CHAPTER 4
ALESSIA P.O.V.
The hum of the central air is a low, persistent drone. It mixes with the smell of expensive beeswax polish and the sharp, rhythmic tick-tock of a massive grandfather clock in the hallway.
"Stop pacing, Alessia. You're wearing a path in the Persian rug."
Leon is lounging against the wet bar. He hasn't moved a muscle in five minutes. He is just watching me with the absolute, unhinged stillness of a viper waiting for a mouse to make a wrong step.
"Just thinking about my options, Leon."
"You have no options. You have outcomes. Pick one."
The audacity of this motherfucker. My training demands I neutralize the threat in front of me, put a hollow-point between his eyes, and figure out the rest later.
But my logic—the cold, irritatingly rational part of my brain—reminds me that Leon is the only breathing organism capable of opening the electronic vault doors sealing off this penthouse.
I eye the steel panel next to the private elevator.
It requires a retinal scan or the syndicate’s master access card.
Without his biometric sign-off or that black plastic rectangle, I am buried alive in a tomb of glass and imported marble.
I adjust my collar, feeling the rapid, frantic thrum of my carotid artery against my fingertips.
"That elevator doesn't move without me," Leon says, tracking my gaze without turning his head.
"Every system has a back door."
"Not this one. I built the back door and then I burned it."
I stare at the cold glint of sunlight reflecting off the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The realization that my survival is tethered to his heart beating is a bitter pill of dependency I refuse to swallow.
I don't need to kill him. I just need to break him enough to make him bleed over that goddamn sensor.
Leon turns his back to me to reach for a crystal decanter on the shelf.
The syndicate's black access card sits perfectly flat on the marble counter, catching the afternoon light like a dark diamond.
It's right there. Three years of deep-cover bullshit, lying to everyone I know, sleeping with one eye open, and my golden ticket is sitting on a slab of stone.
But it sits squarely in the kill zone of his physical reach.
Getting it requires entering his personal space, and the man is six-foot-three of pure, violent muscle crammed into a sharp tailored dark suit.
He clinks the heavy glass stopper against the decanter’s neck. It’s a rhythmic, taunting sound.
"Drink, Alessia? You look like you need the edge taken off."
"I'll keep my edges sharp, thanks."
"Christ, you're a stubborn one."
The smell of peaty Scotch hits the air, sharp and smoky, followed by the heavy thud of the crystal glass hitting the counter.
I drop my center of gravity. I shed the remaining pretense of the loyal assistant.
I am not an asset anymore. I glide across the Persian rug, my feet making absolutely no sound.
I take a shallow, silent breath through my mouth to avoid any audible nasal whistling.
I know I am violating the very first rule of close-quarters engagement: never underestimate a man who already knows you’re coming.
The shadow I cast grows longer across the floorboards as I near the bar.
Slow. Smooth. Lethal. Don't think about the consequences.
"You’re very quiet for a woman with so much to say," Leon says, not bothering to look over his shoulder.
"Sometimes silence is the loudest thing in the room."
In one explosive, heavily practiced motion, I reach behind my back, clear the holster, and draw the .
380. I step into his space and level the barrel directly at the base of his skull.
The metallic click of the safety being disengaged cuts through the room like a gunshot.
The metallic tang of gun oil flares in my nostrils.
Drawing a weapon on Leon Falk is an act of war. There is zero walking this back.
My finger rests light as a feather on the trigger. The cold steel of the trigger guard bites into my skin. One twitch and I'll put a hole in that obscenely expensive suit.
"Don't move. Don't even breathe."
Leon doesn't flinch. He doesn't drop the glass. "Is that a gun in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?"
"Shut the fuck up and keep your hands on the bar."
He slowly takes a sip of his drink. He is completely ignoring the barrel pressed an inch from his spinal cord.
The utter lack of fear in his posture is more terrifying than an active counter-attack.
It undermines my entire tactical stance.
A single drop of sweat rolls down my temple, stinging the corner of my eye.
Condensation from his glass drips onto the marble with a tiny splash.
Why isn't he moving? He should be terrified.
"I said hands on the bar, Leon."
"You have the gun, but I have the door. Who's really in charge here?"
"I'm not playing."
Leon turns. He does it with agonizing, deliberate slowness, forcing the barrel of my gun to slide from his neck down to his chest. Now the muzzle is pressed flat against his sternum.
