CHAPTER 12
LEON P.O.V.
I’m leaning against the heavy mahogany doorframe of the master suite with my arms crossed watching my creation button a charcoal-gray silk blouse.
She’s trying to play the ice-cold federal agent but I can see her fingers trembling right there at the edges of the fabric and it’s turning me the fuck on.
I spent three years dealing with her lies, dealing with the pristine little facade she put up while she siphoned my data and plotted my downfall, but right now the only thing peeking out from under that collar is the dark purple bruising I left on her throat last night.
It’s my signature. She’s mentally bracing herself for the world to see her as a traitor but the friction between her dying morality and her absolute need for my protection is exactly what I want.
I reach out. Catch a loose thread on her shoulder.
Give it a sharp, audible tug that snaps the cotton and makes her flinch hard.
"Button it to the top," I tell her. "They need to see a partner, not a prisoner. You look like the woman who is going to help me burn Trenton's world down. Do you still feel like an agent, Alessia? Or do you feel like mine?"
I stalk right into her personal space and my shadow swallows her up.
I drag my knuckles against the sensitive skin of her throat, pushing the silk collar just high enough to tease the bite mark without fully hiding it so every bastard on my payroll knows whose bed she crawled out of.
She wants to pull away. Her tactical training is screaming at her that she’s at a massive disadvantage but her body is a traitor and she leans into the heat radiating off my chest. I run my heavy thumb over the corner of her mouth, smearing away a stray smudge of lipstick.
I love the way her pulse jumps under my touch.
It's the only honest thing about her right now.
"If you look at the floor, they’ll smell the blood in the water. Eye contact with everyone. Submission only for me. I want them to wonder if you’re my right hand or my favorite toy. Don't disappoint me today."
The private elevator is a smooth silent descent in a steel box.
I stand right behind her, not touching, just letting my breath stir the fine hairs at the nape of her neck while she stares at our reflection in the polished brass doors.
I can smell her expensive cedarwood cologne mixed with raw panic.
The claustrophobia of the elevator mirrors the tightening trap of her life because she is becoming a criminal in the time it takes to reach the lobby.
She’s gripping the handrail behind her so hard her knuckles are pure white.
I reach down, slap my hand over hers, and physically pry her fingers loose one by one.
"Sven will try to bait you. Let him choke on it. Ivy is the one you need to impress; she sees through bullshit. You represent my interests now. When I look at you, I expect to see a predator."
The armored SUV smells like new leather and gun oil.
We're moving through the city traffic and I’m sitting flush against her, trapping her with my heavy thigh pinning her right against the door panel.
I drop a tablet in her lap. It’s encrypted with our current logistical vulnerabilities.
I watch the blue light reflect in her dark brown eyes as she scans the data and I can literally see the professional curiosity of the federal agent going to war with the absolute horror of realizing she’s acting as my accomplice.
Every line of data she reads is a felony and I’m making her complicit with every single mile we drive.
She’s already solving the problem in her head.
The FBI trained her too well, and now she's mine to use.
I reach out and trace the line of her jaw with my forefinger, deliberately distracting her from the screen.
"That's the route Trenton is targeting. Three million in cargo, Alessia. All because of your old friends. Tell me how they'll hit it. Focus on the screen, not my hand."
The SUV rolls into Ivy's hidden warehouse and the garage door clatters shut behind us like a fucking guillotine.
The smell of diesel fuel and stale coffee hits immediately.
I step out first, turn back, and offer her my hand.
I don't just help her down, I yank her hard into my side.
The guards lounging around with submachine guns stop talking instantly.
They stare. Heavy, suspicious, hungry stares looking at the fallen Fed walking with the King.
One of the grunts spits on the concrete floor as we pass.
I stop dead. I lock eyes with the motherfucker and stare him down until his chin drops and he looks at his boots.
"Walk like you own the air they breathe. Keep your hand near your side. They’re looking at a ghost. Show them you have teeth. Straighten your back, Alessia."
I plant my hand flat against the small of her back.
