The air in Prague was wet with the promise of rain.
Hayden stepped out of the black SUV, the collar of his coat turned up against the chill. The street was narrow, cobbled, and shadowed by old buildings that had seen centuries of betrayal. Tonight, they'd witness one more.
The intel was clear: Alexander Nicholas's courier would be passing through the north district near the Charles Bridge at precisely 9:15 p.m., carrying a leather-bound ledger—a book of secrets that could bring entire governments to their knees.
Hayden didn't care about governments.
He cared about revenge.
And Ana.
The woman who now haunted his thoughts more than his vendetta. Her lips. Her voice. The way she slept tangled in his sheets like she was made to live in his space. He couldn't afford to be soft. But damn it, she made him want to be.
Luca's voice crackled through the earpiece. "Target approaching. Silver Mercedes. Three men inside."
"On my signal," Hayden replied.
He moved like a ghost into the alley, eyes scanning every movement on the street. The vehicle slowed, rolling to a stop in front of the safehouse they'd traced earlier. As soon as the rear door opened, Hayden stepped out of the shadows.
One shot to the engine block.
Two to the tires.
Panic. Screams. Scrambling.
The courier bolted—but not fast enough.
Hayden grabbed him by the collar, slammed him against the wall, and pressed his gun to the man's jaw. "Where's the book?"
"I—I don't know what you're talking about!"
Wrong answer.
Hayden didn't flinch as he pistol-whipped him across the face. Blood spattered onto the concrete.
"The book," he growled, voice lethal.
The man coughed, shaking. "It's in the safe! Inside the safehouse! Code is... her birthday."
Hayden's heart stopped for half a beat. "Whose birthday?"
"His daughter," the courier whispered. "Ana."
---
Back in Milan, Ana stood at the balcony railing, a file folder in her hand and a storm in her heart. She had cracked open one of the drives Hayden recovered—and found something that shouldn't have existed.
Her mother's name.
Not as a victim. Not as an innocent.
But as a partner.
Ana stared at the document—coded records linking her mother, Elena Nicholas, to one of Enzo Moretti's earliest arms deals.
A deal made one week before Hayden's mother died.
Her hands trembled.
The past wasn't black and white.
And maybe they had all been born from blood.
---
In Prague, Hayden broke the safe open with his bare hands after disabling the code. Rage had made him faster. Stronger. The leather book sat like a crown jewel inside.
He flipped it open.
Every deal.
Every murder.
Every betrayal.
And one name, underlined in red ink: **Luciano Costa**.
Hayden's brows drew together. "He's been working both sides…"
Luciano had once been his father's most trusted advisor. If he was in bed with Alexander Nicholas, the betrayal ran deeper than he'd imagined.
"Luca," Hayden barked into the comm. "Secure the book. Get it back to Milan. Tell Ana I'm on my way."
---
But back in Milan, Ana was gone.
Vanished.
No forced entry. No signs of struggle.
Just a single note left on the bed:
**"Some truths I need to face alone. Don't follow me."**
Hayden stood in the center of the penthouse, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. His hand crumpled the note. He turned to Luca, eyes wild.
"Track her. Now."
"Boss—if she doesn't want to be found—"
Hayden's voice turned ice. "I *will* find her."
Because the only thing worse than losing Ana...
Was losing her *twice*.