CHAPTER 22
ALESSIA P.O.V.
The smell of stale cigar smoke mixed with the ozone of freshly discharged firearms hung over the cramped inner office.
My tactical vest pressed against my lungs, a ten-pound weight suffocating me while the flickering fluorescent light overhead pulsed like a dying heartbeat.
My finger trembled against the textured grip of my Glock.
The safety was already off. The metal was freezing against my skin, a stark contrast to the boiling adrenaline screaming through my veins.
Every hour logged at the Quantico shooting range fired off in my brain, running threat assessments, calculating bullet trajectories, screaming at me to de-escalate the situation because the paper targets back in Virginia never looked back at me with Leon’s eyes.
"Drop it, FED! Drop it or I paint the wall with him!"
The rival leader’s voice cracked, spit flying from his lips as sweat beads rolled down his forehead. He had the barrel of his pistol buried deep in the meat of Leon’s back.
"Leon, don't..." I choked out.
"Shut up! Hands where I can see them!" the rival shrieked, his panic making him sloppy.
Leon didn't move. He stood there like a statue carved out of violence, wearing a sharp tailored dark suit that didn't have a single crease out of place. He didn’t look at the gun pressed into his spine.
He looked straight at me. Ice-blue and terrifyingly calm.
He wasn't offering instructions. He wasn't barking orders.
He was just watching me, gambling his goddamn life on the darkness he knew he had successfully cultivated inside me over the last three years.
He slowly blinked. It was a gesture of absolute trust—or absolute provocation. My breath hitched in my throat. He's not asking for help. He's asking who I am. He wants to see if I’m still an agent of the law or if I’m his.
"Look at me, Alessia," Leon said smoothly, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.
"Don't look at him. Look at me," the rival stammered, his hand shaking.
"Decide," Leon murmured.
A bead of sweat dripped from the rival leader's brow and hit the floor with a tiny, wet sound that I heard with supernatural clarity over the distant wail of police sirens and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. The heat radiating from the panicked man’s body smelled like unwashed fear and sour desperation.
I stared at the steady thrumming of Leon’s pulse in his neck.
If he dies, I die. There is no world without him anymore.
I don't exist outside of the shadow he casts.
The rival leader cocked the hammer of his weapon. The metallic click echoed through the office like a thunderclap.
"Three!" he screamed, beginning a jagged, desperate countdown. "Two!"
He was going to shoot. He knew he was a dead man either way.
"I'm going to do it, I swear to Christ!"
I exhaled a long, slow breath. The Quantico training kicked in, but not the way they wanted it to.
I squared my shoulders. The trembling in my hands stopped instantly, replaced by a hollow, terrifying clarity.
I wasn't Agent Heller anymore. The mask cracked, fell away, and shattered on the floor. I adjusted my grip by a fraction of a millimeter, letting my thumb rest heavy and sure on the beaver-tail of the grip. I’m going to hell.
And I’m going there to keep this motherfucker alive.
"No more counting," Leon said softly.
"Goodbye, Trenton’s favorite agent," the rival sneered, his finger tightening.
"Do it, Alessia."
I pulled the trigger.
The 9mm round kicked back into my palm with a sharp, familiar jolt.
The gunshot crack was a physical force in the small room, deafening and brutal.
The orange muzzle flash illuminated the dark corners of the office for a split second.
The stinging smell of spent cordite filled my nostrils instantly, biting and bitter.
I didn't close my eyes. I watched the bullet rip through the space between us.
"Wait—!"
Shock froze the rival leader’s face a millisecond before the hollow-point struck him.
His head snapped back. He crumples like a marionette with its strings violently severed, hitting the carpet with a heavy, wet thud.
Blood began to bloom across the expensive rug, a dark, spreading stain that soaked into the fibers.
Leon didn't even flinch. He just stepped out of the way of the falling corpse with predatory grace.
A single drop of blood splashed onto the toe of my tactical boot.
That's it. It's done. I'm a killer.
"He's dead," I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.
"Yes, he is," Leon replied.
He stepped over the body as if it were a piece of trash.
He moved toward me, his massive presence expanding to fill the suffocating room.
He wasn't looking at me like I was his captive.
He looked at me like I was a masterpiece he had finally finished carving out of marble.
The air between us vibrated with the aftershocks of the violence.
