Completely devoid of humor.
“What the hell?” he said, incredulous. “You haven’t even finished your first year at the academy, and you think you can ride along on a sit-down with the Sicilians?”
I rose from the armchair slowly.
My movements calm.
I met his glare head-on.
“Don’t underestimate me.”
My voice was quiet but firm.
“I was a trained CIA operative for three years.”
That gave him pause.
“Black ops. Wet work. Infiltration. Extraction. I’ve walked into enemy territory where most soldiers wouldn’t last a day.”
I took a step forward.
“I’ve fought more wars, eliminated more targets, and survived more impossible missions than most of your men will ever see in their lifetimes.”
His eyes narrowed.
Studying me now.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I added, my tone sharpening slightly, “I’ll sit through every tedious lecture and sparring session your academy throws at me.”
A beat.
“But right now?”
I held his gaze. Unblinking.
“I’m more than capable.”
Another step.
“I’m useful.”
Renzo’s gaze dropped—just for a second.
Over my hoodie.
My stance. My bare feet.
When his eyes returned to mine, they were colder.
“Every meeting we walk into,” he said slowly, his voice dropping to something more measured, “every car we climb into, every room we step foot in—there’s a non-zero chance someone tries to put a bullet between our eyes.”
A pause.
“Or a knife in our ribs.”
“Or worse.”
His gaze locked onto mine.
