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For a second, I didn’t answer.

The smart move was to tell her to withdraw the filings, crawl back to whatever gutter Delgado kept her in, and to pray The Syndicate forgot her name.

But she was standing in front of me with my fingers still on her chin and tears caught on the rim of those big brown eyes, looking less like the arrogant attorney who’d walked into Xyst and more like a woman who’d realized every exit led to a different kind of monster.

I let go of her.

“You disappear,” I said. “Tonight, if you’re smart. Go somewhere Delgado won’t look. Somewhere quiet. Simple. Find a man who doesn’t make your life hell. Maybe have a few kids. Grow old without cartel filth or city politicians breathing down your neck.”

She stared at me.

Then she gave a dry laugh.

“You make that sound easy.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy.”

“No. You said it the way men like you say everything.” She pushed off the desk and lifted herself onto the surface, her skirt riding high on her thighs in a way that had my body paying attention before my brain could tell it not to fucking react. “Like all a woman has to do is decide to be free, and the world politely gets out of her way.”

Then she leaned back on her hands and looked up at me, all soft eyes and exposed throat, like surrender was the only weapon she had left.

“So that’s it, then?” she asked. “I’m just fucked. Another woman rich men use until I become inconvenient.”

The accusation landed harder than it should have.

I didn’t trust her. But I understood being useful to powerful men. I understood being pushed into wars that started long before my name was attached to them.

“You got yourself into this,” I said.

“Did I?” she asked quietly.

My anger should’ve held.

It didn’t, and I hated myself for that.

This was supposed to be simple. Walk in, threaten the smartass city attorney, make sure she understood Xyst was not a club she could fuck with, then leave.

Instead, I was standing in a small government office with a woman who might be lying through her teeth, might be trapped by one of the worst men alive, and might be both at the same time.

“Are you related to Ciro Delgado?” I blurted, having a sudden need to know.

Her lashes lowered, her eyes skimming over her lap.

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m good at complicated.” I stepped closer. “Try me. Are you his daughter?”

Her chin dipped, and she shook her head. “Only on paper.”

“What does that mean?”

She drew in a breath, choosing her words carefully. She looked past me toward the broken phone on the floor, then back to my face.

“Ciro was a client at the firm where I interned. A big one. The kind partners clear their calendars for.” Her mouth tightened. “He came in for a meeting, and when I introduced myself, he changed.”

“Changed how?”

“When I told him my name was Isabella, he looked at me like the name unlocked something ugly in his head. As though I’d stopped being an intern and become an opportunity.” She sat up and rubbed her palms over her skirt. “The name caught his attention. I didn’t know if he had a wife, daughter, sister, dead lover—whatever. But the name meant something to him, and from that moment on, his attention was focused on me. Not in a normal way. Not grief, not affection. Interest. The kind that makes your skin want to crawl off your body.”