Chapter Ten
Roman
Time compressed to a single, critical moment—Enzo's gun trained on my back, my weapon aimed at Tommy, and Celia caught between us with fear and confusion warring in her eyes.
The code phrase I'd just uttered—"Queen of Hearts folds"—would trigger our tactical team, but it would take at least ninety seconds for them to reach this position. Ninety seconds with Enzo's finger on the trigger.
"Drop your weapon, Detective," Enzo repeated, his Italian accent thickening with stress. "I won't ask again."
I made the calculations instantly: Turn and shoot Enzo, giving Tommy the opening to slit Celia's throat. Surrender my weapon, losing our only advantage. Or option three—the high-risk play that might save us all.
"You know I can't do that, Enzo," I replied, keeping my gun steady on Tommy. "Just like I know you aren't here alone. My team has been tracking every communication between you and the Licatas for the last month. They're moving into position right now."
Uncertainty flickered across Enzo's face—a momentary tell that bought me precious seconds.
"He's bluffing," Tommy snarled. "If they had that kind of surveillance, they'd have moved on the merchandise already."
"Did we?" I asked, allowing myself a tight smile. "Check your phone, Enzo. See if Gianna's latest message came through."
The security chief's composure faltered as he glanced at his pocket. That quarter-second distraction was all I needed.
I lunged sideways, simultaneously firing a shot that clipped Enzo's shoulder while using my body to shield Celia from Tommy's knife. The blade sliced through my sleeve, drawing a line of fire across my forearm, but failed to reach anything vital.
Enzo staggered backward, dropping his weapon as he clutched his bleeding shoulder. The gun clattered to the catwalk floor, spinning toward the edge before stopping against a metal support.
"Federal agent!" I shouted, my badge now visible where I'd withdrawn it from inside my jacket. "Thomas Licata, you're under arrest!"
Tommy's eyes widened, his grip on Celia temporarily loosening in shock. She seized the opportunity, driving her elbow hard into his solar plexus. As he doubled over, gasping, I pressed my advantage, tackling him to the catwalk floor.
We crashed against the metal grating, Tommy fighting with the desperate strength of a cornered animal. He slashed wildly with his knife, the blade whistling past my ear as I twisted to avoid it. I locked my hand around his wrist, slamming it repeatedly against the metal walkway until the knife finally clattered free.
"You're making a mistake, Kane," Tommy wheezed, still struggling beneath me. "Vincent was right about you all along."
I flipped him onto his stomach, pulling his arms behind his back with enough force to make him grunt in pain. "That's Detective Kane to you."
Handcuffs clicked into place around his wrists, the sound oddly final amid the chaos. Only then did I dare look at Celia, still standing frozen a few feet away, one hand pressed to the shallow cut on her throat.
"Roman?" Her voice was barely audible. "You're a cop?"
"Detective. LVMPD, on loan to a federal task force." I secured Tommy, checking that Enzo remained incapacitated at the far end of the catwalk. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell you. The operation was classified."
"Classified," she echoed, the word hollow. "So everything was... was part of your cover?"
Before I could answer, Tommy began laughing—a bitter, mocking sound. "Oh, this is rich. The detective and the paralegal, both playing dress-up at the Jade Petal. Tell me, sweetheart, did he know who you were before he fucked you? Or was that just a bonus while he used you as bait?"
She flinched as if he'd slapped her. "Shut up."
"Celia Marshall," Tommy continued, eyes gleaming with malice. "Legal assistant at Bailey & Finch. The nobody who found my brother's shadow ledger. Was it worth it? Watching your back, jumping at shadows, wondering when I'd finally—"
"I said shut up!" She stepped forward, and for a moment, I thought she might strike him.
"Ms. Marshall," I said formally, deliberately using her real name. "We need to move. Now."
The use of her actual identity seemed to snap her back to reality. Her spine straightened, chin lifting in defiance. "It's Celia," she said quietly. "And you're Roman Kane, not Roman King."
