Chapter 32
KATIE
I cry myself to sleep that night, the tears soaking into my pillow as I grieve what could have been. For some stupid reason, I really believed what Roan and I had was real. That the connection between us meant something beyond manipulation and strategy.
I didn’t want to search through Afrim’s office. Because of Roan.
Didn't want to betray his trust because I was terrified of destroying whatever this thing was growing between us. But I had no choice—not if I wanted Kayla to be safe.
While I was agonizing over loyalty and feelings, he had no such restrictions.
Maybe because he knew from the beginning there was nothing real happening between us. It was all just him strategically softening me up, breaking down my defenses so I’d be compliant. Useful.
And I melted like fucking butter in his hands.
Pathetic.
It’s like I’m that na?ve eighteen-year-old who met Stacey all over again. Impressionable. Desperate for approval.
Awe-struck that the beautiful older woman took an interest in me. That she thought I was worthy enough to be in the FBI. That she would go out of her way to help find my sister.
I was too goddamn dumb to realize she only wanted to use me.
And here I am again, falling for the exact same trick with a different face.
When will I learn?
The next morning, I force myself to straighten my spine and steel my resolve as I walk out of my room towards the main house driveway where Roan is waiting. He’s standing next to the convoy of cars we’ll be using for the mission, looking every inch the dangerous crime lord he is.
“You good?” He catches my wrist as I pass, and I can almost see genuine concern in his smoldering green eyes. Delusional.
“Like you care,” I scoff, trying to yank my wrist free, but he refuses to release me.
I sigh, ignoring the pathetic way my heart races at his touch.
“You need to drop this routine, Roan. It’s over.
Done. I know the truth now, so we can’t just go back to the way things were—pretending you care about me when we both know you don’t. ”
His brows pull together, and my heart squeezes traitorously at what looks like hurt flickering in his gaze. “But I do care about you.”
I shake my head slowly, suddenly exhausted by it all. “Can we do this later, please? I can’t think about you or—or this—” I wave my free hand helplessly between us. “—right now. My sister has to be my priority.”
“Of course.” He releases me at once and moves back. His gaze flicks to the front door where Dhimiter and a few of his men are heading down the front steps, and he lifts a hand, signaling them to hurry up.
I turn away from him, facing the nondescript, worn-looking sedan that’s supposed to take me to Kayla. Roan fades from my mind as my heart starts to pound, anxious anticipation building at the thought of seeing my sister again after twelve long years.
Twelve years of search. Of hoping. Of failing.
I fidget restlessly next to the car, toying with the door handle, fighting the urge to just yank it open and demand we leave immediately and—
“Katina…”
My heart pounds for an entirely different reason now, and thoughts of Roan come rushing back unbidden—his touch, his smile, the way he says my name like it means something. I told him not to call me that, damn him. I clench my hands into fists as I turn to face him.
“Dhimiter, Logan, Vance, Mason, and Kyle will be going with you.” He gestures to each man as he mentions their names, and I frown as I take in the tall, muscular men.
“We agreed I’d need to go alone to make my cover story believable,” I point out, running a hand down my nun’s habit. “What nun travels with bodyguards?”
“They won’t be your bodyguards,” he counters with a small, proud smile. “Meet your priest and fellow monks travelling with you.”
I look at them again with new eyes. Dhimiter is the priest, and the other guys he appointed as monks have their hair cropped short to their scalps. I suppose they could pass for monks if you don’t look too closely.
I purse my lips skeptically as I study them all.
“They are going with you, Katina. Or you’re not going at all. Under no circumstances am I letting you go to that abbey alone.”
My heart slams into my throat, and for just a moment, I can almost fool myself that he really is worried about me. That maybe he even cares about me, even just a little. Maybe, like me, he fell in love despite his best efforts not to—because I love the fucker, damn it.
I tear my gaze from his quickly, terrified he’ll somehow read the confession written across my face. “It’s just an abbey full of clergy,” I argue weakly. “They stand no chance against me.”
