CHAPTER 20
ALESSIA
Leon places his massive, calloused hand over mine, his palm completely covering the weapon, pinning my thumb to stop the clicking. The heat of his skin instantly overrides the cold metal.
"Is the ghost still whispering, Alessia?" he asks, his voice a low, rough scrape in the quiet of the cab.
"She died in the penthouse, Leon." I don't blink. I look right into those ice-blue eyes, letting him see the feral, absolute truth of it.
"Good," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my knuckle before he pulls his hand away. "Don't let her trip your trigger finger today."
Leon pushes his door open and calls for a final tactical huddle under the sickly yellow wash of a broken streetlamp.
I follow him out, the salty, biting wind from the harbor immediately cutting through the layers of my utility-chic gear.
I step right up to the hood of the SUV, pulling out the blueprints I memorized hours ago.
Stepping into the role of the Architect gives me a sick thrill.
I’m literally spoon-feeding his strike team their tactical strategy.
I dictate the entry points, my voice steady, clinical, and completely devoid of any hesitation.
I utilize every ounce of my federal training to dissect the warehouse's weaknesses, showing these syndicate men exactly how a breach is executed from the inside out.
I use a spent brass shell casing I grabbed off the floorboard to point at the blueprint spread across the metal hood, tapping the exact structural vulnerabilities.
Sven stands across from me, managing the tactical teams. The guy is vibrating with a deeply veiled hostility, his jaw ticking so hard I can practically hear his teeth grinding over the ambient noise of the docks.
The sheer audacity of this man acting like he runs the show while I'm doing his job for him is actually hilarious.
These guys are hammers. Blunt, stupid, loud.
I'm the scalpel. And Leon knows it. Sven views me as a compromised asset, a Trojan horse his boss is too deeply infatuated with to see clearly. It's clown behavior, honestly.
I tap the shell casing against the paper. "The north exit is a choke point. If we breach there, we're dead. They’ll funnel us in and chew us to pieces in a crossfire before we even clear the loading bays."
Sven crosses his arms over his bulky chest, his lip curling. "And why should we listen to a fed's instincts, boss?"
Leon doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay locked on my hands mapping the blueprint. "Because her instincts are the only reason you won't be coming home in a bag, Sven."
I slowly pull the cuff of my tactical glove tighter, letting the heavy nylon snap click loudly in the quiet night.
As I adjust the gear, the sleeve of my jacket rides up a few inches, exposing the raw, red silk friction marks wrapping around my wrists from last night’s 'reward'.
Sven's eyes immediately lock onto the bruised skin.
His expression shifts into a sneer that says absolutely everything about how he thinks I earned my seat at this table.
He thinks I just fucked my way into command.
The absolute delusion of this man. I don't look away.
I don't pull my sleeve down to hide the marks.
I hold his gaze coldly, cementing my total dominance.
I realize the marks aren't a sign of weakness; they are a literal brand of protection.
In this violent, ugly underworld, being Leon's is the ultimate armor. It means I’m untouchable by anyone but him.
"Got something to say, Sven?" I ask, my tone completely flat.
Sven exhales a heavy, aggressive breath, his massive shoulders shifting. "I see exactly what you are."
"You see exactly who I belong to," I snap back, my dark eyes boring into his. "Don't forget it."
He glares, but he doesn't say another fucking word.
Leon turns away from the hood, entirely unbothered by the dick-measuring contest, and gestures toward the side entrance of the Pier 19 warehouse.
The strike team moves into position, slipping through the shadows like liquid.
I stack up by the rusted metal door, my heart pounding a steady, rhythmic thud against my ribs.
Leon takes the point position right in front of me, his large frame silhouetted against the corroded steel.
I lean my forehead against the heavy Kevlar back of his tactical vest for a split second, grounding myself in the scent of his cologne and the sweat starting to bead on his skin. I breathe it in. The fear is entirely gone. There is only the count, the breath, and the target.
Leon raises two fingers in the dim light.
"Three. Two. One."
He drops his hand.
