Rocco
“You listening to me?” Miles asked.
“Good?” Miles snapped. “That’s all you got?”
UNKNOWN: Santos is moving his daughter tonight.
“You still think getting inside is the best play?” Miles asked quietly.
Rocco smirked humorlessly. “You got a better idea?”
“No, I just think this mission’s getting personal,” Miles said. He didn’t want to tell the guy that it was too late for that. It had always been personal. Rocco opened the SUV door before the other agent could say anything else. Rain soaked him instantly as he stepped onto the sidewalk.
“You’re really doing this tonight?” Miles called after him.
Rocco adjusted the cuffs of his dark suit calmly. “Santos invited businessmen to dinner.”
“You’re not a businessman,” Miles reminded.
Rocco smiled coldly. “No,” he agreed. “But the identity I stole is.”
Twenty minutes later, Rocco walked through the front gates of the Santos compound carrying forged credentials and enough fake history to fool most federal databases—most, but not all, which meant tonight could go catastrophically wrong.
The guard at the gate checked his ID briefly before speaking into an earpiece, and Rocco stayed relaxed. He made sure that his breathing was steady, his shoulders loose, and he made no sudden movements.
The guard handed back the ID a second later.
“Mr. Santos is expecting you, Mr. Moretti.” Rocco nodded once and stepped inside.
The Santos mansion looked exactly like he imagined—massive, cold, and built with blood money and fear.
Men with concealed weapons lined the hallways while expensive art hung on the walls like the family was trying to buy culture to cover the stench of death underneath it all.
A blonde hostess led him toward the dining room.
“You’re one of the investors?” she asked nervously.
“Something like that,” he lied. She swallowed hard and hurried away the second they reached the doors.
Conversation inside quieted as soon as the doors opened.
Rocco stepped into the room and immediately cataloged exits, weapons, guard positions—then he saw her.
Lark Santos sat halfway down the table, wearing a black dress that exposed the smooth line of her throat and shoulders.
Diamonds glittered around her neck like chains disguised as jewelry.
She was beautiful, but that wasn’t what hit him hardest. It was the look in her eyes that got to him. She looked trapped. Rocco knew that look intimately because he saw it in the mirror for years after Santos destroyed his family.
Lark glanced up at him briefly before quickly looking away, but not before he caught the fear there.
Rocco noticed the man standing behind her chair.
He had dark hair, hard eyes, and a protective posture.
He was her bodyguard, and judging by the way the guy watched Lark, that wasn’t just professional concern.
No—that man would kill for her. Rocco recognized the signs because he’d worn them himself once upon a time.
Santos stood at the head of the table, smiling like the devil welcoming sinners into hell. “Mr. Moretti,” he greeted smoothly. “Glad you could join us.”
Rocco smiled back just as coldly. “Wouldn’t miss it.” That was the truth, because after years of hunting Rafael Santos, Rocco was finally inside the lion’s den, and for the first time in a long time, he could almost feel the empire starting to crack.
Rocco had been undercover long enough to know when someone was lying.
He could weed out bullshit, and this dining room was full of it.
Crystal glasses sparkled beneath chandeliers while expensive wine flowed like blood, but tension sat at the table heavier than the silverware.
Every man there watched Santos too carefully—too cautiously.
Nobody relaxed around predators, not even other predators.
Rocco sat two seats away from Lark Santos and pretended to care about the conversation while secretly studying everyone in the room.
He noted three businessmen, two cartel representatives, one private arms dealer from Miami, and Santos at the head of the table, smiling like a king showing off his kingdom—or his prize.
Rocco noticed every time the older man looked at Lark. Beside her, the bodyguard—Dante, according to the files—stood silent and deadly with his attention fixed almost entirely on her. It was an interesting dynamic. Even more interesting was that Lark barely touched her food.
“You’re quiet tonight, Princesa,” Santos said suddenly.
Lark’s shoulders stiffened slightly. “Just tired.”
“You should smile more,” one of the businessmen said with a sleazy grin. “A beautiful woman like you brightens the room.” Rocco watched the bodyguard’s hand twitch near his gun. Ah, there it was—protective rage.
