No, I shut down the thought before it can fully form. But the seed is planted, and doubt, once introduced, spreads like a virus.
I set the phone down and rise from my desk, suddenly unable to sit still. I move to the window, staring out at the city without really seeing it. My mind races, examining angles and possibilities with the cold precision that has kept me alive and in power.
The timing is too convenient. Lea’s abduction. The abandoned factory. The perfect rescue. And now this phone, found in the exact area where security was breached.
It’s a setup.
The thought lands with the weight of certainty, and with it comes a pain so acute it’s physical, a knife twisting beneath my ribs. I press my palm against the cool glass of the window, struggling to breathe through it.
No,argues another voice in my head.You saw her fear. You felt her relief when you found her. You held her in your arms as she trembled with gratitude and desire. That can’t be faked.
Can’t it? Haven’t I seen master manipulators before? Haven’t I been one myself?
I pace, my mind at war with itself. The diplomat in me—the cold, calculating strategist who has navigated the treacherous waters of Chicago’s underworld for decades—screams that this is a trap. The convenient “kidnapping,” the burner phone, Lea’s sudden, insistent desire to visit Purgatorio tonight... they form a pattern too clear to ignore.
But there’s another voice now, one I’ve never heard before. The Lover. And he desperately rejects this conclusion. He replaysevery moment of our reunion: her tears, her passion, the way she clung to me afterward as if afraid I might vanish. He argues it felt too real, too raw to be a performance.
Why would she do this?The question echoes in my mind, a tormenting refrain.What motive would drive her to such elaborate betrayal?
I have no answer because I’m missing a crucial piece. Her betrayal seems senseless—a deeply personal wound inflicted for no reason I can fathom.
I force myself to stop pacing and think logically. There must be an explanation. Perhaps Isabel is coercing her somehow. Or blackmailing her. Or maybe Lea is playing a double game—pretending to work with Isabel while actually feeding me information.
Yes, that must be it. She found the phone and brought it to Blake’s attention immediately. If she were truly working against me, wouldn’t she have hidden it? Used it secretly?
But then why did she answer it at all? And why in that blind spot in the garden, away from the cameras?
The questions multiply, each one spawning a dozen more, until my head pounds with them. The pain of potential betrayal is a physical thing, far worse than the bullet wound in my side from Moretti’s attack.
I return to my desk and sink into my chair, suddenly exhausted. The burner phone sits there, a silent accusation. I could call the tech team, have them trace the last call, attempt to crack the encryption. But deep down, I already know what they’ll find: nothing. A ghost, just as Blake said.
The pain becomes too much. As a defense mechanism honed over years of survival, I retreat into the one persona that has never failed me: The Diplomat. I feel it happening—the emotional turmoil receding, replaced by cold, simple logic. My heart encases itself in ice, the vulnerability of moments ago sealed away behind impenetrable walls.
I accept the most logical, if devastating, conclusion: I am being played. The sudden, insistent desire to go to Purgatorio tonight is connected to Isabel’s encrypted phone. The location of the trap has been designated, and Lea is leading me to it.
The hurt is still there, a molten core beneath the ice, but now it fuels something else: a cold, patient, and lethal fury.
I send a text to Blake:My office. Now.
While I wait, I compose myself completely, burying any trace of the emotional turmoil that preceded this moment. By the time Blake knocks and enters, I am once again Nicolás Varela, The Diplomat, the man who has maintained order in Chicago’s criminal underground for over a decade.
“Sir?” Blake stands at attention, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
“I want a full staffing and security review at Purgatorio for tonight,” I say, my voice calm and controlled, but with an edge that makes Blake’s posture stiffen further. “Use Alessandro’s most trusted men. Every employee on shift is to be vetted, especially those with access to the VIP areas and my office.”
“Yes, sir.” Blake’s response is immediate. “May I ask what we’re looking for?”
I meet his gaze directly. “There may be a mole in our house, Blake. I want them found.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes. He nods once, sharply. “Consider it done. Anything else?”
I consider for a moment, then add, “I want a secondary team in place. Not visible to the regular security detail. Men you trust implicitly, positioned to observe without being observed.”
“A shadow team,” Blake says, already thinking operationally. “I’ll handle the placement myself.”
“Good. That will be all for now.”
After he leaves, I sit in silence for a long moment, staring at the burner phone. Then I open my desk drawer and drop it inside, shutting it away with a decisive click.
