The door to my room slammed shut behind me, the sound echoing the violent chaos in my head.
Idiot.
My fist connected with the wall. Pain, sharp and white-hot, shot up my arm. It wasn't enough. I hit it again. The plaster cracked under my knuckles.
Good. Pain was real. Pain was a reminder.
What the hell was that? I wasn't a rookie. I was a soldier. A weapon forged by Marcos for a single purpose. And I had just let the target—the daughter of my father's killer—shatter my control with a single look.
I could still taste her on my lips. Not poison, like I wanted to believe. It was worse. It was like tasting water after a decade in the desert. And I was disgusted with myself for it.
Every part of my training screamed at me. You don't touch the target. You don't feel for the target. You eliminate the target.
I had failed on all fronts.
My phone vibrated in my pocket, a harsh buzz against my leg. I pulled it out.
Encrypted number.
Marcos.
The cold reality of my mission slapped me in the face. I took a deep, steadying breath, forcing the soldier back into place, and answered.
"Report." His voice was tense, impatient.
I stared at my bloody knuckles. "The attack was successful," I said, my voice a flat, dead thing. "She trusts me now. Completely."
There was a pause. "And the drive?"
"Nothing yet. I've searched the house. It's clean."
"Unacceptable," Marcos snapped. "You're closer to her than anyone has ever been. Use it. Manipulate her. Get her to tell you where her father keeps his secrets."
I said nothing. The thought of using her trust, the trust I had earned with a lie and sealed with a kiss, made my stomach turn.
Marcos's voice softened, but it was the soft hiss of a snake. "Leo," he said, using my real name. The name of the boy whose father was murdered. "Don't forget why you're there. Don't forget what Alessandro Moretti took from you. He took your father. He took your future. He raised his princess on our blood."
His words were the poison I was used to. The poison that had fueled me for fifteen years. I held onto it now like a lifeline.
He was right.
She was Isabella Moretti. Her last name was a death sentence.
"I haven't forgotten," I said, my voice hard as stone.
"Good," Marcos said. "Find the drive. Then finish the job. Both of them."
The call ended.
I stood in the silence of the room, the anger draining away, leaving only a cold, hard resolve. That kiss was a moment of weakness. A tactical error. It would not be repeated.
I had my orders. It was time to establish new rules of engagement.
Rule one: She is "Miss Moretti." Not Izzy.
Rule two: Every word is a tool. Every action is a means to an end.
Rule three: Remember the mission. Remember my father.
She was the target. I was the weapon. That was the only reality.
Just as the thought solidified in my mind, there was a soft knock on my door.
Knock. Knock.
My entire body went rigid. It couldn't be.
I stared at the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. Don't open it. Follow the rules. Ignore her.
Knock. Knock. Knock. A little more insistent this time.
Cursing myself, I strode to the door and yanked it open, ready to shut her down with a cold glare.
She was standing there. She'd changed out of the towel and into a simple pair of silk pajamas that made her look small and fragile. Her hair was still damp, her face was pale, and her eyes were red-rimmed and full of a hurt that hit me like a physical blow.
She looked broken. And I was the one who had broken her.
"Just tell me one thing," she whispered, her voice trembling.
I braced myself, my new rules turning to dust in my mouth.
"The man in the bathroom... the one who held me... was any of that real?"