Chapter 15 The Unwanted Alliance
Alessia didn’t sleep for the second night in a row.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, fingers brushing her lips without thinking.
The kiss.
God, the kiss.
It had been a mistake. A moment of weakness. A collision of tension and adrenaline, and something she refused to name.
But it had also been real.
And that terrified her more than anything.
The SD card was hidden in a hollowed-out book on her shelf—classic spy tradecraft. She’d photograph it properly and get it to Thorne at the next opportunity.
She should have felt victorious. She had the evidence. She’d talked her way out of Liam’s trap. Maintained her cover.
Instead, she felt sick.
Every page of that ledger told a story. Not just criminal operations, but a man trying desperately to save his family. A man carrying impossible weight. Notes to his dead brother scribbled in the margins of business records.
I’m sorry, brother. I don’t know what else to do.
Alessia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it out. She had a job to do. Her mother’s killer was still free. Justice was all that mattered. Right?
Her phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number. Living room. Now. Both of you.
Her blood ran cold. She checked the time.
3:47 AM.
She heard movement from Liam’s wing. He’d gotten the same message.
She pulled on a robe over her tank top and leggings and moved into the common area.
Liam was already there, standing by the windows, phone in hand. Sweatpants. Nothing else. Broad shoulders tense, rigid with alertness.
He didn’t look at her.
The tension from last night hung between them, a living, breathing thing.
“Did you get—” she started.
“Yes,” he said curtly.
Before either could say more, the penthouse door opened.
Two men entered without knocking. Council guards. Faces unreadable. Presence a reminder: they were never truly alone.
Behind them walked someone Alessia recognized from the wedding—one of the Council’s mediators. Not the main one, but close enough to carry authority.
“Mr. O’Sullivan. Mrs. O’Sullivan,” the mediator said, smooth, professional. “Apologies for the late hour. We have a situation.”
“What situation?” Liam’s voice was hard.
“A shipment. Border crossing near Albany.
Pharmaceuticals and electronics, officially. But we know the reality.” The mediator’s eyes flicked between them. “It was hijacked six hours ago.”
Alessia’s pulse spiked. “Hijacked by who?”
“Unknown. Joint operation—fifty percent O’Sullivan merchandise, fifty percent Scarpetti. Worth about eight million dollars.”
Liam’s jaw clenched. “And you’re telling us this why?”
“Because the Dons have reached an agreement.” The mediator pulled out a tablet, showing a location pin. “You two will recover the shipment. Together. As a show of the alliance’s strength and your commitment to this union.”
“You can’t be serious,” Alessia said.
“We are,” the mediator said, voice leaving no room for argument. “You leave in two hours. A convoy will take you to the last known location—a warehouse outside Albany. You’ll coordinate with both families’ men.
Recover the merchandise. And do it without causing an international incident.”
“This is insane,” Liam said. “We’re not soldiers. We’re—”
“You’re heirs to two of the most powerful crime families in New York,” the mediator interrupted. “Act like it. Or admit this marriage is a farce and watch the Council end both your families.”
The threat lingered.
Liam and Alessia exchanged a glance. First real eye contact since the kiss.
His expression unreadable, but Alessia saw the calculation in his eyes. Weighing risks, outcomes. Thinking.
“Fine,” Liam said finally. “We’ll do it.”
“Excellent.” The mediator handed Liam the tablet. “Convoy leaves at six. Don’t be late.”
They left as fast as they had arrived. The door closed.
Silence.
Alessia moved to the kitchen, mind spinning. The Council wasn’t being random. They were testing them, forcing a situation where trust—or failure—would define everything.
“We need a plan,” Liam said, voice slicing through her thoughts.
“Agreed.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t trust me.”
“Correct.”
He finally faced her, expression hard. “But if we’re doing this, we put that aside. For now.”
Alessia nodded. “Rules?”
“We watch each other’s backs. No moves without communication. After this, we go back to how it was.”
“Cold. Distant?”
“Exactly.”
She should have felt relieved. Instead… unease.
Something else she didn’t want to examine.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll get ready.”
“Alessia.”
She stopped.
His eyes were serious. Almost vulnerable. “About last night—”
“Doesn’t matter,” she cut him off. “It didn’t mean anything.”
Something flickered across his face. Hurt? Relief? She couldn’t tell.
“Right,” he said quietly. “It didn’t.”
But they both knew it was a lie.
The convoy: three black SUVs, armed men from both families, tension thick enough to suffocate.
Alessia sat beside Liam in the middle vehicle, space carefully measured. Tactical black clothing—pants, boots, fitted jacket. Practical. Professional.
Emerald necklace heavy against her throat.
Liam, jaw tight, reviewing maps and intel on his phone. Silence.
Three hours to Albany. Three hours of silence, stolen glances, weight of unsaid words pressing down.
Approaching the warehouse district, Liam finally broke the quiet.
“When we get there, stay close. Let the men handle first contact.”
Alessia raised an eyebrow. “I can handle myself.”
“I’m sure. But I’d rather not find out how well today.”
“You might not have a choice.”
Eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Before she could answer, her earpiece—the FBI-issued one disguised as a regular earbud—crackled.
“Alessia, can you hear me?” Thorne’s voice, cold, clear.
She couldn’t respond, Liam beside her.
“The hijacking is our doing,” Thorne continued. “We orchestrated it to draw both families out. Let it play out. Do not interfere. Maintain your cover. That’s an order.”
Alessia’s blood ran ice.
FBI had set this up.
They were walking into a trap.
And Thorne wanted her to let it happen.
She looked at Liam. Determination in his eyes. Hand near his weapon.
If she warned him—cover blown. Mission over.
If she stayed silent—people could die. Maybe him.
Throat tight.
The convoy pulled up to a massive, abandoned warehouse. Rusted metal, broken windows, graffiti covering walls. A place where bad things happened and nobody asked questions.
O’Sullivan and Scarpetti men poured out, weapons drawn, forming a perimeter.
Liam and Alessia exited together.
“Stay sharp,” Liam murmured. “Something feels off.”
Alessia’s heart hammered. “Liam—”
“What?”
She opened her mouth, warning ready.
But Thorne’s voice cut through again.
“Do not compromise this operation, Agent Scarpetti. That’s final.”
She closed her mouth.
Liam moved toward the warehouse entrance, men flanking him.
Alessia followed, hands trembling, mind screaming to act, to speak, to do anything.
But she didn’t.
She walked into the warehouse beside him.
Into the trap.
Into the ambush that would change everything.
And as the massive doors creaked open, revealing darkness beyond, one thought echoed in her mind:
I’m sorry.