I sat in the back seat, no cuffs but no freedom either, throat raw from screaming his name.
Agent Simpson sat beside me—her dark hair in a professional bun, kind eyes, sympathetic smile.
"You must be thirsty."
She offered me a bottle of water with genuine concern. Sealed. She cracked the cap for me with a helpful twist.
I was thirsty. My throat felt like sandpaper from screaming Alessio's name, from breathing smoke and fear.
I took the bottle. Drank deeply, gratefully.
Halfway through, the world tilted.
I looked up and met Simpson's eyes. Saw the guilt there—the resignation.
Too late."I'm sorry," she whispered. Not sorry enough to have stopped.
The bottle slipped from my fingers. Darkness crept in at the edges, pulling me under.
Drugged. Marco has people everywhere. Even in the FBI—
Darkness swallowed everything.
Softness woke me.
Silk sheets against my skin. Down pillow cradling my head. The scent of lavender sachets and expensive furniture polish that had defined my childhood—French lavender from Provence, the same scent for twenty-five years.
Home.
My eyes opened to pale afternoon light filtering through sheer curtains—cream with delicate embroidered flowers. The antique vanity where I'd learned to apply makeup.
My childhood bedroom at the DeLuca estate—the Arizona property, not the Boston one—preserved exactly as I'd remembered it.
I tried to sit up.
Couldn't.
Panic sliced through the fog. My wrists—zip-tied to the bedposts, thick plastic cutting into already raw skin.
I was still wearing what I'd had on at the safe house—soft pants, loose shirt, the loungewear I'd thrown on that morning. But someone had laid clean clothes on the chair beside the bed. Jeans. A sweater. Like they expected me to dress for my own murder.
The thought of hands on me while I was unconscious—even just moving me, positioning me—made my skin crawl.
How long was I out? Who touched me?
I pulled violently against the restraints, needing to escape, needing to know what had happened in the hours I'd lost.
Agent Simpson. The water. Marco bought someone inside the FBI.
Late afternoon light slanted through the windows. Four, maybe five o'clock. My mouth tasted like chemicals and cotton. My muscles were weak, slightly trembling.
Alessio doesn't know where I am. Thinks I'm in FBI custody. Safe.
The thought made my chest tighten until I couldn't breathe.
I pulled against the restraints again. The bedposts were solid mahogany—expensive, unmovable.
My body felt wrong. Not just the drug hangover—something else. A persistent queasiness that had been building for days, maybe weeks. I'd been ignoring it, blaming stress and fear and constant adrenaline.
