The apartment Elena had been assigned was as sterile as her mission.
Minimalist furniture. Gray walls. Neutral art on the walls that meant nothing to no one.
A cover life built on clean lies and forgettable details.
She locked the door behind her, slid the chain into place, and exhaled slowly. For the first time in hours, her spine softened — the bartender's mask slipping away.
The black card sat heavy on her kitchen table, glinting faintly under the dim light.
Dante Salvatore
No address. No contact number. Just the name. As if anyone in this city needed more than that.
She didn't touch it. Not yet.
Instead, she crossed the room, crouched low by the sleek armchair, and pulled up a loose floorboard. From the hollow space beneath, she retrieved a slim, matte-black phone. Secure. Encrypted. Untraceable.
Her fingers moved quickly as she typed the sequence. Within seconds, the screen flickered to life.
A single name.
Control
The message she sent was short.
Target engaged sooner than anticipated. Private meeting arranged. Request guidance.
Less than a minute later, the phone vibrated. Incoming message.
Proceed. Gain intel. Prioritize self-preservation. Report post-meeting. No extraction yet.
Her jaw clenched. No extraction yet. Typical.
She was deep in shark-infested water, and Control wanted her to keep swimming.
She tossed the phone back into the hollow and secured the floorboard again. Then she leaned back against the armchair, staring at the ceiling, letting her mind race for the first time since stepping into the bar.
He had seen too much.
Most men in Dante Salvatore's world were blunt instruments — easy to seduce, manipulate, distract. But Dante was something else. Something colder. Sharper.
He didn't leer. He calculated.
He'd clocked her posture. Her presence. And instead of calling her out or discarding her, he invited her in deeper. Dinner wasn't a date — it was an interrogation disguised in silk and candlelight.
You don't belong here.
His words echoed inside her.
She rose and walked to the small dresser tucked in the corner. Sliding open the top drawer, she revealed the tools of her real trade:
A lockpick set. A slim blade. A burner phone. A listening device embedded in a silver earring. A small vial of clear liquid that could sedate a man twice her size in under thirty seconds.
She closed the drawer again.
Tomorrow, she would have to choose carefully. What to bring. What to leave behind. What face to wear when she sat across from a man who could either make her or destroy her.
The funny thing was—
She felt alive.
For months, this mission had been clean and clinical. Build a cover, wait for contact, collect crumbs of information. She had played her part flawlessly.
But tonight — with Dante's eyes on her, with the trap tightening around her — her pulse had kicked back to life in a way it hadn't since before her agency days.
God help me, she thought darkly, I'm enjoying this.
Elena moved to the narrow window overlooking the city. The lights stretched endlessly, a sprawl of dark streets and glowing windows. Somewhere out there, Dante was waiting. Plotting. Testing her.
She pressed her palm flat to the cool glass.
Tomorrow night, she would dine with a man who had built an empire out of shadows and blood.
And she would have to convince him she was worth keeping alive...