-Lucien.
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"You actually came for him," Sandro said as he stood, slowly, like the idea had weight. His eyes trailed over me, sharp and stunned. "This has never happened before."
I didn't answer right away. I was too focused on the pounding behind my eyes—too busy keeping my fists unclenched at my sides.
Be calm.
This was going to be a negotiation, not a fight. I had to hold my voice steady.
"What kind of sick joke is this, Sandro?" I asked, the words sliding out low, precise. I stepped forward slowly, each movement measured, deliberate. "You really thought this would go unnoticed?"
"No jokes here," he said, lips twitching into something that wasn't quite a smirk, not quite sincerity. "It was exactly what I suspected. Though I didn't think you were serious about him. I figured you'd brush it off. Like you always do."
I could feel the fury coil tighter in my chest. But I held it. Let it stretch and burn without spilling over.
"You could've sorted it out with me," I said. "You didn't have to kidnap him to deliver whatever this is."
"Oh no," Sandro said, tilting his head like a cat toying with something bleeding. "This doesn't involve you anymore, Rowan. You're wrong here. This is about the organization now."
My fingers twitched at that—reflexive. Defensive. I stepped closer.
"How is that about the organization?" I said. "The boy doesn't know anything."
Sandro's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Does he?" he asked, slow and poisonous. "Because from what we've heard, you've been very glued to him lately."
"He fucking thinks I'm a prince from an imaginary country I came up with over a bottle of wine and a panic attack," I snapped, the mask slipping just for a second. "And so what if I have been close to him? I'm responsible for his work."
Sandro laughed then. Quiet, mocking. The sound scratched something inside me.
"Look, Lucien," he said, stepping forward, his tone light but his eyes venomous. "Don't get me wrong. I don't give a fuck who you sleep with. I won't yuck your yum if you're into men now. Great. Rainbow flags all around."
He got closer—too close—and said, "But the organization? That's where I draw the line."
I stared at him.
And for a moment, the whole room faded—just the faint buzz of the lights overhead, the pulse in my jaw, the dry taste of iron behind my teeth.
Because I knew.
I knew this wasn't about the organization. This wasn't about rules, or protocol, or keeping things clean.
This was Sandro—twisted, territorial Sandro—acting on a hunch born from whatever warped, possessive part of his brain decided I shouldn't have something that wasn't his to control.
This was never about Reed.
It was about me. And he wanted to see how far I'd bend before I broke.
I inhaled through my nose. Let it settle. The room, the weight, the taste of salt and copper on my tongue. Sandro wanted escalation. He wanted to drag me down into a shouting match, something unprofessional. Emotional.
But that's not how I win.
I adjusted my collar. Straightened my cuffs. Made sure every word came out clean and even.
"You don't want to make this bigger than it already is," I said calmly. "If there's a suspicion, fine. Flag it. We'll investigate. You know I don't cover breaches."
"You don't usually," Sandro said, pacing now, restless like a dog that hadn't been walked in days. "But this? This looks messy. You're getting emotional."
I gave a slow shrug. "You're getting territorial."
He stopped. Tilted his head again.
That struck a nerve.
"I'm not asking you to trust him," I continued, carefully. "I'm not even asking you to let him walk. I'm telling you there's no operational risk—because he doesn't know what he's part of."
I took a step closer. My shoes echoed on the polished floor like punctuation.
"He signs. He smiles. He flirts. He thinks this is some surreal, vaguely criminal startup run by a delusional 'prince.' That's his entire concept of what's happening."
"He's still a liability."
"He's a controlled liability."
I let that hang there.
Then I added, quieter: "And if we don't control it… we make it worse."
Sandro stared at me, something flickering behind his eyes. Maybe recognition. Maybe rage.
I pressed further.
"You bring civilians into this?" I said, voice low. "You start dragging people off the street because of feelings you can't name? That's not protocol. That's ego."
He exhaled through his nose. Sharp. Irritated.
I didn't let up.
"Let me clean it. Let me talk to him. Let me finish this. You know I can. You know I will. You want the threat neutralized? Then you don't provoke it. You control it. That's what we do."
Sandro was quiet.
I could feel the edge teetering. Could see the path. I just needed him to say yes. Or even maybe.
But mostly—I just needed Reed out.
Alive.
Unbroken.
Before this thing we built collapsed on both of us.
Sandro stared at me, jaw ticking.
