THALIA POV

"Thalia"

I snap my gaze up at the sound of my name. His face remains neutral-no anger, no satisfaction. Just dark pitch eyes.

"And neither of us needs the money." He continues while I steady my heart that's in overdrive.

Gun to my head

He knows my name.

I hold my breath, forcing calm into my racing pulse.

How much else does he know? Nope. Damien probably told him. On paper and internet I'm a normal student who launders Trustfund

Orio presses the gun harder.

Gun.

The few people remaining in the lounge rush out.

"Don is here!"

"Viper lane strikes again!"

Words and screams muffling into each other

If this turns to a gunfight, would it be smart to use mine?

"You blew your cover? a six years careful revenge over chess game?!"

The shrill voice of Marcus makes me shudder. I can imagine his words and heat. Even Vaughn's disappointment flash through my mind.

No. Marcus and Vaughn would kill me themselves if they found out I'd blown my cover over this.

I only wanted to rattle him, see if he was as volatile as the reports suggested. Now I'm about to get executed over a chess game.

"I don't know what you mean, but I do need the money." A lie. I need something far more valuable-access.

He leans closer. My pulse hammers as his nose grazes my skin, his cheek pressing against my neck. I expect words, threats, something. Instead, he just breathes me in. Slow. Deliberate. Taking me in like I'm evidence.

Then he pulls back, removing the gun from my temple and settling into his seat as he lights a fresh cigarette. By my count-that's his sixth tonight.

"You say you need money," smoke curls between us as he studies me, "but your leather isn't cheap."

The flame casts sharp shadows across his features.

"And? Some of us want more."

His eyes narrow, his cigarette stick in place between his plump lips. But there's something else beneath the scrutiny-a current I can't quite name.

"What kind of debt are you in, pretty doll?"

There it is. He's profiling me, searching for leverage.

"Why? Want to be my pimp?"

Laughter erupts from my left. I took in this place to know it's Damien, he sits in the shadows, eating prawns with a grin that hasn't left his face since Carlos dragged me here.

Carlos's expression doesn't change.

We hold each other's stare until he dumps his cigarette for a cuba & Orio lights it

"Okay, pretty doll, what do you want?"

I don't need to think, I know what I want

"You didn't take this long to state your terms earlier," Damien adds, his first words since they sat me down.

"Pretty. Doll." Carlos draws out each syllable, rough-voiced and sharp-edged.

The calm I hadn't noticed on his face evaporates, replaced by something lethal.

"I'm thinking." I force the words past the tension in my throat.

What do I want?

The truth burns: I want you suffering. I want you begging. I want you to lose everything before you die choking on your own blood.

But that's the endgame. Right now, I need proximity. After years of surveillance, I've learned that taking down Carlos means dismantling Viper Lane, and vice versa. Even with Shadow's resources, Marcus, the mafia lord who trained Vaughn & I, we agreed it's nearly impossible to destroy both simultaneously.

But if I'm inside? I'll have access to his schedule, his meals, life, contacts, his vulnerabilities

"Give me a job."

Laughter ripples through the room, Orio. Carlos shoots him a glare and the sound dies like it never existed

Carlos just tilts his head, curious.

I move my rook to h8, facing his pawn.

"Told you I need the money."

He moves his knight to d7, trapping me.

"What are you good at?" His voice cuts through my analysis.

I meet his gaze then he puffs a smoke at the ceiling.

"Cooking." Damien chuckles, but I continue.

"For someone who chain-smokes, shouldn't you pair it with something to drink? Or does your throat not burn anymore?"

Metal presses against my temple before I finish the sentence. I gasp: sharp, involuntary.

I can shoot a gun. I've trained myself past the phobia, mostly. But I hate having one pointed at me.

My chest rises and falls too rapidly. I repeat my mantra silently: Live to kill Carlos. Live to kill Carlos.

It doesn't work.