It feels like a brand. I steer her through the maze of shipping crates and humming servers where the air is cold and damp.
Every single person we pass stops whatever the fuck they're doing to watch us. She brushes a piece of dust off her sleeve just so she doesn't have to look at a passing enforcer. She’s terrified but she’s not crumbling.
"Almost there. Remember: you are my voice today. Don't flinch when Sven starts his theater. You’re doing well, good girl."
I stop outside the heavy double doors of the conference room.
I can smell stale tobacco and hear the scrape of a chair inside.
I turn to her. She’s shivering and it isn't from the cold, it’s pure adrenaline.
I can taste it on her. I reach out, clamp my hand around her upper arm tight enough to leave a mark, a silent command to stay grounded. I lean in until my lips brush her ear.
"Once we go in, there is no Alessia Heller, FBI. There is only us. Are you ready to commit treason? Good. Let's go."
I kick the doors open and the room goes dead silent.
The haze of blue smoke and bitter espresso hangs over the desk lamps.
Sven is at the far end of the table with his fucking boots propped up like he runs the place.
Ivy is mid-sentence holding a pen over a topographical map.
Every head snaps to us. The hostility is a physical force but my authority is the only thing stopping these animals from drawing their weapons.
Alessia walks past the table, picks up a stray paperclip, and starts rolling it between her fingers.
Look at them. They want to tear her apart and they don't even realize she's the smartest person in the room.
"Sit. We have a lot to cover. I didn't say you could speak, Sven. Ignore the smoke, Alessia. Focus on the maps."
I pull out the heavy steel chair immediately to my right.
My most trusted lieutenant’s seat. I gesture for her to take it.
The metal legs shriek against the floor.
It’s a massive, deliberate insult to every guy in this room and I don't give a fuck.
Alessia sits down, stiff but precise. Sven snaps a pencil in his hand and the crack sounds like a gunshot. I want to see if she breaks him first.
"This is her seat now. Does anyone have a problem with my seating arrangements? I thought not. Ivy, show her the manifests."
Sven slams both palms onto the table and leans forward until he’s inches from my face.
He starts spitting a vitriolic rant about bringing a rat into the heart of our operations, calling her a liability, screaming that the crew won't stand for it.
I don't move a muscle. I don't blink. I watch him like a bug hitting a zapper.
Weak men always yell when they're scared.
I slowly rotate the heavy signet ring on my finger. My patience is zero.
"You’re shouting, Sven. It’s beneath you. Do you think I'm a fool? She knows more about our enemies than you ever will. Sit down before I make you sit down."
I stand up, casting my shadow straight over him. I reach out, grab his wrist, and calmly move his hand off my table like he’s a piece of trash. I link my honor to her presence right here and now, making her both my most protected asset and my biggest vulnerability.
"She belongs to me. That makes her yours to obey. The next person who calls her a rat loses their tongue. Is that clear to everyone? Good. Now, the manifests."
Ivy slides the complex topographical map of the tri-state shipping routes over to Alessia.
She doesn't yell. She just asks a sharp, highly technical question about federal interdiction zones, probing for weakness.
I lean back, cross my arms, and watch my girl go to work.
The federal agent surfaces in her eyes. She forgot to be afraid.
She grabs a pen from the center of the table and starts circling coordinates with a steady, practiced hand.
"Tell her, Alessia. Where are the blind spots? Don't give her the textbook answer. Give her the truth. Ivy, listen to her. She’s the one who wrote the protocols."
I point out the specific logistics hub that Trenton has been squeezing.
I break down the financial bleed, the dead couriers, the suffocating pressure from the FBI's regional director.
I make it crystal clear that we are losing a war of attrition.
By presenting the problem as a shared threat, I'm forcing Alessia to realize her survival is tied to my success.
I tap my knuckles against the table in a restless rhythm.
I'm making her choose and every word she says is another nail in the coffin of her career.
"Trenton is using a scorched-earth policy. He doesn't care about the law; he cares about the win. We need a way to move the high-value assets without triggering the grid. How would you stop you, Alessia?"