He looks down at the weapon like it’s a parking ticket, a minor bureaucratic annoyance.
Then he looks back up at me with a chilling, deadass predatory smile.
My gun is the only barrier between my chest and his.
His ice-blue eyes lock onto my hand, tracking the microscopic tremor in my grip with clinical, annoying precision.
The heat radiating from his massive frame washes over me, carrying the scent of expensive tobacco and sandalwood.
"You have good form. FBI standard," he mocks, his voice a low rumble.
"I’ll shoot you, Leon. Don't test me."
"No you won't. You're a pragmatist, Alessia. You need me."
He’s calling my bluff. The bastard is in my head. The barrel of the gun presses so hard against him it creates a small, sharp indentation in his fine silk shirt. He steps half an inch forward, crowding the weapon.
"Go ahead. Be the hero. Pull it."
"Stay back!"
"Poor little agent. All the training in the world, and you’re still just a bird in a cage."
He reaches out, perfectly calm, and taps the black access card on the counter with his index finger.
He picks it up with two fingers, waving it mockingly right at the edge of my peripheral vision.
The sharp snap of the plastic hitting the marble surface makes my adrenaline spike.
He holds it just far enough away that I have to break my stance to reach it.
He is using my own feral survival instinct as a weapon against me.
"Want it? Come and take it."
"Give it to me."
"Make me."
The bait is too much. I need that card. I lunge, my left hand snapping out to snatch the plastic off the counter while my right fights to keep the gun leveled at his chest. It’s a split-second error.
A fundamental division of focus. I sacrifice my defensive posture for a desperate, stupid grab.
My fingertips just barely graze the smooth edge of the card.
"Gotcha!"
"Mistake."
Leon explodes into a blur of motion. He is way too fucking fast for a man his size.
Before my brain even processes his shift in weight, he strikes the inside of my right wrist with a brutal palm heel.
A shockwave of pure, blinding pain shoots up my arm to my shoulder.
The sickening thud of bone hitting bone echoes off the glass walls.
The .380 is knocked skyward, my aim totally ruined before my finger can even pull the trigger.
"Motherfucker!" I spit.
"Too slow, Alessia."
My hand goes totally numb. He grabs my wrist and twists it violently into a joint lock, his heavy thumb pressing directly into the sensitive tendons.
I gasp as my joints are pushed right to the breaking point.
The gun slips from my useless fingers, clattering onto the marble bar and skittering away into the dark shadows underneath the cabinets.
The cold stone bites against my knuckles as I lose my grip.
"Let go!" I yell, trying to rip my arm back.
"I don't think I will."
Ignore the pain. Move to CQC. Go for the throat.
Using the momentum of his twist, I pivot hard on my left foot, spinning my body and throwing a savage right elbow aimed directly at his jaw.
I put every single ounce of my frustration, terror, and absolute hatred for this man into the blow.
My heels scuff aggressively against the floorboards looking for traction. The strike whistles through the air.
"Christ, you're a fighter," he growls.
"You haven't seen anything yet."
Leon doesn't even dodge. He just opens his massive hand and catches my elbow mid-air. The force of my own strike rattles my teeth. It’s like hitting a goddamn stone pillar.
He doesn't move a single inch backward. The vibration of the impact travels all the way up my arm and settles as an ache in my shoulder.
He squeezes my elbow, his heavy fingers digging sadistically into the muscle.
"Is that all?"
"Fuck you."
I drop low, shifting my weight to attempt a brutal leg sweep, aiming to take his lead leg out and bring him to the ground where my speed might actually mean something.
Leon simply shifts his hips, trapping my sweeping leg perfectly between his own thighs with a crushing, vice-like force that nearly snaps my shin in half.
The rough wool of his trousers grinds painfully against my bare ankle. I’m completely pinned.
"Nice try."
"Get off me!"
He shoves me backward with his chest, using his vastly superior weight to drive me across the remaining distance to the bar.
My spine hits the sharp marble edge with a jarring, violent crack that steals every cubic inch of air out of my lungs.
I wince, my kidneys taking the absolute brunt of the impact.
He looms over me, a wall of dark suit and hostility, his shadow swallowing me whole.
"Deep breaths, Alessia. You're going to need them."