"Yes." The moment felt oddly intimate despite the circumstances—our true names finally spoken aloud, our real identities acknowledged.
A groan from the end of the catwalk interrupted the moment. Enzo was struggling to sit up, his security jacket darkening with blood where my bullet had grazed his shoulder.
"We need to get to the Dragon's Crown lounge," I told Celia, keeping my tone professional. "That's where the main operation is happening. Stay behind me."
"Not so fast," Tommy called from his prone position. "You're too late, Kane. The transfer started fifteen minutes ago. By now, the merchandise is already—"
The wail of an alarm cut through the air, followed immediately by the sound of multiple doors slamming open throughout the building.
"That would be my team," I said, allowing myself a grim smile of satisfaction. "Right on schedule."
Tommy's face contorted with rage. "You son of a—"
He never finished the sentence. With shocking speed for a man in handcuffs, he jackknifed upward, driving his shoulder into my midsection. The unexpected impact sent me stumbling backward. Tommy scrambled to his feet, hands still cuffed behind his back and charged toward Celia.
"If I'm going down, so is she!"
Time slowed. I registered several things at once: Tommy's trajectory aimed to knock Celia over the catwalk railing. My gun, holstered during the cuffing process. The distance between us—too far to close in time.
Celia's hand plunged into her costume pocket. No time to second-guess. One last chance. In one fluid motion, she flung something directly into Tommy's face—a second pouch of flash powder. The chemicals ignited on contact, momentarily blinding both Tommy and me with a searing white burst that burned away all vision.
I lunged forward blindly, tackling his legs as he stumbled. We crashed against the catwalk railing, the metal groaning under the impact. For one heart-stopping moment, I thought we'd both go over the edge, plummeting to the concrete floor thirty feet below.
Then Celia was there, grabbing my collar, helping anchor us to the walkway. Together, we subdued Tommy again, this time securing his legs with zip ties from my pocket.
"Nice throw," I managed, blinking away the aftereffects of the flash, colorful spots still dancing across my vision.
"Val insisted I carry spares," she replied, her voice steadier now. "For emergencies."
The sound of boots pounding on metal interrupted us. The catwalk door burst open as Murphy and Torres—two of my undercover officers—rushed in, weapons drawn, tactical vests emblazoned with police insignia.
"Detective Kane!" Murphy called, quickly assessing the scene. "Status?"
"Secure," I replied, gesturing to Tommy and the wounded Enzo. "Primary target subdued. Secondary wounded but contained. What's the situation at the Crown?"
"Team in place. They're securing evidence now." Torres moved to take custody of Tommy while Murphy checked Enzo. "Operation successful. Five arrests including Gianna Bianchi, multiple bagmen, and two couriers. Cash, ledgers, and electronic evidence seized."
Relief washed through me. After eleven months undercover, we'd finally done it. The Licata operation was dismantled, Tommy Lace in custody, and the evidence chain secured.
"This isn't over," Tommy spat as Torres hauled him to his feet. "You think Vincent doesn't have contingency plans? You think you got everybody?"
I ignored him, turning instead to Celia. "Are you okay?"
She stood apart from the activity, arms wrapped around herself, watching with an expression I couldn't quite read. A smear of blood had dried on her neck, and her stage makeup was streaked with sweat and tears. Yet somehow, with her hair wild and costume in disarray, she looked more authentic than she ever had as Nova.
"Physically? Yes."
The unspoken implication—that emotionally, she was far from okay—wasn't lost on me. I stepped closer, keeping my voice low. "I wanted to tell you."
"But you couldn't," she finished. "The mission came first. I understand."
"The mission and your safety," I corrected. "If you'd known I was law enforcement—"
"I might have trusted you sooner?" A hint of the fire I'd come to admire flashed in her eyes. "Instead of thinking I was completely alone?"
I had no good answer for that. She was right. The operational security I'd maintained had left her isolated and vulnerable, even after I'd recognized she was in danger.
