But Sera and Logan stay clustered at his desk, heads close together over the screen. They're refining details. Communication protocols, the exact phrasing she'll use with Reyes, how to handle his body language in the bank.
"If he starts to make a call, you create a distraction," Logan says. "Spill something, stumble, anything to break his concentration until I can confirm who he's contacting."
"And if it's them? If he's calling to confirm we're in the vault?"
"Then you're already compromised and Gunner moves. We'll have maybe ninety seconds to extract you."
My fingers drum against my thigh as they lean closer over the screen. Logan points to something and Sera nodsbefore he finishes speaking. My jaw aches from clenching. She leans forward to see something better and her shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin at her waist that I want to bite. Logan doesn't notice. His attention is purely operational. But I notice everything about her body, always.
"The secondary authentication might require a voice print," Sera says.
"I've been recording Reyes during your meetings," Logan responds immediately. "I can spoof that if needed."
Of course he has. Of course they've been thinking three steps ahead while I've been struggling to catch up.
I swallow the jealousy. Don't name it, don't act on it, just let it exist. This is growth. Feeling something difficult and not compartmentalizing it, not building a box for it. Just letting it burn while I choose to trust anyway.
Miami's lights bleed into darkness outside. Monday is hours away now. In the morning, she'll board a flight with Reyes, walking into a vault that might be a trap, while I follow in shadows.
The plan is solid. The team is deployed. Every contingency we can imagine has been addressed. But my gut churns with the knowledge that she'll be alone with him in a closed room, that I'll be miles away when it matters, that all I can do is trust.
Trust her competence. Trust Logan's surveillance. Trust Gunner's readiness. Trust Milo's intelligence. Trust everyone except myself to keep her safe.
Every instinct developed in twenty years of Delgado training says to take control, to be in the room, to handle the threat directly. Don't delegate her safety. Don't stand in shadows while she walks into danger. Don't let anyone else be her protection.
But that's not partnership. That's possession. And we've moved past that, past the split personality and controls and thearchitecture of keeping each other at distance. Now I have to actually live it.
25 - Seraphina
The flight to New York feels like swimming through honey. Reyes sits beside me in first class, expansive in his linen suit, explaining Manhattan’s banking infrastructure as if I’m a student who needs educating. His hand rests on the armrest between us, fingers occasionally brushing mine when he gestures. Each contact is calculated on his part, meant to establish intimacy. I let it happen, widening my eyes at the right moments, asking the grateful questions of a widow out of her depth.
"The Excelsior Building has housed private vaults since 1892," he says, leaning closer than necessary. "Very few institutions maintain that level of… discretion anymore."
"I'm so grateful you know all this," I tell him, letting vulnerability shade my voice. "Julian never explained any of it to me."
In my ear, Logan's voice confirms what I already know: "Team in position. Gabriel landed forty minutes ago. Gunner's on-site."
I touch my earring, adjusting the nearly invisible comm device while pretending to play with the diamond. The movement looks nervous, feminine. Reyes's eyes track it with satisfaction. He thinks I'm anxious. Good.
The landing is smooth. The car he's arranged is waiting. Everything about Reyes's world runs on precision, on connections made decades ago and maintained through careful attention. He helps me from the car when we arrive at Forty-third and Madison. The Excelsior Building rises before us, old money made stone.
The building's interior confirms its pedigree. Marble floors that have held secrets since before anyone alive was born. Mahogany panels that swallow sound. Security is invisible but absolute. No metal detectors, no obvious guards. Just doors that recognize you or don't.
"Arturo," the woman at the desk greets him. Not Mr.Reyes. Arturo. He's family here.
"This is Mrs.Marin. We'll be accessing her late husband's vault."
The woman's eyes assess me with professional sympathy. The grieving widow, here to claim her inheritance. I let my shoulders curve inward slightly, the posture of someone overwhelmed by magnificent architecture and complicated finances.
Reyes steers me through corridors with the same possessive familiarity he showed at his soiree. His hand never leaves my back. The pressure is just firm enough to be controlling rather than supportive, but I lean into it, playing the woman who needs guidance.
Logan's voice in my ear: "All clear. Milo confirms Reyes's phone is quiet."
I search for cameras as we walk. Count the staff. Not because the plan requires it—Gunner already mapped this—but because Julian trained me to read every room as I enter it, and that training doesn't turn off just because Julian is dead.
The vault access requires both of us. My thumbprint on the scanner. My fingers are cold despite the controlled temperature. Then Reyes steps forward for the retinal scan, making a small joke about how the technology always makes him feel like he's in a spy film. His laughter is relaxed, the sound of a man who does this regularly.
The massive door swings open on silent hinges.
