CHAPTER 1 #2
"Static. Just static," I hiss under my breath. The screech is so deafening I almost drop to my knees on the stone. I manage to keep my hands locked rigidly at my sides, fighting the brutal urge to claw the transmitter out of my ear as my vision actually swims for a second.
"Trenton? Trenton, do you copy?" I whisper into my collar.
Nothing. The high-pitched ringing is all that's left. That wasn't a tech malfunction. That was a localized kill-switch. He has a military-grade jammer in the room. My literal lifeline to the bureau is entirely severed. I am dead to the FBI and utterly invisible to the rest of the world.
Leon sets his glass down on the mahogany bar with a definitive, heavy thud.
"I think we're done with the shipping manifests, don't you?"
He reaches his massive hand under the lip of the bar, his eyes locked onto mine with a predatory, expectant gleam.
He doesn't even look down to check where his hand is going; he knows exactly where the switch is hidden.
My hand drops to hover right near my hip, the tailored fabric of my blazer barely concealing the small .
380 semi-auto tucked tight into my waistband.
"There's something else we need to discuss."
His chest broadens as he takes a deep breath. The overhead lights flicker once.
"Look at me, Alessia. Really look at me."
Leon flips the switch.
A deep, resonant, bone-rattling clang vibrates straight through the floorboards, followed immediately by the grinding sound of heavy machinery shifting inside the walls.
It sounds exactly like a bank vault closing on a tomb.
I physically jump at the noise, my heels skidding a full inch backward on the polished stone.
"What was that?"
The vibration sets deep in my marrow. The smell of old mechanical grease and moving metal violently overwrites the expensive cedar in the room.
"Leon, what are you doing?"
I spin around just in time to watch thick, solid steel plates aggressively slide across the private elevator doors.
Multiple heavy deadbolts slam into place.
Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Sealing the entire unit shut.
The digital floor indicator above the doors flickers and goes completely black.
The red lock light illuminates on the wall panel. The flight option is gone.
"Open the door." I take two steps toward the barricade, my hand outstretched like an idiot as if I could stop three inches of reinforced steel with my bare fingers.
"Leon, this isn't funny." The finality of the metal hitting metal sucks the cold air right out of the room as the pneumatic seal tightens. "I need to leave. Right now."
"Open it!"
The heavy emergency shutters drop over the floor-to-ceiling windows with a rhythmic, deafening thud-thud-thud.
One by one, the glowing city skyline is completely blotted out by sheets of reinforced armor.
The penthouse is plunged into a dim, amber-hued artificial glow.
The outside world ceases to exist. Total isolation.
The acoustics of the room instantly shift, turning the massive, airy penthouse into a claustrophobic, soundproof kill-box.
"Why are you doing this?" I spin back to face him, forcing my voice to rise into a panicked, civilian soprano. "If this is about the rival gang, I can help you hide."
Leon leans his hip back against the bar, calmly presiding over the sudden darkness. He looks entirely unmoved, almost painfully bored by my performance. His shadow stretches toward me across the floor like an oil spill.
"You're scaring me, Leon."
"Is there a bomb? Is that what this is?" I begin to pace frantically, playing the part to perfection.
Wide eyes. Shallow breaths. Hand clutching my throat.
I fumble with my phone, tapping fruitlessly on a screen that displays zero bars of service.
"Please, I have a family. I have a life outside of this company. "
He just watches me. The faint, mocking smile on his lips is infuriating.
"Tell me what's happening!"
I press my thumb hard against my watch, trying to trigger the emergency distress beacon on the dial, but the jammer is entirely too strong. The device doesn't even vibrate. I bite the inside of my lip until I taste hot copper, using the sharp spike of pain to stay hyper-focused.
"Nothing. There's nothing," I mutter to myself. "Come on, Trenton. Pick up."
Silence. I am officially off the grid. No tactical rescue team is coming to breach those doors.
Leon pushes off the bar and begins to walk toward me.
He doesn't rush. He moves with the slow, terrifying, rhythmic grace of an apex predator that knows its prey has absolutely nowhere left to run.
The sound of his leather soles clicking against the stone is methodical.
I back away instinctively, my feet automatically finding the familiar patterns of a tactical retreat until the back of my knees hit the hard edge of the marble coffee table.
The physical space between us shrinks with every heavy footstep.
"You have such a talented way with words, Alessia."
He doesn't blink. He stays locked onto my face, tracking every micro-expression, every twitch of my jaw.
"I've enjoyed our little meetings these last three years."
The heavy scent of his bourbon-laced breath hits my face. He’s too close. If I draw the gun now, he can clear the gap and reach me before the barrel even clears the holster.
"But I think it’s time we stopped lying to each other."
Leon reaches his massive hand into the inner breast pocket of his waistcoat.
My muscles coil tight, entirely ready to strike, expecting a weapon.
He doesn't pull a gun. He pulls out a thick, cream-colored manila folder.
He tosses it casually onto the table. It slides perfectly across the smooth marble with a sickening, slick sound and stops right against my knuckles.
The folder is physically heavy. Thick with three entire years of my goddamn life.
"Read it."
I stare at the bold CONFIDENTIAL stamp on the cover.
"I think you'll find the contents very familiar."
My blood turns to ice.
"Your handler, Trenton, sends his regards."