Before I could respond, Detective Aria Chen appeared at the catwalk entrance, her tactical vest emblazoned with LVMPD insignia. Her short black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and her expression was all business.
"Kane," she called. "We need you at the Dragon's Crown. There's something you should see."
"Go," Celia said, stepping back. "You have a job to finish."
I hesitated, torn between duty and the desperate need to explain myself to this woman who'd somehow become much more than just a civilian in my investigation.
"I'll find you," I promised. "When this is done. We need to talk—properly."
She nodded once, then turned away.
The Dragon's Crown lounge had transformed from exclusive VIP sanctuary to crime scene in less than fifteen minutes. Our tactical team was already busy cataloging evidence, securing suspects, and documenting the scene. The opulent space—all jade-colored velvet and gold accents—now hummed with radio chatter and camera flashes.
Gianna Bianchi sat handcuffed in a plush velvet chair, her elegant composure finally shattered. Her ice-blonde hair had come loose from its perfect chignon, and her designer dress was stained where someone had spilled a drink during the takedown. Across from her, two men I recognized as Licata associates were being processed by officers. A third man—unknown to me—sat bleeding from a head wound, likely having resisted arrest.
On the central table lay the prize we'd spent months tracking: three leather-bound ledgers and an electronic tablet detailing the Licata money-laundering operation. Beside them, cases of cash and bearer bonds—evidence that would ensure RICO charges stuck.
"Over two million in untraceable currency," Aria said, joining me at the evidence table. "Plus complete documentation of their shell company structure. The DA's going to have a field day with this."
I nodded, satisfaction warring with exhaustion. "How did you know the exchange was happening tonight? The intel suggested Friday."
"We didn't," she admitted. "Your signal came in right as we were setting up our surveillance perimeter. When you transmitted 'Queen of Hearts folds,' we mobilized instantly. Perfect timing."
Not perfect , I thought, remembering the knife at Celia's throat. But close enough.
"And the woman?" Aria asked, her tone carefully neutral. "Nova Sinclair—or should I say, Celia Marshall?"
I tensed. "What about her?"
"Do we need to prepare a containment protocol—for her safety or yours?"
The question carried layers of meaning. In our work, civilian entanglements often required management—witnesses to be debriefed, statements to be taken, emotions to be handled. But the professional language couldn't disguise the real question: Was Celia more to me than just a case-adjacent civilian?
"She was targeted by Tommy Lace because she discovered evidence that convicted his brother," I said, keeping my voice even. "She's been in protective hiding as Nova Sinclair. Her identity and safety are priorities."
Aria studied me, her experienced eyes missing nothing. "And that's all?"
I met her gaze directly. "No. That's not all."
To her credit, she didn't push further. Instead, she nodded toward the evidence. "You did good work, Kane. Eleven months deep cover, and you brought it home. The lieutenant's already talking about commendations."
The praise felt hollow compared to the weight of unfinished business with Celia. I'd maintained my cover at the cost of her trust. I'd protected the operation while leaving her to face Tommy's threats partially alone.
"I need to find her," I said, already turning toward the door.
"Official debrief in two hours," Aria called after me. "Don't be late."
I found Celia in her dressing room, methodically removing the remnants of her stage makeup. The midnight-blue costume lay discarded on a chair, replaced by the simple street clothes she'd arrived in days ago—dark jeans and a burgundy blouse that complemented the highlights in her hair. All traces of Nova Sinclair were disappearing.
I knocked on the door frame, though it stood open. "May I come in?"
She glanced up, her reflection meeting mine in the mirror. "Detective Kane."
"I think we're past formalities, don't you?" I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. The small room smelled of cold cream and jasmine perfume, with an undercurrent of the theatrical makeup that had transformed her night after night.
"Are we? I don't know." She set down her makeup wipe, turning to face me directly. "I don't actually know who you are."