I wanted to scream. I wanted him to hold me.
I hated that I wanted him to hold me more than I wanted to run.
Leon reached out and wiped a small smear of soot from my cheek with his thumb.
"Look at me, Alessia," he commanded softly. My eyes were glued to the dead man’s widening pupils. "Don't look at the floor. Look at what you are."
My hands started to shake so violently that my fingers went numb. The Glock clattered to the floor, the sound harsh against the silence. My knees buckled.
Leon was there. He caught my face in his large, scarred hands, his fingers digging into my skin, forcing my head up to maintain eye contact.
My teeth chattered, making a small clicking sound in the quiet room.
His palms were warm and rough, grounding me against the brutal reality of what I just did.
The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the metallic tang of fresh blood and gun smoke.
His hands were the only thing keeping the world from spinning completely off its axis.
"Breathe. For me," he ordered.
I gasped, sucking in air.
"I've got you," he said, his grip tightening. "Stay with me, Alessia. You were perfect."
He leaned down, his stubble scratching against my jaw as his lips brushed the shell of my ear.
"You’re mine now. Entirely," he whispered, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating directly into my chest. "No more lies, Agent Heller. You killed for me. Remember that."
I sobbed silently, my fingers gripping his wrists so hard I left red crescent-moon marks on his pristine white shirt sleeves. He was right. I was his. There was nowhere else for me to go. I had just executed a man to save the very syndicate boss I was sent to destroy.
Outside, the shouting of Leon’s men grew louder. The sounds of the world rushed back in.
"Move. We’re leaving," Leon barked, grabbing my arm. His grip was bruising as he steered me out of the office.
"Sven, clear the perimeter!" Leon yelled down the hallway.
"Don't look back," he muttered to me.
I moved in a dissociative daze. The hallway lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows through the dust and smoke.
The building vibrated from a distant explosion, but I barely registered it.
I nearly tripped over a spent shell casing, my balance failing me entirely, but Leon’s hand on the small of my back kept me moving forward.
The walls felt like they were closing in. I was trapped in this life now.
We burst out of the compound’s exit into the cold night air. The glare of the armored SUV’s high beams blinded me. I shivered violently as the freezing wind hit my sweat-soaked hair. The heavy smell of diesel exhaust filled the air as tires crunched over the gravel.
"Get in the car!" Leon shoved me toward the passenger door.
"Go! Go! Go!" Sven roared from the perimeter. "Secure the assets!"
I collapsed into the passenger seat. Leon slammed the door, the heavy armor plate sealing us into a pressurized silence.
He threw the vehicle into gear and peeled out, the tires screaming against the pavement.
The city lights blurred past the bulletproof glass in a stream of meaningless neon.
I just stared at a tiny scratch on the leather dashboard, unable to look anywhere else.
I was in a cage. A fast, expensive, bulletproof cage.
"Check the mirrors," Leon snapped into his comms while driving with aggressive, focused intensity. "Are we clear?"
Static buzzed. "Status report, Ivy."
I caught my reflection in the darkened side window.
There was a faint mist of blood on my cheek.
It wasn't mine. I started scrubbing at it with the sleeve of my tactical shirt, my movements frantic and repetitive. The scratchy fabric rubbed my skin raw, but I couldn't stop. It’s inside me now. Not just on my face. It’s in my lungs.
I scratched at my skin with my fingernails until I drew a thin line of my own blood.
"Stop it, Alessia," Leon said, glancing at me sideways.
"It won't come off," I choked out.
"Yes, it will. Stop."
He reached across the center console and grabbed my hands, crushing my trembling fingers in his. His heavy ring dug into the back of my hand. The pain grounded me, forcing me to focus on the sensation of him rather than the memory of the dead man's eyes.
"Breathe. Just fucking breathe," he ordered. "I've got you. You're not going anywhere."
I hated him for this. I hated him for breaking me down and I hated him for being the only thing I had left to hold onto.
We drove through the city streets, passing a couple walking a dog and a group of college kids laughing outside a bar.
I watched them through the glass like they were a different species.
I pressed my forehead against the cool window, leaving a foggy patch of breath on the glass.
"They don't know," I whispered.
"None of them know anything," Leon agreed, his voice flat. "That was you yesterday, Alessia."