"Go! Go! Go!"
A second later, the breaching charges blow.
The sound is a physical wall of pressure that rips the heavy steel doors clean off their hinges, sending twisted shrapnel into the dark interior.
The deafening explosion shatters the quiet, instantly plunging us into a life-or-death environment where reaction time is the only currency that matters.
The smell of cordite and pulverized concrete floods my sinuses, and a high-pitched ringing pierces my ears as I follow Leon into the swirling dust and chaos.
We move together, a perfectly synchronized unit clearing the first set of loading docks.
I watch the way he moves—lethal, violently efficient, and entirely without hesitation.
Every pivot, every sweep of his weapon is calculated perfection.
I match his pace, my Glock an extension of my own arm, moving exactly where he isn't so our blind spots are covered.
Visibility is absolute shit. The air is thick with drywall dust and smoke, making the massive space feel claustrophobic.
The threat of an ambush from the dark catwalks above creates a suffocating sense of vulnerability, but it only spikes my focus.
I kick aside a fallen, splintered wooden crate to clear our path, my combat boots crunching loud over broken glass.
"Clear left!" I shout over the muffled ringing in my ears.
Leon pivots seamlessly. "Stairs are open. Move."
This is the most honest I've felt in three years.
No covers. No lies. Just blood and survival.
We push toward Sector B, the rhythmic thwip-thwip of suppressed gunfire from Sven's flank team echoing from the opposite side of the floor.
Suddenly, heavy gunfire erupts directly ahead of us, the muzzle flashes illuminating the warehouse in strobing, violent bursts of white light.
A rival syndicate guard steps out from behind a yellow forklift, leveling a submachine gun right at Leon's blind spot.
I don't even think. My training and my total, unhinged devotion to the man beside me merge into a singular instinct. I raise the Glock, lock onto center mass, and pull the trigger twice.
The hot breath of the gun's recoil snaps my wrist back as the empty shell casing ejects, bouncing sharply off my own shoulder.
The heavy thud of the guard hitting the concrete floor is barely audible over the chaos, but I see him drop in my peripheral vision.
First blood. I just officially chose Leon's life over my federal mandate to apprehend. By actively ending a life to save his, I’ve burned the final bridge to the woman I used to be.
I expected to feel a fracture in my soul, a sickening wave of guilt.
Instead, I feel a terrifying, crystal-clear clarity.
"Leon, down!" I yell as more bullets rip through the air, completely shredding the drywall behind us.
Leon drops, pivoting to lay down a merciless line of suppressing fire. "Target neutralized."
The brutal recoil from my Glock sends a sharp, sickening flare of pain straight through my stiff, injured bicep.
I wince hard, my teeth gritting together as I drop into a low crouch behind a rusted metal oil drum.
The pain is a visceral reminder of his rough hands from the night before, a physical link to Leon that keeps me completely grounded while bullets whiz inches overhead, throwing sparks off the metal drum.
My physical limitation threatens to slow our unit down.
If I can't hold my weapon steady, we both get shredded. I briefly squeeze my injured bicep with my left hand, using the sharp pressure to force my brain back into the immediate moment. I’ll tear the muscle straight off the bone before I let him see me falter.
Leon fires a quick burst and glances back at me, his icy eyes scanning my body in the strobe of the muzzle flashes. "You’re hit?"
"Just the old bruise," I snap back, tightening my grip on the gun. "I’m fine."
"Stay low. I’ve got the line."
He lays down another deafening wall of cover fire.
I slam a fresh magazine into my Glock, the metallic click echoing satisfyingly in the brief lull of the shootout.
We advance through the crossfire with a fluid, predatory grace.
Leon looks over his shoulder, locking eyes with me for a fraction of a second.
He sees the wet spray of blood on my sleeve—not mine, but the guard's—and the absolute feral fire burning in my dark eyes.
I nod, a silent, hard confirmation of my commitment.
He isn't checking if I'm okay. He's checking if I'm still his. I am.
"Ready?" he barks over the noise.
"Go."