Page 16

We leave Rivas sweating, defeated. Outside, Jensen and Matteo wait, alert and watching. I give a curt nod.

"He’s ours. Narcotics can shadow in their surveillance vans tonight," I say, glancing at the local captain who now stands at a cautious distance. "They get credit. We get Cruz."

The captain nods in grudging acceptance, clearly unhappy yet too intimidated to protest further.

"Let's eat," Matteo suggests quietly, breaking the tension. "We can finalize our covers before the meet."

Ten minutes later, we’re at a food truck outside, grabbing quick meals to steady nerves and clarify our plan. Matteo leans casually against the table, eyes sharp as he outlines our next steps.

"Covers are simple," he says, voice calm. "Seanna and Jensen negotiate directly. Eli hangs back as our driver and surveillance. I’m security—silent muscle. We’re independent buyers looking to expand distribution, flush with cash and ambition."

I nod thoughtfully, scanning each face. "And remember—Cruz isn’t stupid. Confidence and consistency matter more than anything."

Eli cracks a grin. "Don’t worry. Jensen’s got the confidence, and Seanna definitely has the attitude."

Jensen nudges Eli, eyes glittering. "Keep it up, Eli. She might make you sit on surveillance in a trash bin."

"Rude," Eli chuckles lightly, eyes warm and teasing again now we’re outside the interrogation. "Just don’t fuck it up."

Matteo raises a brow. "Coming from the guy who almost broke his chair leaning back this morning, twice."

Eli scoffs. "That was tactical reclining, Matteo. Advanced skill."

I roll my eyes, amusement slipping through the tension. "Can it, children. Remember, tonight has zero room for mistakes."

They sober instantly, nodding firmly. My team. Irreverent one moment, deadly serious the next—exactly why I trust them implicitly.

"We’ll regroup at the usual spot, fully prepped. Jensen, give PD the heads up on where to be and when," I say finally, standing and glancing at my watch. "You've got two hours. Clean up nice, gentlemen."

“Don’t worry,” Eli says with exaggerated seriousness, slinging an arm around Jensen’s shoulders. “We’ll make Jensen pretty.”

Jensen rolls his eyes, shoving Eli away gently. “Get off, idiot.”

We split smoothly, the mood shifting again into steely determination as we prepare for the dangerous game ahead. Cruz and the Silver Orchid await—and we're going in ready to rip apart his world from the inside out.

Rather than waste precious time trekking back to my cabin, I drive straight to the organization’s headquarters. As usual, headquarters is mostly quiet at this hour, the silence broken only by the faint, rhythmic sounds of operatives training somewhere deeper within. I nod curtly at the guards as I breeze past security.

I make a beeline for the wardrobe room, a sprawling temple of transformation built over twenty-five years of undercover missions and operatives who understood that a good disguise is sometimes more lethal than a gun. Gowns. Suits. Combat gear. Streetwear. Wigs. Jewelry. Accessories arranged with almost religious precision. It’s a shapeshifter’s paradise—and tonight, I need to look like sin dipped in diamonds and power.

My fingers trail across satin and leather, silk and sequins, until I land on the perfect black dress. Sleek. Body-hugging. Sophisticated enough to own any room, and seductive enough to make Sebastián Cruz forget how to spell his own damn name. The fabric is cool, expensive, and screams danger wrapped in temptation. Exactly the kind of energy I bring when I want to be unforgettable.

In the changing area, I strip down and slide into the dress. It clings to my body like it was stitched with my sins in mind. Stilettos—sharp enough to stab a man if the conversation turns south. Silver jewelry that whispers elegance, not screams it. Makeup comes next: bold eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass, contouring to carve my cheekbones into something feral, and a swipe of deep crimson lipstick—the kind that warns you not to get too close unless you’re ready to burn.

One final glance in the mirror and I barely recognize myself. I don’t look like a federal agent. I look like the kind of woman you beg to ruin you.

As I step into the hallway, I nearly bulldoze a group of rookies loitering outside the training room. Their conversation halts. Eyes widening.

“Looking fierce, Seanna. Going hunting tonight?” One of them teases lightly.

I smirk back, head cocked. “A girl’s gotta eat.”

Their laughter trails behind me as I move down the corridor, quickly drawn to deeper, familiar voices echoing from around the corner. A moment later, I spot a group standing in casual conversation near the training room—Bodhi and Thorn are there, along with Kayla and Jaxon, both highly skilled operatives at around the same level as the two men. Kayla’s red hair gleams beneath the overhead lights, her green eyes sharp and perceptive, while Jaxon’s calm demeanor contrasts nicely with the energy radiating from Bodhi and Thorn.

Thorn clocks me first. “Well, well,” Thorn drawls warmly as his eyes sweep appreciatively over my attire. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence again tonight.”

Kayla whistles low, eyes glittering. “Hot damn, girl. I hope that’s for work, or someone’s about to have a very, very good night.”

“Undercover op,” I say with a lazy smile, leaning into the sass. “Thought I’d dress like someone who doesn’t ask for permission.”