Chapter 6

I walked back to my room gripping the folder like it was made of glass and fire. As soon as the door shut behind me, I turned the lock and exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

The pages inside were sharp — not literally, but they might as well have been. Each one sliced deeper, unraveling something I didn’t know I was still holding together.

I sprawled the file across the bed. Names I didn’t recognize. Code names. Schedules. Cross-border transactions. All leading to one common thread.

Miguel.

My brother’s name sat there like it had never belonged to a real person. Cold. Flat. Typed in block letters.

Miguel Fernandez — formerly assigned: Right Hand to A. Di Santi.

My chest tightened. I stared at those words, rereading them like they'd somehow rearrange themselves and make more sense.

Miguel was Adrian’s right-hand man?

Why had I never known that?

Another line made my blood run cold:

Suspected breach: 22:43 — data leaked from Fernandez’s secure channel. Executed: 23:15. Internal security classified directive.

Executed. Not killed. Not murdered.

Executed.

My pulse was pounding in my ears. If Miguel had leaked something — if it really came from his channel — then someone had used him. Set him up. And if Adrian had truly ordered his death, why give me this file? Why ask me to investigate it?

The pieces weren’t adding up.

My thoughts spiraled, and my hands moved on instinct. I reached beneath the bed, unzipping a hidden compartment in my suitcase. My fingers wrapped around something like — cold metal.

My laptop.

Untouched. Offline. Hidden since I arrived.

At least this was mine. Clean. No trackers. No signal bridges.

Unless…

What if they had cameras? Hidden in the vents? Behind the mirror? What if Adrian — or someone else — had been watching me this whole time? Changing. Showering. Sleeping.

The thought made me sick.

I stood abruptly and began pacing, adrenaline burning through my skin. Every inch of the room became suspicious. I grabbed my phone and flicked the flashlight on, crawling along the floor, running my fingers behind picture frames, along the wall corners, around the base of the lamp.

Nothing.

Still… I wasn’t convinced.

I stormed out of the room, barefoot, still in my robe. The hallway was quiet, dimly lit, cold against my feet. My heart thundered, but I didn’t stop until I reached Adrian’s door.

I didn’t knock but I should have.

I opened it.

I froze.

He looked up from where he sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless, a glass of dark wine in one hand, the other resting casually on his thigh. A thin scar crossed his collarbone. Another along his rib. His body wasn’t just toned — it was built like a weapon forged from survival and violence — but beautifully crafted..

The silence between us was almost intimate, and I hated that it felt that way.

He didn’t speak right away — just studied me with those sharp, unreadable eyes, the kind that made you feel like a puzzle he was two steps from solving.

I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to run… or walk closer.

“What is it?” he asked finally, his voice low and slightly rough — like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

I swallowed, struggling to remember why I came.

He blinked, slowly, then raised a brow. “Lucia?”

My cheeks flushed. “I—uh…”

He set the glass down and stood, his muscles shifting fluidly as he reached for a shirt. “What is it?”

He didn’t sound annoyed. Just… curious. Like a man used to being disturbed for the wrong reasons, and waiting to hear if this was worth his time.

“I was thinking,” I began, throat dry, “about the surveillance system. You said everything is tracked.”

He said nothing.

I pressed on. “So I just… wanted to ask if my room has cameras.”

He stood slowly, setting the wine glass down on the bedside table. I tried not to watch the way the muscles in his back moved — I tried but failed.

Then he reached for a shirt draped over a nearby chair and pulled it over his head with one fluid motion

Something flickered in his eyes. “Why?”

I swallowed. “Because I undress in there. I shower. I sleep. And if there are cameras in the room, then…”

I let the rest hang in the air.

A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips — not quite smug, but close.

I looked away, the heat rushing to my cheeks.

“Are you asking if I’m the kind of man who plants cameras in a woman’s bedroom just to watch her shower?” His voice was cold, but there was something teasing behind it.

I stared at him.

He crossed his arms and added, “Do I look like a pervert to you?”

I didn’t answer.

Because honestly, I didn’t know what he looked like anymore.

Instead, I muttered, “Thanks,” turned, and walked out.

I wasn’t convinced. Not fully. But at least he’d said no — and he’d said it to my face.

Back in my room, I did another sweep. Closet. Smoke detector. Under the nightstand. Nothing. Only when I was sure — absolutely sure — did I finally sit back down and open my laptop.

I didn’t connect to any local networks. I used a rerouted VPN, bouncing off five different countries before I touched a single search engine. Then I typed in the one thing that had never left my mind:

Miguel Fernandez. Death. Mafia. Internal leak.

Nothing.

No official records. No news reports. Not even whispers in the deep web. It was like someone had scrubbed the entire internet clean of his name.

I wanted to scream.

I thought of calling Leo — a tech guy I used to trust with the dirtiest digital laundry. But the phone Adrian gave me was obviously monitored. Every keystroke logged. Every call traced.

So I didn’t risk it.

Instead, I cleared the browsing history, wiped the temp files, and packed the laptop back into its compartment. Locked. Hidden again.

Tomorrow.

I’d try again tomorrow.

\---

The sun was already up when I finally dragged myself out of bed and took a shower. I barely slept. I pulled my clothes on, brushed my hair back, and forced my body to move.

I stepped out into the hall — and stopped.

Adrian was already outside, sitting in the back of his sleek black car, his driver waiting, door open.

His eyes met mine through the windshield. Cold. Calculating. Annoyed.

He lowered the window a fraction and said, “Hop in.”

I blinked. “I’ll get a cab. I know the way now.”

“You’ll be late,” he said sharply. “And I don’t tolerate lateness.”

“I won’t be,” I said, lifting my chin.

His jaw ticked. “Lucia. Get in the car.”

His tone left no room for debate.

I sighed and walked toward the vehicle, slipping into the seat beside him. The air between us was thick with silence and tension.

I stared out the window, trying not to think about how close he was. Or how I had seen him shirtless less than eight hours ago. Or how that image kept replaying in my head like a fever dream I didn’t ask for.

Damn it.

I bit my cheek to stop from smiling.

But it was too late.

A ghost of amusement tugged at the corner of my lips before I could stop it. I quickly looked away.

“Something funny?” Adrian asked.

“No.”

He turned slightly. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

His eyes lingered on my profile for a second too long, then he looked ahead and muttered, “Strange girl.”

I didn’t respond.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

He cleared his throat. “We’ll be working late today.”

“Why?”

“I’ve set up a meeting. Someone from the old circle. You’ll sit in. Observe. Listen.”

“Am I taking notes?”

“You’re watching how betrayal works,” he said calmly. “Because when it happens again, I expect you to see it before I do.”

I turned to him slowly. “But I'm not your right-hand man?”

“It’s a responsibility,” he replied, his voice cold again. “Earn your place, Lucia. You wanted answers. They come with a cost.”

We didn’t speak again until the car pulled into the driveway.

But once we’re inside that office, I’m asking him — the one question that’s been clawing at me since the day I got here.