"You should work in the extraction division," I said. "Plan the routes."
"I should work in your strategy division. Plan everything."
I stepped closer. "That's a lot of authority to assume."
"I'm not assuming it. I'm stating it." Julietta didn't move away. "I'm better at this than your current strategists. You know it. I know it. Torres knows it, which is why he tested me so hard. Let me do it, and I'll make your operation thirty percent more efficient within six months."
The confidence was staggering.
The competence was worse.
"If I do that, if I give you that level of access and authority, I'm signaling to every other organization in this city that you matter. That you're essential. That makes you a target."
"I was already a target." She stepped closer, closing the distance between us. "Lorenzo put two million on my head. The Suarez family wants me dead for Miguel's death. The only way I survive is to become too valuable to kill."
She was right. She was terrifyingly, infuriatingly right.
"Okay," I said. "But you work with Marcos. He's my best strategist, and you'll need someone who understands the operational reality as well as the theory."
"Fine."
"And when I tell you something is too dangerous, you don't argue. You comply."
"I'll consider it seriously."
"Julietta—"
"That's the best you're getting, Dante. I survived this long by being compliant—and it almost got me killed. I'm done with that strategy."
I kissed her again because conversation had become impossible. Somewhere between extracting her from that hotel suite and watching her dismantle Torres's skepticism, I'd lost the ability to maintain the distinction between strategy and desire. She was right about everything—the operational design, the authority, the danger—and the part of me that wanted to lock her in that penthouse and keep her safe was being rapidly overtaken by the part that wanted to set her loose and watch her burn everything down.
Later that night, I found myself watching her from the observation deck that overlooked the main floor.
She was walking through the compound alone, her black clothes making her nearly invisible in the shadows. She moved like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there. Like the space itself had reorganized around her arrival to accommodate her presence.
Ricci was there too, showing her something on one of the monitors. She was asking questions. Actually engaged. Taking notes.
I realized I was smiling.
That should have terrified me.
It did, but not in the way I expected.
The terror wasn't about her being a threat or a liability. It was the terror of recognizing that somewhere between the first time I saw her at that gala and this moment, I'd stopped wanting to possess her like a prize and started wanting something far more dangerous.
I wanted her to want to stay.
I wanted her to see my world and choose it. Chooseme. Not from fear or obligation or because she had nowhere else to go, but because she actually wanted to be here, wanted to build this with me, wanted to ascend into power at my side.
That wasn't control.
That was surrender.
And I was beginning to understand that was the only kind of relationship I could ever have with a woman like her.
She looked up then, toward the observation deck, and found me watching. Even from this distance, I could see the shift in her expression. The recognition. The understanding that I was observing her, cataloging her, unable to look away.
She smiled.
