Blood & Vows

CHAPTER 1

ALESSIA P.O.V.

One more hour, then I’m off the clock. I repeat the mantra in my head while staring straight at the dark, mirrored walls of the private elevator watching the floor numbers climb in glowing red digits.

Keep it professional. Keep it boring. I mentally run through the entire Claire persona, locking down the lethal reflexes and suffocating them under the fabricated anxiety of a mid-level logistics consultant who worries about import tariffs and delayed shipping containers at the port.

I adjust the strap of my leather shoulder bag, letting the weight of it settle against my hip.

There’s enough encrypted extraction tech stitched into the false bottom of this bag to sink Leon Falk’s entire smuggling empire, and I’m carrying it right into his living room.

The internal battle between my natural survival instincts and the three-year habit of absolute suppression is practically vibrating under my skin today.

Every single second spent inside this high-speed metal box is a forced transition from a federal agent to a submissive corporate asset.

I use the tip of my index finger to trace the faint, jagged old scar on my left palm, dragging my nail over the slick tissue as a grounding technique to keep my heart rate safely below eighty beats per minute.

Claire doesn't notice the hidden security cameras embedded in the ceiling panels.

Claire doesn't count the exact seconds it takes to travel between floors.

Claire is just an overworked civilian sweating through a cheap silk blouse she absolutely hates because the fabric is too thin and makes her feel completely exposed before she even steps into the room.

The scent of expensive, industrial-strength cleaning solvent permeates the air in the cab, mixing with the subtle, stomach-flipping vibration of the high-speed lift and the freezing temperature of the brass railings.

I tilt my head slightly to the right, activating the micro-receiver buried deep in my ear canal.

Trenton’s voice comes through instantly, distant and crackling, sounding like gravel being ground together at the bottom of a barrel.

"Green light, Heller. We’re recording."

I adjust my collar, feeling the hard, irritating plastic edge of the transmitter adhesive digging against my collarbone. I am entirely dependent on Trenton’s tech for my safety right now and if the comms fail, I am a ghost in the machine inside a fortress I can't shoot my way out of.

"Signal is five-by-five. You have sixty minutes," Trenton mutters into my ear. "Don't get cute. Just get the manifests."

The high-pitched whine of the frequency buzzes against my eardrum, leaving a sudden dry, metallic taste in the back of my mouth.

I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering if my handler is actually watching the live feed or if he’s already three drinks deep into his nightly scotch, feet kicked up on a desk in Quantico.

The elevator chimes. It's a soft, melodic, rich-people sound that feels entirely mocking right now.

Showtime. I smooth the front of my tailored blazer, push my shoulders back to rid myself of the tactical hunch, and force my eyes to soften into a dull, corporate glaze.

Breathe. Just breathe. I step toward the heavy steel doors as they slide open with a silent, hydraulic hiss.

The smell of cedar, ozone, and expensive leather wafts in from the penthouse, carrying the chill of over-active air conditioning.

I check my reflection in the dark glass one last time to make sure no stray auburn hairs are out of place.

He's just a man. A very dangerous man, but just a man.

Leon hasn't suspected a thing in thirty-six months. Today is no different.

I step out onto the stark white marble floor of the foyer.

The penthouse is a suffocating exercise in minimalist power.

Wide open spaces, massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the glittering city, harsh geometric furniture that looks like it costs more than my yearly salary.

My eyes scan the room out of pure habit and I immediately note the total lack of any security detail in the outer hall, which is completely off-script.

The silence in the space is heavy, a massive vacuum sucking the confidence right out of my chest. I walk deeper into the room, spotting a single, stray thread hanging off the edge of a twenty-thousand-dollar sofa.

I have the bizarre, neurotic urge to reach down and pluck it just to prove the room is real.

My tactical brain is practically screaming that the environment is entirely too clean.

There are no files spread out on the tables, no laptops humming on the desks.

It looks like a staged set, not a working office.

"Hello? Mr. Falk?" I project a forced, cheerful customer-service voice that makes me want to gag.