For a moment, I thought maybe—maybe—he was considering it. That he'd let it go. Be pragmatic, the way we were trained to be.
But no.
He smiled.
A cruel, disappointed thing.
"I forgot how idealistic you get when your hands are dirty," he said, almost sweetly. "It's adorable. Really."
I didn't move.
"You think your words still matter here," he continued, stepping forward. "That you can talk your way out like you always do. A few lines about containment, operational control, little flashes of that old charm. But Rowan—this isn't your sandbox anymore."
My teeth clenched, but I stayed silent.
"You gave him your name."
I blinked.
That rattled me.
"What?"
"Not your real one. But close enough. Lucien." He let the word roll like it tasted sour. "He thinks you're a prince. From some fiction you wrote on a napkin. But he says your name when he's scared. He says it like it means something."
I felt it then—like ice along my spine.
"You listened to him?" I asked, voice lower now. "While he was—?"
"We listen to everyone. It's our job."
"You're not listening," I said sharply. "You're fixated."
He ignored that.
"I'm not reasoning with you, Rowan," he said. "This isn't about negotiation. You're compromised. Emotionally. Which makes you useless. The organization can't afford sentimentality."
He was right about one thing. I was compromised.
But I wasn't useless.
Not yet.
"You think this is a sentiment?" I said quietly, voice hardening. "You think I'd risk my position, my cover, for a fling? He's nothing to you—but you didn't even ask what he is to me."
Sandro tilted his head again. "I didn't need to."
I took a breath. Held it.
And in that stillness, I made a choice.
I'm going to get him out.
Even if it means burning this whole thing down around us.
I didn't say another word to Sandro.
There was nothing left to say. He'd made his stance clear.
I turned my back on him—because walking away is harder than shouting, and because he doesn't get to see me crack.
The door shut behind me with a mechanical click. I walked down the corridor, straight-backed, hands loose at my sides, like I wasn't planning seventeen ways to dismantle him from the inside.
My car was waiting outside the compound. Of course it was. They're still polite enough to let me keep the illusion of power.
I slid into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. It shook. Just once.
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles paled. The leather was cold. Or maybe I was. I knew where I was going.
Emiliano. He was next.
If Sandro was the trigger-happy limb of the body, Emiliano was the spine. Older. Quieter. The one who didn't raise his voice because he didn't need to. His word was law in the rooms that mattered.
And I needed him to remember that I was still part of those rooms.
The drive was long enough for my anger to harden. To distill. It stopped feeling like panic and started feeling like purpose.
They thought I was compromised.
They hadn't seen me cornered yet.
I pulled up to the private residence Emiliano used for his "consultations." Suburban, faceless. White gravel drive. Discreet cameras tucked under every overhang. A place that said this isn't what it looks like, and meant it.
I stepped out of the car and adjusted my collar.
I was calm again. At least on the outside.
It was time to remind Emiliano why I mattered.
"To what do I owe that pleasure?" Emiliano said as he slowly lowered himself into the leather armchair, the kind that creaked with authority. He moved with the weight of someone used to being listened to, not challenged. In his hand, a short glass of whiskey caught the light—amber liquid swirling lazily as he took a measured sip.
"Do you know what Sandro has done?" I asked immediately, voice clipped, tight, already fraying. There was no space left for pleasantries.
"What now?" he muttered, setting the glass on the side table with a soft click, brows lifting with exasperated boredom.
"He kidnapped Reed."
Emiliano's expression shifted—just slightly. But I caught it. A flicker. That flash of genuine surprise that told me he hadn't known. He took another sip, slower this time, then leaned his head back against the chair's cushion. A long, deliberate sigh escaped him—an exhausted exhale that filled the quiet between us. Then his gaze returned to mine, heavier now.
"I tried to reason with him," I said, pacing a slow, tight arc across the room. My hands wouldn't stay still. I clenched and unclenched them by my sides. "I went in patient. Civil. Like you asked me to. But he's seriously pushing it—meddling with my work. Kidnapping someone just to teach me a lesson?" I stopped, looked him square in the eye. "What the fuck is going on?"
"I'll agree with you on one thing," Emiliano said, his voice smooth but cooled by caution. "He's meddling with your work. And I don't see a reason for that." He tipped his head, resting it now on his hand, elbow perched on the armrest. His eyes didn't leave me. "But I'm getting the sense that you aren't really here because he's meddling with your work, Rowan."
