I roll out of bed and pad to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face until my skin stings. The mirror shows a woman I barely recognize, hair tangled, circles under her eyes, jaw set like she’s expecting a fight. I look feral. Cornered.
Good. Cornered animals bite.
Breakfast arrives at 7:15, same as always. The guard with the cheap aftershave. I’ve started calling him Axe Body Spray in my head, slides the tray through a slot in the door without making eye contact. Scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice, a small cup of fruit. Better than anything I ate in my real life, which is a depressing thought I shove aside.
I eat standing up, pacing the room between bites. Movement keeps me sharp. Stillness lets fear creep in.
By the time Leone arrives at nine, I’ve done a hundred squats, fifty pushups, and memorized the patrol rotation visible from my window. Three guards circle the courtyard in twelve-minute intervals. They switch positions at the top of each hour. Predictable. Exploitable.
Not that I have anywhere to run.
Leone enters without knocking, apparently that’s his thing now, and drops a fresh stack of files on the desk. He’s wearing the same style suit as always, dark and perfectly fitted, but there’s a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there yesterday.
“Rough night?” I ask, grabbing the files before he can respond.
“Something like that.”
I flip through the pages. More manifests. More schedules. A few photographs of men I don’t recognize, their faces circled in red marker. “Who are these guys?”
“Persons of interest.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I roll my eyes and spread the documents across the bed, arranging them by date. Leone watches from his usual spot by the door, arms crossed, face unreadable. I’ve started thinking of that expression as his factory setting, blank, controlled, giving away nothing.
Except it does give things away. Little things. The way his teeth grind together when I push too hard. The way his eyes track my movements when he thinks I’m not looking. The way he positions himself between me and the door, even though we both know I’m not stupid enough to run.
He’s protective. He doesn’t want to be, but he is.
I file that information away with everything else I’ve learned about him. Leone Costa: violent, disciplined, loyal to a fault. Doesn’t sleep enough. Doesn’t eat enough. Carries guilt like other men carry wallets—always there, always weighing him down, never acknowledged.
“This one.” I tap a manifest dated three weeks ago. “The gap I found yesterday? It lines up with this delivery. See?” I pull another document from the pile. “They moved double the usual product the week before and the week after, but nothing on the Tuesday itself. They’re compensating.”
Leone crosses the room, leaning over my shoulder to look. He smells so fucking good, it’s messing with my head. I ignore the way my pulse ticks up when he gets close.
“Compensating for what?” he asks.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” I chew my lip, staring at the numbers. “If I had to guess? They’re using that window for something off-books. Something they don’t want mixed with regular shipments.”
“Such as?”
“Could be anything. High-value cargo. Human trafficking. Weapons.” I glance up at him. “You’d know better than me what the Castillo’s are into.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes. “All of the above.”
Right. Of course. I forget sometimes that I’m dealing with actual monsters, not men in nice suits.
I turn back to the documents, forcing my hands to stay steady. “Then my money’s on trafficking. Weapons are bulky… they’d show up in weight discrepancies. Drugs would fit the regular shipments. But people?” I shake my head. “People need special handling. Separate routes. Dedicated windows.”
Leone is quiet. When I look up, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite name.
“You figured that out in two days,” he says.
“I’m a fast learner.”
“You’re wasted as a courier.”
