Morning haze curled over the city as Jenny Parker slipped into her rented sedan, heart pounding even before she glanced at her phone. Five new messages loomed in her inbox—two from Colhart, three from Nora—and each one was marked URGENT. She tapped the first: Intercept the plane manifest for Berlin. Cargo holds the code "Black Swan."
The glow of the dashboard clock read 8:17 AM. She had less than twenty-four hours before the Berlin shipment departed. With a breath that tasted like adrenaline, she started the engine and drove toward the private airstrip where the Morettis parked their chartered jets.
San Moretti was already there, pacing beside a sleek Falcon 2000, phone pressed to his ear. The gray dawn light caught the sharp angles of his jaw as he barked instructions in Italian to a handler. When he noticed Jenny's car rolling up, he ended the call and met her at the gate.
"Traffic?" he asked in lightly accented English, flashing her a half-smile.
"Berlin," Jenny said, stepping out. "Manifest has changed. Code name isn't Aurora anymore—it's Black Swan."
His forehead creased. "Who told you?"
"Colhart." She met his gaze, steady. "They need your help confirming the cargo."
San pulled her aside. "I'll have Claudio—my logistics guy—send you the manifest. We'll see if it matches." His voice was quiet but firm. "Are you okay?"
She swallowed. "I'm fine."
But San didn't look convinced.
Two Moretti men in designer suits guarded the area, clipboards in hand. San nodded at them; they stepped aside.
Jenny spotted the manifest taped to a shipping container—manual lists in Italian, English annotations in red ink. She knelt and took a photo with her phone, then leaned closer, scanning the tallies. Thirty cases of rare paintings. Beneath, in smaller type: 30 pallets – pharmaceutical equipment.
Her pulse spiked. "They're mixing art and equipment."
San's eyes followed hers. "They're smart. Hide the real load beneath innocents."
She tapped the screen. "It's steroids. High-grade opioids. Same as Aurora."
He tucked the manifest into his coat. "Claudio did this. He's ruthless."
Jenny straightened. "I have what I need."
San's hand closed around her elbow. "Wait."
She looked at him, warning in her eyes.
He softened. "Come with me."
He led her up a flight of stairs built along the hangar wall, to an observation loft. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the jets and crates below. As the sun burned off the haze, the city skyline rose behind them—a silent reminder of everything they both risked.
San leaned against the glass railing. "You're risking your life for this," he said quietly. "If it's exposed…"
Jenny's throat tightened. "I know."
He turned to face her, eyes shadowed in concern. "I want to protect you."
A flush warmed her cheeks. "Then don't."
His jaw clenched. "Easy to say. Harder to do."
She met his gaze. "Protection isn't my mission."
Their proximity crackled with undeclared emotions. She could feel his breath, warm against her temple. The air smelled of jet fuel and risk.
"You need to be careful," San murmured. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't want to lose you."
Her heart thundered. "I don't plan to be lost."
He hesitated, as if weighing every word. Then, almost regretfully, he stepped back. "I have to get back."
She nodded. "I understand."
Back at the safe house, Jenny handed Colhart a printed copy of the manifest and her photos. His eyes flicked over every line, then he looked up, grave.
"This confirms it," he said. "Berlin operation is on schedule. We move in forty-eight hours." He handed Jenny an envelope. "For you."
Inside were new IDs, plane tickets to Berlin, and a cash card loaded with Euros.
"Undercover, the rest of the operation will need you on the ground," Colhart explained. "You'll pose as an art broker overseeing the transfer."
Jenny stared at the contents, mind spinning. "Nora?"
Nora, leaning in the doorway, nodded. "We'll cover your exit."
A weight settled in Jenny's chest. Soon she'd be crossing international borders, deeper into San's world—and farther from the law.
That evening, she returned to the Moretti estate for dinner. San met with her at the front. The Russian woman from Milan was back, joined by the German man. Conversations fluttered between art valuations and shipping routes.
San slid a chair out for Jenny. She sat between him and his brother Dante, whose dark eyes studied her over a glass of red wine.
Luca raised a toast: "To family—and to new beginnings."
Glasses clinked. Jenny offered her practiced smile but her heart pounded as Marco caught her eye with a calculating look.
Halfway through the main course, the Russian woman leaned over to Jenny. Her accent is thick but clear: "Your eyes are beautiful."
Jenny's pulse jolted. She smiled. "Thank you."
The woman's smile was too tight. "I hope we do great business."
Behind the pleasantries, Jenny sensed a threat: that the real trade partners were watching her as closely as she watched them.
After dessert—rich chocolate tort with blood-red raspberries—San rose. "Tara, will you dance with me?"
Music drifted from hidden speakers. He offered his hand; she stood, smoothing her gown. In the center of the room, they moved together. His hand at her waist was firm, his other hand cupping hers.
Their bodies swayed in perfect sync. She could feel his heartbeat. His breath at her neck.
"You'll be in Berlin soon," he murmured. "I'll miss you."
She swallowed. "I'll be careful."
Unseen by them, Marco watched from a corner, lips pursed. His gaze lingered on the flash of silver beneath Jenny's sleeve—the body wire transmitter nestled against her skin.
The dance ended. San guided her back to her seat. She offered him a small smile, but her mind raced. Marco's glance had betrayed everything. If he discovered the wire, the entire operation would collapse—and Jenny's life would be forfeit.
As dinner wound down, the family rose and filtered into adjoining rooms. San took Jenny's hand. "Walk with me."
Outside in the rain-kissed courtyard, he pulled her close. "I should tell Luca to postpone Berlin," he whispered.
She shook her head. "Too risky. We stick to the plan."
He studied her face. "I want to trust you."
Jenny placed a gentle hand on his cheek. "I'll earn it."
Thunder rumbled overhead.
When San kissed her, it was desperate and urgent—like two nights ago, but more fraught. Jenny melted into him, balancing on the edge of loyalty and love.
They broke apart as a low voice called from the doorway: "San."
He straightened, brushing rain from his sleeve. It was Marco. His expression was unreadable.
Jenny's blood ran cold. She remained still, heart in her throat, as Marco stepped forward and fixed his gaze on her wrist.
"You should get that checked," he said softly. "Looks like you're hiding something."
San's hand slid protectively to her elbow. Jenny forced a smile.
Marco's eyes narrowed. "Isn't that a curious device?"
The courtyard's shadows shifted around them. Rain d
ripped from the olive tree's leaves like silent bullets.
And in that moment, Jenny realized: the price of trust might be her own life.