He said my name softly. Almost like he pitied me.
"You know, Rowan," he went on, "in this line of work, you need to have a spine. Cold and clean. Now, I see a man with a weakness. And that ruins it all."
"Emiliano." I took a step forward, my voice cracking despite every effort not to let it. "You know I do whatever you ask of me—without hesitation, without second guessing. I went on routes without fearing for my life. I've nearly died countless times. And still, I did it again. And again."
I let out a breath, shaky, dragging one hand through my hair before locking eyes with him again.
"And I still feel the same way. I never forgot the system. I never defied it. I never let myself dream of anything outside it."
My voice faltered. Just slightly. I hated that he could see it.
"I'm not here seeking salvation for myself," I said, softer now. "There's another man—who has nothing to do with this—in a cell right now. And God only knows what they're doing to him. I may be guilty of caring for his well-being," I said, my voice low and clear, "but never for mine. If you asked me to go to war right now—in exchange for his release—I wouldn't question it for more than a second."
I straightened. The heat behind my eyes burned, but I didn't let it fall. Not here.
"If you call this a weakness, Emiliano… then I'm afraid there's no ground for redemption for what I can do next."
He was silent for a long time.
Then he leaned back slowly in the chair, one leg crossing over the other, fingers tapping once against the empty glass.
"You've grown up," he said finally, gaze unreadable. "You really are a grown-up right now."
I looked at him, not knowing what that really meant. You've grown up. As if maturity was a currency I could spend to bring Reed home. As if any of this was that clean.
Emiliano stood slowly, smoothing the crease from his shirt with one hand, his glass now empty but still in his grip.
"I'll give release orders," he said, voice low and deliberate. "Go pick him up. But you owe me a big one."
Relief punched through my chest. I didn't let it show, not fully—but it was there, burning beneath my ribs like something close to hope.
"Thank you, Emiliano."
I turned to go, already shifting back into movement, into control—but his voice stopped me.
"Wait, Lucien…"
I turned back.
He stepped forward, slower this time, the heavy quiet between us settling in again like a warning. He walked until there was only a few feet between us. Close enough for his words to land without echo.
"I'm begging you at this point," he said, and it wasn't sarcasm. It was worse—sincere. "Don't disappoint me. I'm on your side with this because Sandro really crossed the line. But that doesn't mean you get my blessing for whatever this love story is about."
I held his gaze. Didn't blink.
"You've met him, Emiliano," I said, voice calm but edged. "Does he really look anything like us?"
He scoffed—sharp and bitter. The kind of sound that said exactly. That said, That's the problem.
"Go pick him up, Rowan."
I nodded once, tight and silent.
Then I turned around.
And I didn't look back.
I pulled into the parking lot.
Same building. Same concrete stillness. It looked like it always did—ugly, utilitarian, unfeeling. A place built for secrets and the people who disappear into them.
I didn't get out.
Instead, I reached for my phone, dialed one of the numbers I only used for things like this. Sandro's runner. Disposable, forgettable. One of many who never made eye contact.
He picked up on the second ring.
"I'm in the parking lot," I said.
Then I hung up.
No need for pleasantries. No time for conversation.
I sat in the car, hands gripping the wheel, counting the seconds like they might anchor me to something. A couple of minutes passed, slow and heavy. Then—footsteps. Two figures emerged from the side door, one of them carrying a third like luggage.
Reed.
His head hung forward. His limbs limp. His shirt was bunched and half-untucked, one sneaker missing. There was a gauze pad taped to his inner elbow—sedation, I realized, immediately. Not enough to harm. Just enough to shut him up.
The underling didn't meet my eyes. He opened the back door and slid Reed inside with quiet efficiency, like this was just another delivery.
I didn't speak.
Neither did he.
When the door clicked shut, he walked away without waiting for acknowledgment.
I stared at Reed.
His face was pale. Mouth slightly open. His lashes trembled faintly, like some part of him was still trying to fight it in his sleep. He looked smaller than I remembered. Like they'd taken more than time from him.
I swallowed down the urge to hit the gas and crash into the side of the building.
Instead, I turned the key.
The engine came to life with a soft growl, and I pulled out without looking back.
The hospital was twenty minutes away. I'd already called Arman ahead. He'd know to expect someone "unresponsive, mildly sedated, head trauma possible."
Right now, the only thing that mattered was keeping him alive.