Lo snorted, carefully applying another coat to his pinky nail. "No shit, Sherlock. You have a murder board dedicated to his morning routine with the plants."
"It's not a murder board, it's a surveillance log," I protested. "And the plant drama is compelling."
"I worry about you," Lo said, voice suggesting the exact opposite. "So how was it? Did you get all hot and bothered while he Freudian slipped all over you?"
I grabbed pistachios from a bowl on the counter, popping them into my mouth one by one. "It was... unsettling. He asked questions nobody asks. Made connections I didn't even see."
"And?" Lo prompted, suddenly more interested.
"And it fucking terrified me," I admitted quietly. "But also, I wanted more."
My throat tightened around the confession. Vincent had somehow slipped past all my defenses, a blade so sharp I hadn't felt the cut until I was already bleeding.
"Interesting." Lo set down his nail polish, giving me his full attention. "I've never seen you shaken by a target before. Not even that hotel heir in Taipei."
"I'm not shaken," I lied, the denial instant and practiced. "Just... intrigued."
Lo studied me silently, his usual mischief momentarily absent. "You're different with this one. Not just the stalling. Something else."
"I'm not different." The words tasted strangely automatic. "Just being thorough."
"Uh-huh." Lo capped his polish. "That's why you're hogging the best room in this place for three weeks instead of just shooting him like any normal psychopath would. The others are starting to talk, you know. Peterson had to take a job in Milwaukee because you wouldn't clear out."
"Just because you stab first and ask questions never doesn't mean the rest of us can't have finesse," I said, flicking a shell at him.
Lo dodged effortlessly. "Finesse? Is that what we're calling 'stalking your crush' these days?"
I opened my mouth to deliver what would've been a devastating comeback when the lounge fell suddenly, dramatically silent. Even the reality show seemed to dim.
Frankie had entered.
Francesco "Frankie" DiNardo embodied every mob boss stereotype compressed into one compact, lethal package. Five-foot-eightof concentrated menace, his immaculate suit stretched taut across fighter's muscles that no Italian tailoring could fully conceal. Silver threaded his temples like war medals, standing stark against jet-black hair, while a jagged scar carved from left ear to his lip.
As the overseer of this particular Pantheon safe house, Frankie commanded respect from everyone who passed through. But as my personal handler for the last decade, he reserved a special kind of contempt just for me.
"Luka," he said, his Philly accent making my name sound like a curse and prayer combined. "Office. Now."
The room collectively exhaled as he turned and stalked toward the corridor of private offices. The newer agents visibly relaxed while the veterans exchanged knowing glances. Everyone recognized when Frankie's fury had a specific target.
"Someone's in trouuuuuble," Lo sing-songed, wiggling crimson-tipped fingers in the air.
"Fuck off," I said, lips twitching despite everything. "If I'm not back in thirty minutes, avenge my death. Preferably by stabbing."
"Always," Lo promised cheerfully, blowing me a kiss. "Just remember, if you get disappeared, I'm stealing your weapons collection and selling your surveillance tech to that weird guy in Berlin."
I followed Frankie's path, feeling the Vincent contract penny weighing heavy in my pocket. The excitement that had buoyed me since therapy rapidly deflated, replaced by cold reality.
Frankie waited behind his desk when I entered. The office was minimalist to the point of severity with no photos, no personal touches. Just a desk, two chairs, and a wall of monitors displaying various data streams and surveillance feeds.
I dropped into the chair across from him, immediately slouching. "What's up, boss man? Come to congratulate me on successfully infiltrating the target's inner circle?"
"Cut the shit, Luka," Frankie said, voice deadly quiet. "The client is getting impatient. Prometheus is breathing down my neck. You know what happens when the North American Director starts asking questions?"
Prometheus's name hit my nervous system like a cattle prod. My skin prickled with goosebumps, mouth turning to sandpaper, stomach collapsing into itself. The reaction was visceral, immediate, and completely beyond my control, like my body remembered something my mind wanted to forget.
"I'm working on it," I said, my voice losing its edge. "These things take time if you want them done right."
"Bullshit." Frankie leaned forward, his scarred face half in shadow. "You've never needed more than forty-eight hours for a hit. You've been on this for three weeks. Three. Fucking. Weeks." He punctuated each word by tapping his desk. "I've covered for you because you're the best, but my patience isn't infinite, and neither is The Pantheon's."