Carlos stands so quickly his chair scrapes the floor. He draws his own weapon and my entire body goes cold, throat goes dry.

But he aims it at Orio's head.

"Never point your gun at her without my direct order. Ever."

"Yes, sir." Orio's voice shakes as he lowers his weapon.

I remain frozen, staring at Carlos's sharp profile.

"Do you all hear me?" The harshness in his tone makes me want to cover my ears.

"Order received, sir." Five voices-maybe more-respond from the darkness.

I scan the room but see only Orio and Damien. When I look back, Carlos is seated again, casual as if he hadn't just threatened to execute his own man.

I bite my lower lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to slow my racing heart.

"My personal assistant." He makes his move on the board without looking at it.

"You start tonight if you win."

"Personal assistant?" I can't hide my shock. "Tonight?"

I don't need a job or information that chains me.

Marcus PA doesn't have a life outside of work. Lives in his building. Has access to everything but he knows his breathing schedule.

"What PA starts work at eight PM?"

He sets down his cigarette and drains a full glass of clear tequila in one swallow. I wince at the burn he must feel.

Or maybe he's too burnt to feel anything anymore.

"Have a problem with it?" His eyes lock onto mine. "Then lose."

The challenge in his voice sparks something defiant in me, but I force it down.

He makes another move.

"Play. " Demanding as usual

I stare at the board before making a Mindless move

"I'm not good at paperwork or taking orders." I feel the weight of his gaze and the intensity brings out a limited respect in me, so I add

"Sir."

For the first time tonight, I hear his teeth grind.

He makes another move-

another opening for me to attack.

I throw it again, playing a meaningless response.

He shoots me a glare. Damien chuckles before adding

"This is getting interesting"

Carlos downs another tequila and play. This time, he mirror me.

Instead of protecting, he opens space around his king-an obvious path to checkmate.

He's better than this. I glance at Damien, who raises his glass in mock salute.

He knows I'm throwing the game.

And Carlos knows too

"I'm better in a kitchen." The words come out flat, disinterested.

A smile crosses his face, but it makes him look more dangerous, not less.

"Are you now?"

He plays again-an obvious trap that any decent player would see.

He puffs his smoke straight at me. Challenging, unwavering gaze.

Please. That open slot for chef & I'll play well

Marcus made one of his live out kitchen staff get sacked so there'll be soace for me to apply.

Like now.

I make another careless move, my mind already working through the implications.

If I win, I'm his PA. Trapped & monitored. In days he'll find out my records on net are lies. My affiliation with Shadows, his enemy.

He plays, I reach for another piece and throw it. Losing it is

The glass in his hand shatters.

Blood wells from his palm, dripping onto the board. Onto the floor.

Red. So much red.

My breath catches.

No. Not now. Stay present. Stay focused.

But the red spreads, and suddenly I'm not in the lounge anymore.

I'm seventeen, standing in the doorway of my childhood home.

Blood on the walls. Blood on the floor. Blood everywhere.

"Stop playing games within games." Carlos's voice sounds distant, muffled.

My mother's face, eyes open and empty. My brother.

I suck in a breath. Force my eyes to focus on the chessboard. The pieces blur.

"Shit." Damien's voice cuts through the fog.

"Carlos-"

Carlos walk towards me, blood trailing behind from his palm,

my vision returns to my dad's blood on his palm

Don't look at his hand. Don't look at the blood

Another breath. Deeper. My nails dig into my palms.

You're not there. You're here. In the lounge. With your enemy.

But I look.

I feel his attention on me like a physical weight.

Blood drips from his fingers onto the tiled lounge but all I can see is theirs: My family's.

And the lounge fades into fog

"Interesting." His voice wraps around me, cold. Intrigued. Weapon. Close

"I think we should get her a doctor," Damien says, sounding restless.

"No." Carlos cuts in, so close to me.

From the fog, I see his hand move up to my cheek

"NO" The scream tear from me.