The accusation stung, especially because it held truth. "My name is Roman Kane. I'm a detective with the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, assigned to a joint task force investigating organized crime. I've been undercover at the Jade Petal for eleven months, tracking the Licata family's money-laundering operation."
"That's your resume," she said quietly. "Not who you are."
I took a deep breath. This wasn't an interrogation or a debriefing. This was something far more personal, and for the first time in nearly a year, I could speak without calculating every word.
"I grew up in Dallas. My father was career military. My mother's a retired ER nurse. I served six years in military intelligence before joining the police force. I love vintage motorcycles, blues music, and baseball. I keep a copy of Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea in every go-bag because it was the last gift my father gave me before he died."
Her expression softened slightly. "Why didn't you tell me you knew who I was? You could have said something when I showed you Tommy's photo."
"Operational security," I began, then stopped myself. "No, that's not entirely true. At first, it was protocol—I couldn't risk compromising the larger investigation. But after... after things changed between us, I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"That you'd think everything had been calculated. That you'd believe I'd used you as part of the operation." I moved closer, close enough to see the faint tremor in her hands. "I never expected you, Celia. You weren't in any briefing or case file. You weren't part of my mission parameters. You were..."
"A complication," she finished.
"A revelation," I corrected. "Someone who saw through Roman King to the man beneath. Someone who recognized the masks we both wore but connected with the truth behind them anyway."
She looked away, but not before I caught the glimmer of tears. "Miles called. He says I can come back to my real life now. The firm will handle the press. Make it seem like I was on a special assignment, not hiding from a stalker."
"Is that what you want?" I asked. "To go back to being just Celia Marshall, legal assistant?"
Her eyes met mine again. "Is that what you want? For me to go back to being just another civilian you encountered during an operation?"
"No." The word came without hesitation. "What I want is to take you to dinner—no costumes, no cover stories, no earpieces. Just Roman Kane and Celia Marshall, figuring out who we are when we're not hiding."
A small smile touched her lips. "That sounds suspiciously like a date, Detective."
"It is," I confirmed. "Unless you'd prefer to file it as a witness interview."
Her laugh, though brief, was genuine. "I think I've had enough official paperwork for a while."
"Then it's a date."
She considered me for a long moment. "This is crazy. We barely know each other."
"I disagree," I said. "I know you're brilliant at spotting patterns others miss. I know you're brave enough to face down a knife-wielding mobster with nothing but flash powder and quick thinking. I know you're loyal to a fault and protective of those around you."
I stepped closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. "I know the smell of your perfume and the sound of your laughter. I know how your breath catches when you're afraid but pushing through it anyway. I know the exact shade of pink your cheeks turn when you're embarrassed."
Her lips parted in surprise. "You noticed all that?"
"I'm a detective," I reminded her with a half-smile. "Noticing details is what I do."
"And what do those details tell you?" she asked softly.
"That there's something here worth exploring. Something that started between Roman King and Nova Sinclair but belongs to Roman Kane and Celia Marshall."
She reached up, her fingers lightly touching the cut on her neck, wincing slightly at the tenderness. "It's not going to be simple, is it? After everything that's happened."
"Simple? No," I agreed. "But maybe that's not what either of us needs."
Outside her dressing room window, the first light of dawn painted the Vegas skyline in shades of gold and pink. The neon glare that dominated the Strip at night had softened, giving way to the gentler illumination of morning. The night's darkness was receding, taking with it the shadows we'd both hidden in for so long.
"Breakfast?" I suggested, nodding toward the sunrise. "I know a place off the Strip that makes incredible waffles. A fresh start."
She smiled—a real smile that reached her eyes. "I'd like that. No more secrets?"
"No more secrets," I promised, extending my hand.
After a moment's hesitation, she took it. Her fingers intertwined with mine, warm and real and present.
For the first time in eleven months, I wasn't Detective Kane or Roman King or any other version of myself crafted for an operation. I was simply a man standing before a woman. Both of us bruised. Both of us still standing. Both of us finally stepping into the light.