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I laugh sharply, making sure every note drips with pure disdain. “If I were a cop, Diego, I'd be choking down shitty coffee behind a desk, not standing here inhaling your insecurity and the lovely aroma of motor oil. Trust me, if I was undercover, I'd pick a target far less pathetic than your sorry ass.”

He doesn’t smile. Diego glances toward Eli and Jensen, sizing them up again. "Maybe. Maybe not."

His fingers twitch near his side, and I wait, my breathing steady, my heart calm. "Look," I continue smoothly, "I came here in good faith. I’m just here to do business. You want the deal, you make the call. If not, I’m sure someone else would happily take my money."

He hesitates again, clearly torn. The seconds stretch long and tense between us. Finally, something shifts in his eyes—something subtle but unmistakable. Suspicion wins out.

His hand moves, slipping inside his jacket.

Wait. My hand taps two fingers on my bicep where my arms are crossed, my signal to the team.

He tenses, his gaze shifting downward, hand hovering with uncertainty. Gun or phone. Fight or call. Life or death.

Wait.

My heart beats steadily, counting off the seconds.

Wait.

He jerks his hand free, a gleam of dark metal catching the dim lighting of the garage.

Wrong fucking choice, Diego.

Matteo’s shot echoes through the empty concrete space, sharp and decisive. Diego jerks violently, screaming out in agony as the bullet slams into his right arm making him flail like a broken puppet on a marionette string. He howls like the fucking coward he is, his gun skidding uselessly across the filthy floor.

Jensen moves forward in a flash, kicking the weapon away as Eli forces Diego down to his knees, swiftly cuffing his wrists behind his back. Diego struggles uselessly, spewing curses in spanish between cries of agony. The wound won’t kill him.

I stride forward slowly, deliberately, savoring the echo of each sharp click of my heels against the grimy floor. Crouching in front of Diego, I grip his jaw roughly, forcing his bloodshot, terrified eyes up to mine. "You really should’ve chosen the easy way. Now we’re going to have to do thingsmyway."

"You fucking bitch, you don’t scare me!" He spits, glaring up at me.

I smirk coldly, gripping tighter. “Oh, sweetheart, we’re just getting started. You haven’t even begun to experience just how fucked you really are.”

I stand, waving Eli and Jensen to drag his sorry ass away. Matteo's amused voice crackles through my comm. "Well, that was fun. Bet he’ll regret his life choices when he tries jerking off to your memory later."

I snort softly, rolling my eyes. “No shit. Nice shot, Matteo. Wrap it up—we’re done here.”

Diego’s panicked wails fade into whimpers. I breathe deep, adrenaline thrumming deliciously through my veins. Eli and Jensen haul Diego off toward the other agents stationed just outside. They will take him to where he belongs.

The thought of getting Diego back to interrogation sends a ripple of anticipation down my spine. Breaking him will be half the fun—and I have no doubt he will break. They always do.

“You good?” Eli asks lightly as he comes back to our car, already knowing the answer.

“Fucking fantastic,” I reply, flashing a dangerous grin. “Time to celebrate.”

Jensen groans dramatically, swiping a hand over his face. “Whiskey, dancing, and shitty life choices?”

“You know me too well,” I smirk, sliding gracefully into the passenger seat. Matteo emerges from the shadows, slipping smoothly into the back seat, looking annoyingly smug. “Nice of you to finally show, Matteo. Drinks are on me tonight.”

He grins, eyes glittering with amusement. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

As the vehicle purrs to life beneath us, my smile widens. We’re one step closer to the big fish—the cartel boss who thinks he’s untouchable. Tonight didn’t exactly go as planned, but with Diego secured and spending the night on edge waiting for us to come in and break him is the next best thing. And I’ve learned to savor every victory, no matter how small.

Besides, there’s something deeply satisfying about a man who chose the hard way. Breaking him will be delightful.

I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes for a brief moment as we speed out of the parking garage and into the neon-lit night.

It isn’t long before we are at the club, pushing through the crowd toward an empty booth having shed our DEA persona’s back at headquarters. The music pulses around us, neon lights slicing through the haze, the bass vibrating in my chest. It’s our ritual—each victory means whiskey and bourbon, laughter, and enough sarcastic banter to make it all worthwhile. After what we pulled tonight, we deserve it.