That hand killed them

I try to stand, get away from him but my legs wobble and I collapse onto rigid body

THALIA POV

"She's awake. Set the table."

Not Marcus's voice. Not Vaughn's.

I open my eyes-complete darkness. I'm blindfolded.

"You're playing a dangerous game." Damien's voice, unmistakable.

I test my limbs. Legs free. Arms unbound. I'm on a bed, and the scent surrounding me is familiar: bergamot and vanilla. My custom candle-the one I make because store versions never match my father's recipe.

"I'm making things fast and easy for her." Carlos, closer than expected.

Footsteps retreat. A door closes.

I rip off the blindfold. Carlos stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching with dead eyes.

Fuck. He captured me.

"Took you forever to wake up. Bathroom's there." He points forward but I refuse to look in case he stabs me

" Get dressed. Let's continue from last night."

More words than I've heard him speak at once. My throat is sandpaper-dry. He could have killed me while I was unconscious.

The room is massive-double the lounge's size. Everything dark: black furniture, charcoal walls, slate curtains. But there on the nightstand burns my candle.

"This isn't my room."

"True. It's mine. Go wash up."

He disappears through another doorway.

I'm in Carlos's bedroom.

Adrenaline floods my system. My mission crashes back into focus.

I find my purse on the bed.

Fuck!

I dump the contents. Scissors, Q-tip. I open the hidden zip-all three cameras still there. Relief makes me dizzy.

My gun. Where's my gun?

I search frantically, find it under the pillow. He left it within reach while I slept, vulnerable and unconscious.

What game is he playing?

No time. I check the clock: 5:14 AM.

My wake up time.

The room's layout becomes clear as I move. The bathroom faces the bed. Another door sits across the his bed, down three small steps. I creep toward it, cameras clutched in my palm.

It's an office. His office. Empty.

I don't let myself look around. I place the first camera underneath his desk with the mic facing out. The adhesive holds immediately.

One down.

I peek through the doorway-the bedroom remains empty.

Back in the bedroom, I position the second camera behind his bedside lamp, angled to capture the bed and the room's main entrance.

Confirm, Mic on.

The third one goes back in my purse. If I'm lucky, I'll find somewhere more valuable to place it later. A safe room. A weapons cache. Something that will give Shadow the leverage we need.

I should call Marcus. I search for my phone but can't find it.

𝐻𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ it

I scoff. It's clean as grave thanks to Vaughn's tech knowledge.

Least of my worries. I'll find a way to reach Marcus later.

A smile spreads across my face . Marcus will see everything through these feeds-meetings, phone calls, vulnerabilities. The reality settles in: after six years, I'm inside his sanctuary

I'm finally, finally making progress.

I actually do a small victory dance toward the bathroom.

Then I stop cold.

All my products lined up on the counter. My shampoo. My specific Portland body wash. My toothbrush.

But no clothes. Just his-the shirt from last night, boxer briefs that might be clean.

How does he have all this?

Twenty minutes later, I emerge drowning in his clothes. The shirt hangs to mid-thigh.

Carlos sits at a small table positioned near the floor-to-ceiling windows. A chessboard waits between two place settings. Toast. Coffee. Water

"You can't be serious. It's not even six AM."

"We had a deal. But you passed out."

His hand is bandaged. White gauze.

The blood.

I scan the room quickly

No sign of anyone except the peppery, woody scent that I'm beginning to recognize as distinctly Carlos. We're alone. I'm trapped if he becomes a threat.

"How did you get my candle?" I ask as I sit.

"I had someone pick it up." He moves his knight.

"The candle is custom-made. Not available retail."

"Then I guess it's not that special."

His nonchalance is more unsettling than anger. He either broke into my apartment or knows more about me than he should.

Neither is good.

We play. He's calm, composed. I lose pieces carelessly.

"You must be trusting, bringing a stranger home."

