The second I knocked his cap off, I recognized the smug bastard’s face from his brother’s wedding photos. I’ve never paid much attention to their family. My knowledge of them is basic at best.
They weren’t in my orbit, and I sure as hell wasn’t in theirs.
Until now.
It almost feels like the universe planted a Viacava directly in my path as a personal fuck-you for failing the mission.
I groan and shift gears, taking a right, then another, following the route back toward my hotel.
Rather than park close by, I abandon the getaway truck a few blocks away and stick close to the buildings, where my dark clothes blend into the shadows.
My head pounds, and my pulse still hasn’t settled after going one-on-one with a man trained to fight the same way I do.
He stayed focused and disciplined for a few minutes until he wasn’t.
The satisfaction that follows is brief. I bite down on my bottom lip to stop myself from visibly gloating as I leave the darkness and step into the bright hotel lobby.
I keep my head down and head straight for the stairs, taking them two at a time until I reach room 111 on the third floor.
Every job starts with checking into a room with angel numbers for luck, a habit I’ll never let die.
Even though I couldn’t find the footage of Connor, I didn’t come away empty-handed. I just hope my da sees it that way and understands that the security in that place was next level.
I strip off my tactical gear, loosen the braid in my hair, and sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for the small pocket where I secured the USB.
For such a tiny little device, it sure as hell carries a lot of weight. I curl my fingers around it and close my eyes, hating how the botched job knots tight in my chest.
I did everything right—got inside, distracted the guards—but when it came to the crunch, the damn files weren’t there.
Before I put on normal clothes, I walk to the wardrobe and punch a code into the safe where I left my laptopand a burner phone.
After a long exhale, I call my da and press my back against the wall as it rings.
“Did you get it?” he answers, no formalities or questions about my well-being.
I close my eyes and force out a response. “No. The encryption was too deep. I couldn’t locate it in time.”
A heavy silence stretches, though I know better than to fill it with apologies or excuses.
“You had one job to do. And you failed,” he says, his tone flat and controlled, weighted with tight disappointment.
“Da, the files weren’t where you said they’d be. They’re buried deeper than I had time?—”
“You trained to overcome problems, not to drop them at my feet as excuses.”
“I tried,” I say, doing my best to keep it together. “I did everything you asked. But the intel you had was wrong, or they moved it, or?—”
“Or I should have sent someone more capable.”
The words land like a slap.
I swallow the hurt and bury it deep, where he won’t hear it and decide I’m weak.
“I couldn’t get what we wanted, but I downloaded other material. A lot of intel on another family.”
“Who?”
“The Viacavas. The Italian family who hit the papers with the wedding of the year a few months ago.”
