Hips driven back to break his balance.
I used the momentum to launch an explosive upward elbow strike aimed directly at his solar plexus.
The impact connected.
He grunted — air forced from his lungs — his grip loosening just enough.
I twisted hard. Wrenching my wrist free.
I spun out of his hold in one fluid motion, using the rotation to create distance.
My Glock slipped from my hand in the chaos.
It clattered against the marble floor and skidded across the polished surface.
Straight toward his feet.
Shit.
I staggered backward two steps, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling in sharp bursts.
The situation had shifted. Cover blown.
Operational disguise compromised.
He had allowed proximity.
He had orchestrated my return.
He had tracked my movements.
He had placed his own network around me for years.
A man who called himself a legend while still breathing.
I felt humiliation coil tightly in my chest. I spat directly at his polished shoes.
The saliva landed on the leather — stark, defiant.
“I will forever hate you.”
He lowered his gaze slowly, looked at the mark. Then lifted his eyes back to mine.
There was no immediate retaliation.
Only a quiet intensity.
“And I will spend the rest of my life trying to earn your forgiveness,” he replied softly. “On my knees, if I have to... my woman.”
The phrase ignited another surge of fury.
“I am not your fucking woman,” I snapped.
The words tore through my throat — reopening scars that had healed poorly after prison.
Pain flared physically as I spoke. Emotion made it sharper.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. Almost regretful.
