Chapter 2 – Roman
“Who the hell are you?”
The words leave my mouth before I even think. My voice bounces off the steel and marble, low, sharp, filling the storage room with something heavier than sound.
I freeze in the doorway, staring at the woman half-swallowed by shadows.
She shouldn’t be here. No one should.
According to intel, the museum was supposed to be empty. This was a clean run—get in, intercept the stolen art pieces tied to David Chang’s laundering network, and ghost out before anyone knew I existed. No noise. No witnesses.
Yet here she is.
A woman in a luxurious coat, her hair messy like she’s been running her hands through it, her chest rising and falling too fast. There’s something clutched in her hand—papers, maybe—and her eyes are wide, flicking toward the crates behind her.
She’s not security. And she’s definitely not one of Chang’s men.
So who the hell is she?
She looks like she’s in shock at first—frozen, pale, eyes wide.
But the moment I shut the door behind me and step closer, the air shifts. The fear in her gaze burns away, replaced by something sharp and stubborn. Defiance.
My instincts flare instantly. I’ve seen too many operatives wear that same look before pulling a gun or pressing a detonator.
I move before she can react—three strides, quick and precise. My hand clamps around her wrist just as she tries to shove the papers into her coat pocket. Her skin is warm againstmy palm, her pulse hammering so fast I can feel it through my gloves.
“What are you stealing?” I demand, my voice cutting through the still air like glass.
Her chin snaps up like a challenge. “I’m not stealing anything.”
The words are brittle, but they don’t hide the tremor beneath them. I snatch the manifest from her fingers and flip through it with one practiced glance. The destination codes are wrong—deliberately rewritten. Whoever taught her to do this knows what they’re doing. Whoever she is, she’s not an idiot.
Up close, I see the details I missed in the doorway: hair the color of lacquer, pulled into a messy knot; skin that should be delicate but is set in a line of hardened defiance; eyes shaped like almonds and black as a storm. Darkness surrounds us, but a slight feeling of familiarity itches my brain. I shut it down.
Something in me tightens—not interest, not yet, but the cold, precise recognition of a complication. This isn’t a stray courier or a complicit clerk. This is somebody with nerve. Somebody useful. And she’s complicating my clean record. I must take her with me.
“Listen to me,” I say slowly, my voice going low on purpose. “You just rewired a shipment that’s worth more than your life. If you’re playing at sabotage for thrills, you’re very bad at it. If you’re doing it because someone told you to—because you were told you had no other choice—then you’re still trouble, but a different kind.”
She squares her shoulders. “You don’t get to decide that.”
I let the corner of my lip lift. “No. But I do get to take you somewhere quiet and find out who taught you to forge manifests.”
She opens her mouth to argue again, but my hand moves from her wrist to her waist, pulling her flush against me before she can take another breath.
Her body stiffens, but I feel the quick thud of her heart against my chest. She’s trembling, yet her eyes—dark, sharp, furious—never waver.
She pushes at me, small hands flat against my chest, but I don’t budge. I hold her there, steady, unyielding.
“You’re coming with me,” I murmur, my voice low enough to vibrate between us.
The words roll off my tongue like a promise I intend to keep.
“Like hell I am!”
Before she can argue, I press the silencer’s muzzle to her ribs. Her body jerks, eyes going wide, but she doesn’t beg. She just glares up at me, jaw tight, lips trembling with words she refuses to say.
Good. Let her hate me. Hate keeps people alive.