Roan’s familiar scent suddenly surrounds me, and I glance back to find him impossibly close.
My pulse roars in my ears as he grips my chin with surprising gentleness between his thumb and index finger.
“I’m not going to risk it, Katina. I’m not going to risk you.
Because when we both get back safely, we’re going to talk. Really talk.”
Before I can respond, he leans down and gives me a hard, quick kiss that’s over almost as soon as it started.
I lick my tingling lips as he pulls back, and when his eyes darken, my pussy clenches instantly.
Because fuck, I recognize that look now.
Know exactly what it promises, and what usually follows.
He opens the back door of the sedan. “Good luck out there, baby.”
“You too—be careful,” I murmur as I slip into the car, purposely brushing my body against his in the process.
I don’t miss his sharp inhale, the way his body goes rigid at the contact.
It makes me feel a little better. That maybe not everything was fake.
At least his desire for me was real, even if nothing else was.
He smirks at me. “Always careful.”
Dhimiter settles into the passenger seat with obvious reluctance, and one of the men—Vance, I think—slides behind the wheel. The the other three men pile into a second sedan that will follow behind us.
Before I can stop myself, I wave at Roan as the car pulls away, and he waves back, lips curved in a small smile.
This is it.
I’m getting my sister back.
We make a quick stop at a religious supply store before we leave Manhattan and pick up appropriate clothes for the guys along with various religious items like Bibles, incense, rosaries, and other liturgical objects to sell our cover story.
“Well, you don’t look like any priest I’ve ever seen, Father,” I chuckle when Dhimiter returns to the car in his full cassock.
The glare he tosses me says he’s not at all amused. “And you’ve seen a lot of priests then?”
I raise my hands in mock surrender, because I have, in fact, not seen that many priests. Maybe one or two.
“Here.” He hands me a manila folder containing several official-looking documents.
My smile fades as I scan them. Transfer papers—somehow bearing authentic signatures from Vatican officials.
The documents grant Father Angelo, monks Daniel, Elias, Paul, Matthew, and Sister Catalina—that would be me, I suppose—credibility to enter and stay at the abbey for their ‘spiritual rotation’.
“Wow, where did you get these?” I ask, genuinely impressed by the forgery quality.
“Roan is nothing if not thorough,” he answers as Vance starts the engine, and we pull out of the store parking lot, heading towards Long Island.
After a long, tense hour of driving, we finally turn onto the empty stretch of road leading to the abbey. I straighten instinctively, my hands becoming embarrassingly sweaty inside the sleeves of my habit, the veil’s edge scraping against my cheek.
I move my hand to the waistband, letting my fingers graze the reassuring solid weight of my gun. The weapon calms my racing nerves, reminding me we’re in control here. It’s just an abbey full of religious people—what can a priest possibly do? Exorcise us? Holy water us to death?
And if Fabian does have his men stationed here, they can’t be more than one or two. We’ve got this.
Our cars roll to a stop in front of the abbey just as a bell in the tower rings out, and I crane my neck to take in the imposing facade—narrow windows set into weathered stone walls, the whole structure radiating age and isolation.
The place is supposed to be quiet, holy ground dedicated to contemplation and prayer.
But I know better. These people fraternize with the evil that's Fabian Besharun; how holy can they possibly be?
And somewhere behind those heavy wooden doors, they're holding my sister hostage for him.
Dhimiter gets out first, his priest’s cassock settling neatly around him as he surveys the grounds, calm and unreadable as ever. I follow a beat later, the crisp air catching my habit and moving it around my legs. The atmosphere here is so fresh, the surrounding trees swaying gently in the breeze.
My heart thuds in my ears as I study the abbey’s entrance. One building. One way in. One way out. I keep my right hand low, close to where my gun is hidden beneath the fabric.
The other men with us exit their car as well and take up positions behind us. None of them speaks, and the beautiful part is that they don’t need to. Their silence is part of the disguise. They are monks who have taken the vow of silence.
