I do know that. I’ve watched men compromise operations because they couldn’t separate attachment from strategy. I’ve eliminated threats others hesitated over because sentiment clouded their judgment. I’ve built my reputation on precision, control, and the ability to make hard decisions without flinching.
The thought of Diana hurt—of her silenced the way her brother was—creates a resistance I can’t rationalize away.
“She’s my responsibility,” I say finally. “I’ll handle her my way. If she becomes a genuine threat, I’ll deal with it. Until then, Lorenzo and his people stay back.”
Pavel watches me for another long moment, then nods once. “I’ll relay that. Understand that if she publishes, if she makes contact with federal investigators, if she does anything that jeopardizes operations, this protection ends. You won’t get another chance to contain her quietly.”
“Understood.”
He stands, buttoning his suit jacket with practiced efficiency. “Don’t let this become a problem, Felix. We can’t afford complications right now.”
“It won’t.”
***
By 10:00 p.m., I’m parked across from Diana’s building in an unmarked black SUV. Engine off. Lights off. The street is quiet, a few pedestrians moving past without noticing the vehicle blending into the row of parked cars.
I tell myself this is operational necessity. Risk assessment. Confirming she’s home, monitoring her patterns, ensuring no one else is moving on her without coordination.
The justification is thin, but I hold on to it anyway.
Her apartment window glows softly on the third floor, curtains partially drawn. I can’t see much from this angle—just the vague outline of furniture, shadows moving occasionally as she shifts between rooms.
Movement catches my peripheral vision. Half a block down, another car idles with its engine running. There’s two men inside, visible through the windshield in profile. They’re watching the same building I am.
Sartore’s watchers.
My jaw tightens. Lorenzo said he’d give me time to handle this, but clearly he’s keeping his own surveillance active. The men in that car aren’t there to observe—they’re positioned for intervention if Diana makes the wrong move.
Or if I fail to contain her quickly enough.
The bedroom light turns on, brighter than the living room glow. Through the gap in the curtains, I catch her silhouette moving across the space. She’s changed out of the jeans and sweater from this morning, wearing something looser now—a shirt that hangs past her hips.
She reaches up to pull it over her head, the motion lifting the fabric slowly, and for a brief second her body is visible in silhouette. The curve of her waist, the soft swell of her breasts, the generous shape of her hips and thighs backlit against the warm bedroom light.
The image is brief, but it slams into me with enough force that my breath catches.
She steps away from the window and pulls the curtains closed fully, disappearing from view.
I sit in the dark vehicle, pulse elevated, hands gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary. Desire floods through me—sharp, possessive, completely inappropriate given the circumstances.
I don’t like how deeply it affects me. How the thought of those Sartore watchers seeing what I just saw makes my jaw clench with irrational territoriality.
She’s not mine. She’s a liability I’m managing. A civilian who stumbled into dangerous territory and needs containment before she destroys herself and multiple operations in the process.
The rationalization feels hollow when I’m still staring at her darkened window, replaying the curve of her body in my mind.
I start the engine and pull away from the curb, forcing distance between myself and the building.
The Sartore car doesn’t follow. They stay parked, watching her window the same way I was.
I drive back to my office and spend the next two hours reviewing surveillance reports, trying to focus on risk assessment instead of the memory of her silhouette.
It doesn’t work.
Chapter Six - Diana
Three days pass in a haze of paranoia and forced normalcy. I go to work, respond to emails, sit through client meetings where I nod and take notes and pretend my hands aren’t shaking under the conference table. The camera I installed captures nothing suspicious—just me moving through my apartment alone, lights turning on and off, the mundane documentation of a life under surveillance.
