Chapter 25 The Handler's Visit
Alessia didn’t sleep.
She lay flat on her back, eyes fixed on the faint crack in the ceiling above her bed, replaying Thorne’s message until the words felt carved into her skull.
24 hours left. Wire or consequences. Choose.
The nightstand sat inches from her hand. Inside it, the fiberoptic wire waited—coiled, perfect, untouched. The SD card with the ledger photos was still hidden in the hollowed-out book where she’d left it weeks ago.
She already had what Thorne wanted.
She also had everything she needed to take more.
And still, she didn’t move.
Every time she imagined slipping into Liam’s study again, every time she pictured opening his safe or tapping into his systems, her chest tightened. She saw his face instead. The way he’d looked at her in the safe house. The quiet trust in his eyes when he’d shown her Declan’s photograph.
Partners.
The word felt like a weight pressing down on her ribs.
And she was about to betray him.
Again.
Her phone buzzed at six a.m.
Unknown number.
Cafe Lucia. 10 AM. Don’t be late.
Her stomach dropped.
He was done waiting.
She told Liam she had a hair appointment.
He barely glanced up from his laptop. “Take security.”
“It’s just a salon,” she said lightly. “I’ll be fine.”
“Alessia—”
She touched the emerald necklace at her throat. “I have the tracker. You’ll know exactly where I am.”
His eyes lingered on her a moment longer than necessary. Something sharp flickered there—suspicion, instinct. Then he nodded.
“Be careful.”
“Always.”
The lie tasted bitter.
Cafe Lucia was forgettable in the way Thorne preferred. Small. Neutral. Midtown foot traffic. A place no one looked twice at.
She arrived exactly at ten.
Thorne was already there, tucked into a corner booth, dressed like a man who filed paperwork for a living. Cheap suit. Neutral tie. A face that slid out of memory the moment you looked away.
She sat across from him.
“Agent Scarpetti,” he said coolly. “How generous of you to make time.”
“I’m here,” she said. “What do you want?”
His mouth twitched. “What do I want? I want the intelligence you were assigned to collect. The ledger. Financial records. Communications. Everything I sent you that wire to retrieve.”
“I have the ledger.”
His brows lifted. “Then where is it?”
“Hidden. Secure.”
“I don’t want it secure. I want it now.”
Her jaw tightened. “Things have changed. Liam is suspicious. If I move too fast—”
“I don’t care,” Thorne cut in, leaning forward. His voice dropped. “Do you know how much political capital this operation cost me? How many people I convinced that you were worth it?”
“I am delivering.”
“You’re stalling,” he said flatly. “And I want to know why.”
His eyes drilled into her.
“What happened, Alessia? You were eager once.
Focused. So ready to destroy your father. And now you hesitate like you’ve grown sentimental.”
“I’m being careful.”
“Then be smarter,” he snapped. “That’s what you were trained for. Manipulation. Deception. Trust-building so you can exploit it.”
The words landed hard.
“I need more time.”
“You don’t have it. You have twenty-four hours.”
“And if I can’t?”
His smile was thin. “Then I burn your cover. I start asking questions in places you don’t want questions asked. Anonymous tips. A whisper that someone close to Liam is feeding information.”
Cold spread through her chest. “You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would. Because if you fail, you become a liability.”
“I’ve given you years,” she said hoarsely. “Everything.”
“And you’ll give me this,” he replied calmly. “Or it was all for nothing.”
He pulled out his phone.
“Let me remind you what’s really at stake.”
He turned the screen toward her.
A photograph.
An elderly woman sat in a sunlit garden, silver hair neatly braided, a book resting in her lap. She was smiling.
Alessia’s breath left her in a rush.
“Nonna,” she whispered.
Her grandmother.
The only one who’d believed her. The one person who hadn’t looked away when Alessia said her father had killed her mother. The woman hidden away eight years ago, after threats started coming in.
The woman Alessia hadn’t seen since.
“She’s doing well,” Thorne said mildly. “Small town in Oregon. Quiet life. She believes her granddaughter died in a car accident seven years ago. We found it was easier that way.”
Alessia felt dizzy.
“We protect her,” he continued. “We keep her hidden from Salvatore Scarpetti. Because she’s leverage.”
Her hands curled into fists beneath the table.
“You’re threatening my grandmother.”
“I’m reminding you why you’re here,” Thorne said. “Your mother is dead. Your father killed her. And the only family you have left is alive because we allow it.”
He stood, leaving cash on the table.
Then he set a printed photo in front of her.
“Twenty-four hours,” he said quietly. “Remember who you’re protecting.”
He walked out.
Alessia sat frozen, staring at the photograph.
The grandmother who thought she was dead.
The grandmother whose life depended on Alessia doing exactly what she was told.
She picked the photo up carefully, hands shaking, and slid it into her purse.
For a long moment, she didn’t move.
Thorne had stripped the choice bare.
This wasn’t about justice anymore.
It was about survival.
And Liam—the man who had trusted her, who had shown her his grief, who was starting to feel dangerously real—stood directly in the way.
She stepped out into the bright morning light, blinking against it.
Her phone buzzed.
Everything okay? You’ve been at the salon for an hour.
She touched the necklace at her throat.
He was watching.
She typed back. All good. Running late. Be home soon.
Another lie.
She walked for blocks, thoughts colliding, searching desperately for a third option that didn’t exist.
There were no clean endings left.
Only choices that hurt.
And as the city moved around her, Alessia made hers.
She would use the wire.
Tonight.
She would give Thorne everything.
Not because she wanted to betray Liam.
But because she couldn’t let her grandmother die.
Even if it meant destroying the only thing in her life that had started to feel real.
She texted Thorne.
Tonight. I’ll deliver everything.
The reply came instantly.
Good girl. Don’t disappoint me.
Alessia slid the phone away, her jaw set.
One more night.
One more lie.
One more step before she became exactly what Cormac had called her.
A poisonous viper.
And God help her—she was going to strike.