The abbey doors swing open before we even approach to knock, and a lean priest steps into view.
He stands beneath the stone archway with his hands clasped serenely in front of him, a small welcoming smile on his face.
Behind him, I can make out two nuns and an older woman who must be the abbess—yes, I did extensive research last night specifically so I could blend in convincingly here.
“Good evening, Father,” Dhimiter greets, taking the transfer papers from me and extending them to the priest with appropriate deference.
He accepts them and scans the documents quickly, eyes skimming until they land on the Vatican seal at the bottom. “Ah yes, the spiritual rotation,” he murmurs, handing them back. “Welcome. Come in, come in. You’ll find our abbey a place of peace and quiet contemplation.”
My lips thin, but I keep my expression neutral and receptive. I don’t trust any of these people, but they don’t need to know that.
I offer a faint, measured smile as Dhimiter dips his head solemnly. “God bless you for your hospitality.”
God bless you? My face stays blank because I’m a professional, but internally I’m fighting back inappropriate laughter. Dhimiter playing priest is almost too much.
The priest and his companions lead us through dim stone corridors where candlelight flickers dramatically against the ancient walls, casting dancing shadows. Seriously, don’t they have electricity in this place? What century are we in?
Nuns glide silently past us, eyes lowered respectfully, and I scrutinize every face, desperately searching for Kayla. Would she be allowed to roam freely among them, or is she locked away somewhere?
My head is bowed in false humility, but my eyes move constantly as I follow the group into an interior courtyard. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight with readiness. We have no way of knowing who inside these walls is loyal to Fabian, who reports to him, and who might be watching us right now.
The priest speaks softly as he conducts a brief tour of the abbey grounds, and I’m grateful for Dhimiter who handles all the responses. I’m absolutely not in the right headspace for religious small talk right now.
After the tour and an excessive amount of murmured blessings, we’re separated by gender—me directed to join the nuns, while the men are led towards the monks’ quarters. I remain quiet and compliant as I walk with the small group of nuns, keeping alert for any opportunity to break away undetected.
As soon as I spot my chance, I take it.
I move quickly but not suspiciously, staying close to the wall, nodding politely at anyone who glances my way but not stopping for introductions or conversations. I have only one goal—find Kayla. If she’s not in the common areas, that means she’s being held hostage in a basement or something.
I slip into the cathedral, pausing as my eyes adjust to the dim light. The only illumination comes from the few lit candles with wax pooling at the base of their candelabras. Again with the medieval atmosphere. Would it kill them to flip a light switch?
The space is nearly empty, just a few scattered figures murmuring prayers or moving quietly between the pews. I sweep the room once, already bracing myself for disappointment—then I see her.
A small shape near the front pew, hands clasped loosely in her lap, eyes fixed ahead like she isn’t really seeing anything. She looks… resigned, weighted down.
My heart stutters as I take in her face. After all these years, there’s no mistaking her.
She's smaller than I thought she’d be, a little pale under the heavy fabric of the habit, her blonde hair mostly hidden, her features drawn and unnaturally quiet for someone so young.
But that face—God. It's my mother’s face.
Mine too. The resemblance lands like a blow, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
My stomach clenches violently as I just stare at her, rooted in place.
I’ve played this moment out a thousand times, rehearsed every word, every reaction.
But now that I’m actually here and she’s right in front of me, all of it vanishes.
She looks so calm. So distant, even though she’s never been closer.
I force myself forward, each step stiff and unsure. I don’t know what will happen. Don’t know if she’d even recognize me. Will she scream? Run? Shut down completely?.
I hesitate briefly, gathering every ounce of courage I possess, then slip into the pew next to her.
“Hello, sister,” I say, mouth dry with surprising nerves.
She turns, and our eyes meet—ice blue eyes, just like mine.
I suck in a sharp, involuntary breath.
Kayla.