Lark gave the man a fake smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not here to brighten anything.” The businessman laughed awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure if she’d insulted him. Santos didn’t laugh at all.
“You’ll speak respectfully,” he said calmly.
Lark lowered her gaze immediately. “Yes, Father.” Rocco hated how rehearsed it sounded. Like obedience beaten into muscle memory. The wine in his glass suddenly tasted bitter as hell.
“Mr. Moretti,” Santos said, turning toward him. “What do you think of Chicago?”
Rocco leaned back casually. “Your city seems cold, corrupt, and highly profitable.” That earned a few chuckles around the table.
Santos smiled approvingly. “Then you’ll fit in nicely.
” Lark looked at him then, and for the first time all night, Rocco held her gaze deliberately.
Her eyes were darker up close than he expected—sharp and intelligent, too.
The kind of woman who noticed things she probably pretended not to.
And beneath the fear, there was anger—a dangerous amount of it.
The bodyguard stepped slightly closer to her chair, and Rocco almost smirked at the possessive bastard.
Dinner dragged on another twenty minutes before Santos finally stood. “Gentlemen, let’s move this conversation to my office.” Every man at the table rose except Lark.
Santos looked at her. “You too.”
Surprise flashed across her face before quickly disappearing. “Why?”
“Because I said so,” Santos said. Rocco saw panic flicker in Dante’s expression for half a second. That tiny reaction told him everything. Whatever meeting Santos was about to have, Lark wasn’t supposed to be part of it, and the bodyguard was terrified for her.
The group moved through the mansion together, armed guards trailing behind them like shadows.
Rocco walked near the back, quietly taking mental notes of hallway layouts and camera placements while the others talked business, but his attention kept drifting toward Lark.
She walked stiffly beside her father like she already knew something bad was coming.
Dante stayed glued to her side—close enough to protect her, but not close enough to touch her.
The office doors opened, revealing a massive room lined with dark wood and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Chicago skyline. Santos poured himself a drink before turning toward the room.
“I believe in mutually beneficial arrangements,” he announced smoothly. “Power should always strengthen power.” Rocco stayed silent. This was it—the real reason for tonight. Santos rested a hand on Lark’s shoulder, and she visibly flinched. Rage curled low in Rocco’s stomach.
“My daughter,” Santos continued, “is one of the most valuable assets I possess.” Dante’s jaw clenched so hard Rocco thought the guy might break his own teeth.
One of the businessmen smiled greedily at Lark. “I can see that.” Rocco watched her carefully. She looked trapped—humiliated and furious, but not weak. No, beneath all that fear was a woman barely holding herself back from setting the entire room on fire.
“She’ll eventually marry someone worthy of carrying the Santos legacy,” Rafael said.
“And whichever alliance earns that privilege will gain direct access to my organization.” The room shifted instantly, and Lark went deathly still.
Rocco saw the exact moment realization hit her.
Her father was auctioning her off. Jesus Christ.
“You can’t be serious,” she whispered. Santos ignored her completely, and Rocco glanced toward Dante again, which was a big mistake, because the fury in that man’s eyes was lethal.
Suddenly, Rocco understood that the bodyguard wasn’t just protective; he was in love with her. Fuck, that complicated things.
Santos continued talking business, but Rocco barely listened now, because the room had changed.
The girl was terrified, the bodyguard was two seconds away from snapping, and Rocco was having a very difficult time remembering he was there for a mission.
Not revenge, not to rescue the pretty woman, but a mission.
Lark looked at him again, just for a second, and something in her expression hit him harder than expected.
Help me. She never said the words, but she didn’t need to.
Rocco recognized desperation when he saw it because once upon a time, he’d worn that same look while hiding beneath a bed, praying someone would save him, too.
Nobody came, though. Maybe that was why, standing in Rafael Santos’s office surrounded by killers, Rocco made the first truly dangerous mistake of his operation.
He decided he wasn’t leaving Lark Santos behind.