Chapter 40 The Arrest
Alessia stood in her room long after Liam had gone, staring at the duffel bag at her feet. Staring at the door he’d slammed. Staring at the empty space where her entire life used to exist.
She had one hour. Sixty minutes to pack up her lies, her life, and vanish.
She moved mechanically, tossing clothes into a suitcase. Laptop. Fake documents. Burner phones.
She left behind the emerald necklace—the tracker she had worn like a collar. Left behind the wedding dress. Left behind the blood-stained clothes from the night she’d killed Cormac.
Left behind everything that tied her to Liam O’Sullivan.
Fifty-three minutes.
She walked out of the penthouse without looking back.
The guards didn’t stop her; Liam’s orders had been clear. Let her go.
A cab took her to a storage unit in Queens where she kept emergency supplies. She changed into plain, nondescript clothes, pulled her hair back, became nobody.
Then she pulled out the FBI emergency contact protocol and sent the coded message.
Extraction needed. Compromised. Safe house Charlie.
The response came within minutes.
Confirmed. Safe house Charlie. 2300 hours.
Four hours to wait.
Alessia spent them in a coffee shop, her cup growing cold as she watched strangers live their ordinary lives, oblivious to the chaos she had left behind.
She thought about the motel room. About Liam’s words: What if we just kept driving?
She thought about how close they’d come to something real.
And how completely she had destroyed it.
At 10:45 p.m., she made her way to the safe house. A nondescript apartment building in Brooklyn. Third floor. Unit 3C.
The door was unlocked.
Her training kept her hyper-alert, every nerve tense.
“Thorne?” she called softly.
“In here.”
Her blood ran cold when she stepped inside. Thorne wasn’t alone.
Three other people. Two men in suits. One woman. All carrying FBI credentials. Internal Affairs.
“Agent Scarpetti,” Thorne said, voice formal, distant. “Please, have a seat.”
Alessia’s instincts screamed. “What’s going on?”
“Sit down.”
She didn’t move. “Thorne, what is this?”
A hard-faced man in his fifties stepped forward. “Agent Alessia Scarpetti, I’m Deputy Director Leonard Cohen, Internal Affairs Division. We need to ask you some questions about your undercover operation.”
“I just completed the mission. I transmitted the O’Sullivan financial records—”
“Yes, you did,” Thorne interrupted, his tone sharp. “After six months of delays. After becoming romantically involved with the target. After killing a high-ranking O’Sullivan family member.”
Alessia’s stomach dropped. “Cormac was threatening my life. Self-defense—”
“Was it?” The female IA agent’s voice cut through, cold. “Or was it eliminating a threat to Liam O’Sullivan’s power structure? Helping your target consolidate control?”
“That’s not what happened—”
“Then explain this.” Cohen opened a folder, revealing photographs.
Alessia froze. Photos of her and Liam. At the gala. At the warehouse. In the penthouse. Intimate, damning.
“These were taken by surveillance,” Cohen said. “They show a pattern of inappropriate involvement with the target. Blurred lines between operation and personal attachment.”
“I was maintaining my cover—”
“By falling in love with him?” Thorne cut in. “Blood oaths. Sleeping with him. That’s not cover. That’s going native.”
Alessia’s throat burned. “That’s part of deep cover—”
“No,” Thorne said, flat. “That’s compromising the mission for personal reasons.”
The female agent flipped through another document. “We’ve found irregularities in your financial reporting.”
Alessia’s stomach plummeted. “Irregularities?”
“Approximately $200,000 in operational funds over six months,” the agent said, voice precise. “Funds you had access to. Supposedly used for intelligence and asset development.”
“I didn’t take any money—”
“No? Then explain these deposits to an offshore account in your name.”
She shook her head. “I never opened that account. Someone doctored these records.”
“Or someone is covering their tracks,” Cohen said. His face was unreadable. “Agent Scarpetti, evidence shows you’ve been skimming funds, running unauthorized ops, acting in Liam O’Sullivan’s interests rather than the FBI’s.”
“That’s insane—”
“Is it?” Thorne leaned forward. “You delayed the ledger for months. You participated in Cormac’s ambush. Warned Liam about surveillance. And now—conveniently—money appears in an account under your name.”
“I didn’t—someone’s setting me up!”
“Who?” Cohen demanded. “The Council? The O’Sullivans? Or are you just deflecting?”
Her mind raced. She’d done exactly what they asked. She’d transmitted the ledger. Mission complete.
Unless…
“You’re burning me,” she said slowly.
Thorne’s expression didn’t change.
“Agent Scarpetti,” Cohen said, formal, clipped, “you’re under arrest for misappropriation of federal funds, obstruction of justice, and suspicion of acting as a double agent.”
“This is bullshit!” she shouted. “I risked my life! I gave you everything—”
“You gave compromised intelligence from a compromised agent,” Thorne said, voice icy. “You went native, Scarpetti. The asset became a liability.”
Two agents stepped toward her.
“Don’t—” She tried to back away.
But they were faster. Hands grabbed her arms, forcing them behind her. Cold metal snapped around her wrists.
Handcuffs.
“You can’t do this—”
“We can,” Cohen said, “and we are.”
Thorne leaned close. His words were low, venomous. “You went native, Scarpetti. Fell for the target. Compromised the mission. And now you pay the price.”
“I did what you asked—”
“You did what served Liam O’Sullivan,” Thorne corrected. “And now he’s a federal target. We’ll handle him ourselves. With or without you.”
Alessia’s blood ran cold. “Meaning?”
“It means your romantic adventure is over. When we’re done with him, nothing will be left.” Thorne smiled cruelly. “You should have stayed objective.
Remembered who you work for.”
“I got you the ledger—”
“After we threatened you. After you’d already compromised yourself.”
The agents began moving her toward the door.
“Wait—my grandmother—you said she was in danger—”
“She’s fine,” Thorne said dismissively. “Where she’s always been. Under Council protection. Playing her own game.”
Alessia’s mind spun.
The FBI was burning her. Fabricating evidence. Making her the scapegoat.
Thorne’s words—We’ll handle O’Sullivan ourselves—meant Liam was going to be targeted. Vulnerable. Destroyed.
And it was all because of her.
The car pulled away from the safe house, dark streets reflecting the emptiness in her chest.
Alessia Scarpetti—FBI agent, daughter, liar, killer—finally understood what it meant to be truly, utterly alone.
Handcuffs. Lies. And the crushing weight of every terrible choice she’d ever made.