop pretending to be a clerk."