His eyes travel down my body slowly-lingering on how his shirt maps every curve, nipples visible through thin fabric.

I match his stare. He picks up my half-eaten toast and bites exactly where my mouth was.

My lips part, breathe hitch

He leans back, legs spreading wider as he chews. Each movement hammers in my chest.

Tank top showing muscled arms. Hair down. Tongue piercing visible when he licks his lips as he stares a bit longer between my lips and chest

Dangerous edges and casual dominance.

"You intend to hurt me, pretty doll?"

Cocky amusement. Like the thought is laughable.

"I can try."

He quirks an eyebrow, gaze back at my visible nipple.

"It's rude to stare"

"You're wearing my shirt"

"You didn't give me another option"

I make another move. He doesn't look away from my face when he plays

"You're 𝑛𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑑 underneath my shirt"

He enunciates the word and I roll my eyes.

Carlos eyes never left my body

It's past seven when I finally win. Now he's handing me his bag, rattling off his schedule: Warehouse, shipments, meetings,

as we wait for the elevator.

"What am I expected to do at this job?"

"Be you."

I snort.

"If I've heard of ways to get killed quickly, it's by being yourself."

He chuckles-low and rusty.

"Think ahead. Be discreet. Intelligent. Comfortable around the men and woman I meet."

Woman. Singular. Not women.

Maybe that's why he needs a female PA.

"What's my pay?"

"Enough to ensure you never need money again."

"Like a billion dollars?"

"Yes."

Of course.

"Can I have my phone now?"

"As my PA, it's being checked for security. You'll get it back later."

"As my PA, it's being checked for security. You'll get it back later"

I mimic his voice under my breath. His mouth twitches

Surprise... His car is white.

No driver.

I slide in, hyperaware I haven't contacted Marcus since last night. My smartwatch is gone too.

Carlos starts the engine.

"Where are we going?"

"Your apartment."

My head whips toward him as I grab his wrist with force that could've caused an accident.

"NO."

Every surveillance photo is in that apartment. Every note. Four years of intel hidden behind a false panel. My TV connects to field cameras. If he walks in. Goes wrong room, press my TV...

Six years of work. Gone.

"We can't go there."

He drives ignoring me

"We can't," I say again, desperate.

He doesn't respond. Just pulls out and heads toward the exit.

No watch. No way to signal Marcus. No way to warn him Carlos is about to walk into evidence of my obsession, my hunt for revenge.

My heart hammers in my throat.

Live to kill Carlos.

But right now, I'm not sure I'll survive the next hour.

CHAPTER FIVE:

THALIA POV

Less than two minutes and we arrive at what he calls "my apartment." He simply drove us behind his building-a route I've never been able to track because I always lose him at some point during my surveillance.

Standing outside this so-called apartment, with a garden situated at the corner, his penthouse looms just across a stretch of manicured trees and rooftops. Close enough to watch. Close enough to control.

He's putting me in a cage and calling it a job.

"How is this my apartment?" I ask, but like earlier, he ignores me and heads inside.

The building is compact but luxurious. A mini-duplex with clean lines aan pool that overlooks the city. I hate pools, especially large ones. Their vastness always reminds me how alone I am. But this one is different-contained, controlled, like everything else in Carlos's world.

I scan for cameras while he's not looking. Three visible-one by the entrance, one covering the living area, one aimed at the pool. Standard security. Another reason this PA job is a hard no.

"The intercom by the gate connects directly to my building," he says, running his fingers along the marble countertop.

"When I call, you answer."

He's nuts.

"If I was meant to be a slave, I'd have been born in the 1600s."

He doesn't acknowledge my insult, just continues.

"New clothes will be delivered in..." he glances at his Hublot watch

"-fifteen minutes. Select what you want and return the rest."

"Can I say no?"

But he's already moving deeper into the apartment, inspecting every corner.