I walk to the massive marble island in the center of the living area and place my bag on the cold stone. My fingers remain poised right near the zipper, hovering an inch from the hidden compartment. I grip the edge of the marble until my knuckles turn bone white.

"I have the updated port manifests for the Singapore shipment."

Nothing. The ticking of a hidden clock somewhere in the room echoes off the glass. The faint smell of rain-slicked pavement drifts through the massive ventilation grates.

"Is anyone here?" I call out again. "Sorry if I'm early. The traffic was surprisingly light."

I realize my earpiece has gone completely quiet. Not dead, just silent. Trenton isn't breathing heavily into the mic anymore.

"I can just leave these on the desk if you're busy."

"You’re right on time, as always."

Leon emerges from the dark shadows of the hallway like a fucking nightmare.

He isn't wearing his usual suit jacket. He's dressed in a dark, tailored waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows to reveal thick, corded forearms. His knuckles are bruised a deep, ugly, mottled purple, looking exactly like they just spent the morning shattering someone's jaw.

His presence is an immediate, crushing physical weight in the room.

He doesn't just enter a space; he occupies all the oxygen in it.

He slowly adjusts a silver cufflink on his left wrist, the metal glinting under the recessed lighting, his ice-blue eyes never leaving my face.

"I was just thinking about your commitment to the job, Alessia."

My heart forcefully stutters against my ribs. He used my name. Not Claire. Alessia. I swallow hard, my brain scrambling to rationalize it, telling myself I just misheard his low, gravelly accent.

"Come in. Don't stand there like a stranger."

I reach for my tablet, letting my hands tremble just enough to be visible if he's looking for signs of civilian anxiety.

He is definitely looking. He doesn't move to help me or even acknowledge the business we’re supposed to be doing.

He just stands there, a massive, broad-shouldered wall of muscle, his eyes fixed on me with a terrifying, laser-like clarity that strips the air right out of my lungs.

The social contract of our fake dynamic is actively breaking down right in front of me and he isn't playing the boss role anymore.

I fumble with the stiff latch on my bag, my pulse jumping visibly in the hollow of my throat.

"I have the Singapore logs. The delays were mostly weather-related."

The silence in the room becomes heavy like water. The dim ambient light catches the brutal scars crisscrossing his bruised knuckles.

"Is everything alright, Leon? You seem... distracted."

He doesn't blink.

"Should we do this later?"

Leon turns his back to me. It's a move of supreme, arrogant confidence.

He walks casually over to the wet bar. He picks up a heavy crystal decanter and pours a thick measure of amber liquid into a single lowball glass.

He doesn't ask what I want. He doesn't offer me a damn thing.

He doesn't even look back as he pours, asserting with pure body language that this is his space, his rules, and I am merely an observer who is allowed to breathe his air.

"It’s a rare vintage. Hard to find. Takes a lot of effort to keep things this pure," he says, swirling the bourbon. The ice cubes click against the glass like teeth chattering.

"Sit down, Alessia. You look tired."

The sharp, peaty aroma of the liquor hits my nose.

The massive shadow he casts stretches completely across the floor and swallows the marble island where I'm standing. He’s savoring this.

The bastard is a cat playing with a cornered mouse and he wants me to know the game is already over before he even strikes.

"The world is full of people trying to be something they aren't. Don't you agree?"

I try to sound incredibly annoyed, leaning into the standard Claire reaction to a rude, overbearing client.

"If you're not in the mood for the review, I'll just email the files.

" I start shoving my tablet back into the bag, my movements intentionally jerky and fast. I zip the bag shut with a harsh, metallic rasp that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Leon just watches me over the rim of his glass, taking a slow sip. His expression is entirely unreadable, cold and dead.

"I have another meeting across town in twenty minutes," I lie.

The sweat is slicking my palms now. A jet engine roars faintly high above the building, momentarily masking the sound of my own erratic breathing.

I calculate the exact distance to the elevator doors behind me.

Ten feet. Twelve at most. I can clear it in two seconds if I drop the bag and bolt.

"Leon, you're making me uncomfortable."

A sudden, violent burst of white noise explodes directly inside my ear canal.