Jenny Parker's head throbbed with pain, her ribs sore where the masked man had slammed her against the wall. The only scent she got was gunpowder and sweat, Nora was on the floor unconscious or maybe worse . Her breath came too fast, panic prickling beneath the surface like heat rash.
Across the room, Marco Moretti paced, gun in hand, eyes glittering with triumph.
"You've been very busy, Tara," he said, using the name she'd given the family—Tara Hayes, the polished art broker who didn't exist. "Or should I say… Agent Parker?"
Jenny kept her jaw clenched. Don't speak. Don't react.
"Cat got your tongue?" Marco tilted his head. "That's a shame. I had questions."
He knelt in front of her. She could smell his cologne—sharp cedar and control.
"Let me guess," he said, softly, almost kindly. "You were going to ruin us, collect your little medals, go home and write a report?"
Her lips were cracked. "Go to hell."
Marco smiled. "Already there."
He stood and turned to his men. "We're moving her. Now. San's not to know. Not yet."
Jenny's stomach dropped.
So that was the game—keep her alive just long enough to break San.
As they hauled her up, she caught one last glimpse of Nora, bleeding and motionless.
Please be alive. Please.
An hour later, she was in a dark van, wrists aching, blood trickling down her temple. Rain slapped the roof, and every bump in the road sent pain rippling through her side. But worse than the physical pain was the weight in her chest.
She'd fallen.
Not just into the operation.
Into San.
She cared. Too much. And now?
She didn't know if she'd ever see him again.
Or if he'd hate her once he knew.
Maybe that's what hurt the most.
San Moretti stood on the estate balcony, phone clenched in his hand.
The line buzzed.
Straight to voicemail.
Jenny hadn't called.
She hadn't texted.
Not since they kissed in the garden.
He looked out into the night with a tight chest.
Worry?
Guilt?
Fear?
He should've pushed harder.
Should've asked more questions.
Something wasn't right.
His gut told him that much.
"Boss," Dante called from the doorway. "We have a problem."
San turned. "What kind?"
Dante didn't answer with words—he held up Jenny's wire transmitter.
Found.
In the garden.
Still blinking red.
San's heart cracked.
"No," he whispered.
But the truth was there, written in blinking lights and silent betrayal.
She lied.
Everything she said, everything she was—a cover.
Tara was a ghost.
And Jenny Parker?
A cop.
His pulse roared in his ears.
"Where is she?" San barked, storming into the estate war room. "Tell me Marco didn't touch her."
Luca looked up, surprised. "You knew?"
"She's not who we thought," San ground out. "Where is she?"
Marco leaned in from the corner, a slow smile on his face. "You're a little late, fratello. She's already gone."
San crossed the room in two strides, grabbed Marco by the collar, and slammed him into the wall.
"Where. Is. She?"
"She lied to you," Marco snapped. "She played with all of us. She was wired, San. She's the reason we're being watched."
San's grip tightened. "I know, And?"
Luca and Dante looked at him in absolute surprise .
Marco sneered. "You're blinded. You still want her."
San let go, stepping back like Marco's skin burned. He did want her. Still. Even now.
That was the problem.
Jenny's head lolled against the cold van window as they finally stopped. One of the guards opened the door and yanked her out. Gravel bit into her bare feet as she stumbled.
They were in an old vineyard house—empty, crumbling, forgotten.
She was shoved into a chair. The ropes cut deeper.
Marco entered moments later, calm and collected.
"You're good," he said, pouring himself a glass of wine. "You fooled us. I'll give you that. You were good."
Jenny lifted her chin. "Then why do you look like the one who lost?"
Marco's smile faltered.
But before he could answer
Gunshots.
Outside.
Three, maybe four.
Then silence.
Jenny's heart jumped. The guards exchanged glances. One of them moved toward the window.
Another shot.
This one inside.
The guard dropped.
Jenny screamed.
And from the smoke-filled doorway, silhouetted by lightning, stepped San Moretti.
Jenny couldn't breathe.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts as San stepped fully into the room, smoke curling around him like a warning. Her eyes darted to the fallen guard, to the gun in San's hand, and then—back to his face.
He wasn't just angry. He was raging. But underneath that fury was something colder. Controlled. Dangerous.
This made Jenny wonder if San had come for her. Or if he had come to make sure she pays for everything .
The look in San's eyes gave a mixture of several emotions. Jenny had never seen San look like that.
She was scared and she was terrified.
Not only at how he looked, but from the fact that the look of love which he once showed her was now a look of fury.
She didn't know what was going on in his head.
She didn't know what to say even if she opened her mouth .
The second guard shifted behind her, unsure. Jenny stepped back instinctively, bumping into a chair. Her hands trembled. Not because of the gunfire. Not because of the body on the floor.
Because of him.
She didn't know which version of San Moretti had just walked in.
The man who'd let her laugh in the back of his car under city lights.
Or the man who'd burned down a warehouse without blinking.
Was she still undercover?
Or had she already lost?
He raised his arm slowly—just a flick of movement—and the second guard froze, lowered his weapon. No words were spoken. None needed.
San owned the room with silence alone.
And Jenny… Jenny didn't recognize herself at that moment. The girl who swore she'd never
be shaken by a man like him? She was gone.
Eyes blazing. Gun in hand. Rain clinging to his black shirt.
And for the first time in her life, Jenny didn't know if she should run to him
or from him.