Currently, I'm drowning in his shirt and jeans-a humiliating reminder of last night. I'd demanded my own clothes back, but he'd simply said "dry cleaning" with the kind of finality that brooked no argument. The jeans hang loose despite the tie he provided as a belt, and his shirt drapes over me like I'm playing dress-up.

My fingers find the third camera in my pocket. Still there. I need to plant it somewhere-the VIP club or his warehouse.

"I can't be a personal assistant," I say to his back as he examines the security panel by the door.

"You need someone submissive."

He opens cabinets, checks the refrigerator that's already been stocked. Everything planned, everything controlled. Just like him.

"That's not me. But I can cook, supervise, any w..."

He turns so suddenly I don't have time to balance myself or imagine the blood his hands symbolize before they close around my waist as he lifts me onto the kitchen island in one fluid motion.

The marble is cold against my thighs, but his hands burn through the fabric. I'm tall, but perched here with him standing between my legs, he still towers over me.

My stomach lurches. Not from the height. From the proximity.

My mother's throat. My father's chest. My brother's-

"What's in your apartment that made you almost kill us getting away from it?"

His voice cuts through the spiral. I force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Marcus's training: Stay present.

"My husband."

The lie comes out steadier than I feel. His eyebrows draw together, and something dangerous flickers in his dark eyes.

"Husband." He repeats it with a deep tone and furrowed brows.

"He doesn't like other men around me. If he sees you..." I let the sentence trail off, watching his eyes narrow.

Carlos steps closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his chest. His hands are still on my waist, thumbs pressed against my ribs. Making me feel everything Vaughn made me feel before.

Push him away. Reach for the gun at your ankle. Do something.

Gun. He knows I have a gun. I need better lies. He tilts his head to the side.

I don't move. Shouldn't. Because buried beneath the revulsion is something worse: curiosity. The same sick fascination that makes people slow down at car accidents.

"If he sees you, it won't end well."

His eyes turn dark and glaring, making his face a mask of something raging.

He lets go of me, but I can still see his neck veins protruding as he walks over to the mini-bar in the living room. He doesn't find what he wants.

A loud slam makes me jump

Before I can move to climb down, he strides toward me. Three seconds. That's all the warning I get before he's in front of me again, cigarette smoke curling between us like a threat as his hand wraps around my throat.

Firm enough to hold me in place, not enough to cut off air. An unwanted heat pools between my thighs.

"Is that why you have a Colt Mustang strapped around your knee?"

His voice lays something heavy on my throat.

"Tha...lia." My name drags out like he's standing on the edge of a cliff, and I'm drawn to the bobbing of his Adam's apple.

"Your... your gender isn't trustworthy."

I gaze away from him, but his grip turns me back to face him.

Empty silence heightens the awareness of us together. His eyes search me-from my eyes to my lips, then down my seated body before hovering on my lips again.

He opens his mouth to say something but closes it again, puffing his cigarette before letting go of my throat.

My feet hit the floor and I walk past him, feeling his gaze glued to my back.

Within seconds, footsteps echo from behind me. Fast.

Then my head snaps back. Pain shoots across my scalp as he fists my hair and yanks me back against his shoulder.

I gasp, hands flying up instinctively to grab his wrist. The position forces my back to arch, my throat to expose, my body to curve into his.

Out of instinct, I twist his finger. He winces but doesn't let go.

I should fight harder. Heel to his toes. Move.

But I don't. Because when he pulls me flush against his chest, his scent gets me pinned: citrus and oud and something darker underneath. The same scent I've been inhaling from his shirt all day, that's been surrounding me like smoke.

"Does your husband know you're in my apartment?" His other hand slides to my lower back, fingertips pressing just above my waistband, igniting currents through me. I hate it. Hate that my body responds to the same hands that-

"Wearing my clothes, smelling like me, about to get your life to revolve around me?" His nails dig further into my waist.

A startled rush of air slip from me.

I elbow him in the side, but he just presses tighter.

"Careful."