Chapter 28 The Interrogation
The drive back to the penthouse was heavy with silence.
Liam sat beside her, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance, as if staring could untangle his thoughts. Alessia felt the weight of the questions building inside him, pressing against her like a fist she couldn’t see coming.
She had crossed too many lines today. Revealed too much. Exposed herself. And now, she was about to pay for it.
When they reached the penthouse, Liam dismissed Finn and Rory with a curt nod.
“We need privacy,” he said.
They understood. They always understood.
The elevator ride felt like a slow ascent toward an execution.
Liam unlocked the door and held it open for her. Alessia’s heart was a drumbeat in her chest as she stepped inside.
The instant the door closed, he turned to her.
“Explain,” he said, calm on the surface, but Alessia could hear the fury humming beneath it.
“Explain what?” she whispered, though she already knew.
“Everything,” he said. “Start with how you knew where I was this morning.”
Alessia’s mind raced, trying to build a story that could survive his scrutiny. “I told you… I heard you on the phone—”
“Bullshit.” His step forward made the floor creak. “You said you followed my security detail. Finn and Rory left an hour after I did. Different route. Different vehicles. So how did you know exactly which warehouse? Which pier?”
She couldn’t answer.
“And then there’s how you got there,” he continued, voice sharp but controlled. “On foot. No vehicle near the scene. You moved tactically, stayed hidden, found a vantage point, and none of the armed men noticed. None.”
“I was careful—”
“You were trained.” His gaze cut through her. “There’s a difference.”
Her throat tightened.
He began pacing, movements precise, agitated.
“Let’s review.” One finger. “The warehouse ambush. You moved like a soldier. Disarmed a man twice your size with techniques that take years to master. Perfect form. Zero hesitation.”
Second finger. “The gala. You slapped your cousin hard enough to drop him, but controlled so he wasn’t seriously hurt. That’s training. Knowing exactly how much force to use.”
Third finger. “Today. You identified Cormac’s surveillance team from a distance. Knew they were a threat before I did. Intercepted one of them. Disarmed him. Lied to Colombian cartel enforcers without breaking a sweat.”
He stopped pacing and faced her, gaze unrelenting.
“So. Who trained you?”
“My father—”
“No.” His voice snapped. “I’ve met men your father trained. Brutal. Efficient. But not tactical. What you did today—reading the situation, identifying threats, executing in real-time—that’s not mafia. That’s military. Or intelligence.”
Her hands trembled. She hid them behind her back.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want the truth.” He stepped closer, presence pressing in on her. “Right now, I can think of three possibilities. One: CIA, embedded to study organized crime. Two: Mossad, international intel. Three: someone else entirely.”
His eyes searched hers, desperate and furious.
“So which is it, Alessia? Who do you really work for?”
Her mouth opened. Closed.
The truth sat heavy, molten.
FBI. I’m FBI. I’ve lied to you from the start.
But she couldn’t.
Because saying it would destroy everything. Confirm his worst fears. Burn whatever fragile thread existed between them.
“I don’t work for anyone,” she said quietly. “I’m just trying to survive.”
“By learning combat? Surveillance? Moving like a trained operative?” His laugh was bitter. “That’s not survival. That’s preparing for war.”
“Maybe that’s survival in our world,” she said.
“No.” He shook his head. “I know survival. I’ve been doing it all my life. What you’re doing… it’s something else entirely.”
He went to his desk, pulling out a file. Alessia’s stomach sank.
“After the warehouse,” he said, flipping it open, “I had people look into you. Your background. Your history. And guess what they found?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Nothing.” His eyes met hers. “Absolutely nothing. You exist on paper—birth certificate, school, social security. But there are gaps. Long gaps. Periods you just… disappear.”
“I was living with my father—”
“In a house full of staff, cameras, security logs. And yet, for months, you were a ghost.” He flipped pages. “Nineteen to twenty-one. Gone. Twenty-three to twenty-five. Most of last year? Gone.”
“I traveled—”
“Where?” No stamps. No cards. No trail. Like you were erased. Professionally. Deliberately.”
Her chest tightened.
“My father is powerful—”
“Control freak,” he cut in. “He’d never erase you. He monitors everything. But an agency would. Deep cover. Preparation. Training.”
The silence pressed against her like water.
“I saved you today,” she said, voice small. “Warned you about Cormac. Stopped them from destroying you. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“It tells me you chose me over your mission,” Liam said, pain lining his words. “Which makes the next question terrifying: why?”
“Because I care,” she whispered.
“Do you?” His voice cracked. “Or is that the assignment? Get close. Make him trust you. Make him care so he never sees the knife?”
“That’s not it—”
“Then what is it?” He was right in front of her now, desperate. “Because I don’t know anymore. I don’t know if last night was real or manipulation. I don’t know your name.”
“My name is Alessia.”
“Is it? Or is that just cover?”
She wanted to scream. To tell him everything. Burn it down. End the lies.
She couldn’t.
Thorne was watching. Her grandmother’s life depended on it. One slip and everything collapsed—mission, protection, purpose.
“I can’t tell you what you want,” she said, voice breaking. “Not because I’m lying. But because the truth is too complicated. You wouldn’t believe it anyway.”
Liam stared, unflinching.
Then he stepped back. Closed off.
“Get out of my study,” he said quietly.
“Liam—”
“Get. Out.”
Her legs trembled, barely supporting her.
In her room, she closed the door and sank to the floor, back against it.
Her phone buzzed.
Thorne.
You’ve compromised the mission. Chose the target over the objective. Last warning. Deliver intelligence in twelve hours or I pull you out—and your grandmother loses protection.
Alessia closed her eyes. Tears slid down her cheeks.
Twelve hours.
To betray the man she’d just saved.
The man who’d held her through nightmares.
The man edging closer to the truth.
Who trained you, Alessia? CIA? Mossad?
Not CIA. Not Mossad.
FBI.
And in twelve hours… he was going to find out. One way or another.