CHAPTER 8
ALESSIA P.O.V.
I am sitting on the edge of the velvet sofa, pulling air into my lungs like it costs money.
My breathing has finally leveled out from the crushing panic attack, but my body feels like it got dragged behind a truck on a gravel road.
I rub my bare arms, hyper-aware of how exposed my skin is without the structured, heavy weight of my blazer.
Leon stripped it off me like I was a goddamn child who spilled something on herself, and I hate the fact that his strict, terrifying command to just breathe actually worked.
It’s infuriating. It feels like a massive betrayal of my own agency that this syndicate motherfucker’s voice was the anchor I clung to when my brain decided to short-circuit.
I pick at a microscopic loose thread on the abrasive velvet upholstery, my fingers trembling slightly.
The entire penthouse smells like his expensive sandalwood cologne, sinking into my pores, reminding me that I am breathing his air, sitting on his furniture, existing entirely at his whim.
I wonder if this is the exact psychological sweet spot where a Stockholm victim officially loses her mind—hating the hand that feeds you while being pathetic enough to be grateful it isn't curled into a fist.
I force myself to stand. My legs feel like they’re filled with wet cement.
Leon is gone, likely down the hall in his office or that obnoxious private gym, which means this is the first actual moment I’m unobserved since the world tipped on its axis.
The physical exhaustion of the adrenaline crash is screaming at me to lie down, to sleep for a solid week, but my survival instinct is louder.
Sleep is a luxury for people who aren't currently marked for death. I need to move. I need to hunt. I roll my shoulders, hearing the sharp, satisfying pop of my joints as I force myself out of victim mode and back into a tactical posture. Get it together, Heller. You’re a federal agent, not a hostage waiting for room service.
I start a systematic, totally silent grid-search of the cavernous living space.
The cool air of the penthouse bites at my bare arms, but the floor is vibratingly still beneath my feet.
I check under the heavy furniture cushions.
I run my hands behind the framed minimalist artwork that probably costs more than my entire life insurance policy.
I am looking for absolutely anything—a hidden comms device, a dropped weapon, a forgotten keycard, a goddamn paperclip I can use to pick a lock.
Every shadow in this place feels like Leon’s ice-blue eyes watching me.
I know there are security cameras hidden in the ceiling crown molding.
A guy like him doesn't leave blind spots. He’s probably watching me scramble around his living room like a rat in a maze.
The faint metallic smell of the steel security doors mixes with the cold, smooth texture of the marble fireplace mantle under my fingertips.
He is too clean. There’s not even a stray receipt or a pen left out. He’s a ghost in his own home.
I shift my search to the mahogany wet bar, pulling open the shallow drawers with agonizing slowness.
Nothing but custom leather coasters, heavy sterling silver bar tools, and neat rows of top-shelf liquor.
Nothing functional. I crouch down and run my hand along the underside of the counter, feeling for a taped weapon or a panic button.
My hand slips, and I accidentally clink two crystal tumblers together.
The sharp glass sound cuts through the room.
I freeze, my heart entirely stopping for a full three seconds.
I wait for the sound of his heavy footsteps on the marble hallway, the amber glow of the bottle backlighting reflecting in my eyes, breathing in the scent of aged bourbon and cedar.
Nothing happens. Is he laughing at me right now?
Is he sitting behind a bank of monitors watching me play detective in my undershirt?
I move past the bar and into the library nook.
It’s a massive wall of built-in bookshelves stuffed with heavy, leather-bound classics that look like they’ve never been read.
I run my fingers down the spines, searching for a false front or a hollowed-out safe.
I stop dead at a copy of The Prince by Machiavelli.
The book sits exactly a fraction of an inch further forward than the others.
My pulse spikes. In my world, slight misalignments are either the result of a sloppy search or a deliberate hiding spot, and Leon Falk does not do sloppy.
I lick my dry lips, my hand hovering over the spine as if the damn thing might be rigged with C-4.
