Chapter 6 #2
"I'm a tactical person, Isabella. Everything with me is about control, about maintaining operational security, about not making mistakes that get people killed." I pause, choose my words carefully. "That doesn't change just because I want you."
The admission hangs between us. She doesn't look surprised.
"When were you last tested?"
"Recently. Clean."
"Same." She holds my gaze. "And I have an IUD."
"Good."
The clinical efficiency of it does something to me. No coyness, no pretense. Just facts delivered with the same precision she applies to everything else. We're both adults, both capable of managing consequences.
"We acknowledge this is a terrible idea professionally," I say.
"Terrible," she echoes. "But inevitable."
I study her in the moonlight, this woman who's upended my operational priorities and invaded my thoughts at the worst possible time. "I need you to understand something about me."
"Tell me."
"I need control. In everything. In operations, in tactical decisions, in..." I pause, find the words. "In this. Whatever this becomes. That's not going to change, Isabella. That's who I am."
She's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is steady, certain. "What if I want you to have it?"
The words hit harder than they should. "You don't know what you're saying."
"Don't I?" She steps closer, eliminates the distance between us.
"I've spent my career around men who took control because they assumed it was theirs by right.
You're different. You take it because you've earned it, because people trust you to make the right calls when everything's going sideways.
I've watched you operate, Remy. I know exactly what I'm saying. "
"This isn't an op. I don't know what it is, but I know that."
"Isn't it?" Her hand finds my chest, palm flat over my heart. "You're already planning how this goes. Mapping variables, calculating risks, figuring out how to protect me while taking what you want. That's control. That's who you are."
She's not wrong. Every word is accurate assessment delivered with precision that bypasses my defenses entirely.
"There are rules," I say quietly. "Lines that don't get crossed. Safe words, boundaries, aftercare. This isn't just about taking what I want. It's about knowing when to push and when to stop. About reading you better than you read yourself."
"And if I trust you to do that?"
"Then you need to understand what you're trusting me with.
" I catch her wrist, hold her hand against my chest so she can feel my heartbeat.
"Control means I decide when, where, how.
It means you surrender that decision-making to me.
Not because you're weak, but because you're strong enough to let go. "
"I'm strong enough," she says without hesitation.
"When we have time," I say quietly. "When it's safe. When I can focus on you instead of keeping you alive. Then I'll show you exactly what control means."
"I'll hold you to that."
The promise hangs between us, charged with everything we're not saying. Everything we're agreeing to once the immediate crisis passes. Everything that's building between us like pressure before a storm.
My phone buzzes. Fitz. I step back, break the moment, answer.
"Talk to me."
"We've been monitoring Lazarev's known associates since Prague." Fitz's voice is tight with urgency. "Someone made contact with high-level buyers in New York. Iron Choir operative negotiating chemical weapons. Meeting's in a few days at a location we're still tracking down."
"Who's the buyer?"
"Don't know yet. But whoever it is has resources. We're talking serious money, serious connections, serious interest in weapons-grade chemical compounds."
I glance at Isabella—she's watching me with that quick intelligence that misses nothing. "Can we intercept?"
"Maybe. But it's going to require fast coordination and we're working on a tight timeline.
Chicago office can provide support, but you'll need boots on the ground who know the territory.
" A pause. "Remy, if we can identify the buyer, we might be able to shut down this whole network before it metastasizes. "
"Understood. Send me what you have."
"Sending now. And Remy? Watch your back. This thing's bigger than we thought."
The call ends. I look at Isabella—she already understands what comes next.
"New York," she says.
"Yeah."
Luc's voice comes from the doorway behind us. "New York. Buyer meeting."
I turn to find my brother leaning against the frame, arms crossed. Must have come back during the call.
"You were listening."
"Hard not to when you're on speaker." He pushes off the doorframe. "You're not doing this alone, brother."
"Luc—"
"Don't." He cuts me off. "You came here for help. For resources, for sanctuary, for whatever family can still give you. So let me help. I know people in New York. People who can provide intelligence, logistics, things you need for an op like this."
"You haven't run an op in years."
"That's what you think." His smile is dark, dangerous.
"You've been overseas playing contractor.
I've been here taking jobs that need someone who can move through systems that don't officially exist. Intel gathering, asset extraction, security work that never makes the news.
I know people in New York. People who can help. "
He's not wrong. And having family at my back, having someone trustworthy in a city where everyone's playing angles, might be the tactical advantage we need.
"You follow my lead. This isn't business, Luc. This is combat."
"Understood." He nods to Isabella. "You should rest. We've got planning to do."
He disappears back inside. Isabella touches my arm, grounds me before operational planning can spiral.
"He's trying," she says softly. "Your brother. He's angry, but he's trying to bridge the gap."
"I know."
"Are you going to let him?"
The question cuts deeper than it should. I look at her, this woman who sees too much, who understands family wounds because she carries her own, who's asking me to do the hard thing instead of the easy one.
"Yeah. I'm going to let him."
She smiles, genuine and warm. "Good. Now let's go plan how to catch whoever's buying my research before they turn it into a weapon."
"You're not going to New York."
The smile fades. "What?"
"You stay here where it's secure. This isn't up for discussion."
"I wasn't asking to go." She doesn't back down, meets my stare without flinching.
"But I need to be part of the planning. You'll need to know how the research would be packaged, how it would be presented to buyers, what questions they'd ask.
You can't build an effective approach without understanding what you're actually dealing with. "
"Fitz has analysts—"
"In London. Looking at reports." She cuts me off.
"I built this, Remy. I know every compound, every delivery system, every modification that makes it weapons-grade versus medical application.
If you're going to intercept a sale or pose as a buyer or whatever tactical approach you're planning, you need someone who can identify what's real versus what's a decoy. Otherwise you're going in blind."
I want to argue, but she's right. The technical details, the specific formulations, the ways she'd modified standard protocols—none of that would be in my wheelhouse or Luc's.
"Fine. You're part of planning. That's it."
"That's all I'm asking."
"And when we go to New York, you stay here."
Something flickers in her expression, but she doesn't argue. "We'll discuss that after we have an actual plan."
"There's nothing to discuss."
"Then you won't mind having the conversation later." She turns toward the study. "Come on. Your brother's waiting."
I follow, knowing damn well this argument isn't over. But she's already moving inside, and Luc's voice carries from Papa's study along with the sound of files being pulled from drawers.
We move through the French doors, leaving the magnolias and moonlight behind.
Luc's already pulling up schematics at Papa's desk.
Isabella's settling into one of the leather chairs, asking questions sharp and focused.
Magnolia scent drifts through the open doors, mixing with the smell of Papa's old cigars embedded in the furniture.
It's been years since this house felt like anything but a graveyard. Strange how danger brings everything back to life.
.