The smell of old paper and expensive leather fills my nose, mixed with a faint grit of dust on that specific shelf.
It’s almost too obvious. Machiavelli? Really, Leon?
Are we doing high school literature villain tropes now?
Or maybe you think I’m just that stupid.
I carefully hook my finger over the top edge and pull the book forward, half-expecting a silent alarm to trigger and a steel cage to drop over me.
There, tucked neatly into the dark, shadowed gap behind the spine, is a slim sliver of black plastic.
I reach in with two fingers, extracting it like a surgical specimen.
I hesitate for a second, turning it in the dim light, looking for wires or the small blinking LED of a transmitter.
I’m caught squarely between the desperate hope of a lifeline and the absolute terror of a setup.
The weight of the heavy book rests in my left hand while the sharp, plastic corner of the device bites into my right index finger.
If this is a bug, I’m dead the second I speak.
If it’s a phone, I have a shot. Fifty-fifty.
I pull the object fully into the light. It's a cheap, generic prepaid burner phone. I press the power button, and the screen flares to life, blindingly bright in the dim nook. Fully charged. Four bars of signal. No passcode. It’s a clean slate, a digital ghost sitting in the middle of a fortress.
Disbelief violently wars with my deep-seated paranoia.
It is way too perfect. No one, especially not an obsessively paranoid syndicate boss who just found out the woman sleeping in his bed is an FBI agent, leaves a fully charged burner phone in his library by accident.
I turn the cheap, hollow plastic over in my hand, feeling the stark contrast between this piece of trash and the overwhelming luxury of the room.
The blue light reflects in my pupils. It’s a gift. A lethal, completely poisoned gift.
I stare at the glowing screen, the hum of the phone’s vibration buzzing against the heat of my palm as a low-battery warning briefly flickers on a background app.
Leon is a master of psychological warfare.
This wasn't a mistake. It was a plant. He left it here intentionally to see exactly who I would call and what secrets I would spill the second I thought I was safe.
He wants to see me crawl back to the Bureau.
He wants to watch me dial my handler, beg for an extraction, and realize I have nowhere else to go.
Fine. You want a show, Leon? Let's show him.
Despite knowing it's a trap, the desperate, clawing need to contact Trenton overrides my training. Isolation is a weapon, and it’s the exact weapon Leon is using to break my mind down to the studs.
If I don't hear a voice from the outside world, I am going to lose my grip on reality.
I slip the phone into the waistband of my trousers, the cold plastic biting into the skin of my hip, and smooth my shirt down over it.
I move quietly down the hallway, walking purely on the balls of my feet, avoiding the seams in the floorboards that might creak.
The shadows in the corridor are lengthening as evening approaches, stretching out like fingers.
I just need a voice. Even if it's Trenton barking orders at me, I need to know the Bureau still exists and that I am still Alessia Heller.
I slip into the heavy marble guest bathroom and silently click the lock into place.
It’s a small, windowless box that smells overwhelmingly of expensive eucalyptus soap and bleach.
The lock is a flimsy psychological barrier at best. Leon could kick this solid wood door off its hinges without even breaking a sweat, but the illusion of safety is better than nothing.
I lean my forehead against the cool wood of the door for a second, closing my eyes, letting the blindingly white LED lights bleed red through my eyelids.
One call. That's all I get before the trap snaps shut. Make it count.
I turn on the sink faucet, twisting the silver handles until the water runs at full volume.
The roar of the water fills the small space, splashing against the basin, providing a heavy sonic veil to mask my voice from whatever ambient listening devices Leon definitely has planted in the mirrors or the air vents.
I have a three-minute window, maximum, before my absence gets suspicious.
I splash my face with cold water to mask the heat of my anxiety, the droplets chilling my skin, then aggressively wipe my mouth with my sleeve.
The steam is already starting to rise as the water warms, fogging the edges of the mirror.
It’s loud enough to hide a voice, quiet enough not to sound like I’m flooding his guest suite. Precision.