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"I know the drill," I assure him evenly. "Play hard to get, make him chase me. It's not my first time using my feminine wiles to reel in an arrogant prick."

Matteo huffs a laugh, muttering something about that being the understatement of the century. I shoot him a look that could cut glass, but there's no real heat behind it. My team know me—the good, the bad, and the recklessly impulsiveness that makes me such a nightmare to handle sometimes.

"All right, let's get this shitshow on the road," I announce, scooping up the slim folder containing my cover identity. "Cruz wants to tango? We'll give him one hell of a dance."

Chapter 16

Seanna

I’malreadyintheoutfit I picked up from the Organization, every line of the sleek black ensemble designed to scream power, control, and zero tolerance for bullshit. It hugs in all the right places and conceals everything else. Samantha—the cartel queen I’ve become for this operation—doesn’t walk into clubs. Sheownsthem.

I sit in the passenger seat of Matteo’s sleek black car as we glide through the late-morning traffic, the sun glaring off the windshield in bold, blinding streaks. The Silver Orchid isn’t far now. The meeting with Sebastián Cruz is set for noon, and we’re right on schedule.

We haven’t spoken much since I got in. No need. The team’s already locked in. Focused. Our comms are live, transmitting every breath, every shift. Words become distractions when the mission is this tight.

Still, a few blocks out, Matteo finally breaks the silence.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes still on the road. “You seem… tense.”

I don’t look at him. Just keep my eyes on the approaching skyline. “I’m fine,” I reply flatly. “I’ll be a hell of a lot better once we get to Reyes.”

He nods once, no follow-up, no unnecessary sympathy. That’s why I like working with Matteo—he doesn’t push. He just shifts gears, fingers tightening subtly on the wheel as the car hums smoothly beneath us.

Three minutes later, we’re pulling up to the side entrance of the Silver Orchid—Cruz’s little playground disguised as a high-end club. Even in daylight, it looks expensive and dangerous. Tinted windows. Discreet security. Clean lines and sharper secrets.

Matteo steps out first, already slipping into his cover role. He circles around the front of the car and opens my door like it’s second nature. His whole posture shifts, becoming the perfect picture of a man who works forme. Loyal. Submissive. Armed to the damn teeth beneath that suit.

I step out of the car with deliberate grace, every movement calculated to exude bored indifference. My dress clings to every curve, the thigh-high slit offering tantalizing glimpses of skin with each step. Matteo falls into step just behind me, the picture of a deferential employee escorting his demanding, disinterested boss.

As we approach the entrance to the Silver Orchid, the bouncer's eyes widen fractionally, sweeping over me in an obvious onceover before snapping back to professional neutrality. I pretend not to notice, barely sparing him a glance as I breeze past and into the dim interior of the club.

The place is deserted except for a few of Cruz's inner circle lingering near the bar, sipping drinks and watching our entrance with thinly veiled curiosity. I lock eyes with a brutish-looking man built like a brick shithouse, his gaze lingering just a little too long in a way that suggests he's picturing me on my knees. I arch an eyebrow coolly, letting my disdain show.

"Miss Delgado," a smooth voice greets. I turn to find Cruz emerging from a hallway, dressed to the nines in an impeccably tailored suit. He obviously looked into me and found the fake identity set up for ‘Samantha’, like we knew he would. "I’ve been expecting you."

His eyes rake over me with naked appreciation, and I fight the urge to roll my own in response. Men—so predictably easy to manipulate when you give them a tempting target for their lust.

"Cruz," I reply flatly, making no effort to return his overly familiar greeting. "I trust discretion won't be an issue? I don't like surprises when it comes to business matters."

His grin widens a fraction, clearly enjoying my brusque manner. The arrogant bastard probably thinks my dismissive attitude is all part of some coy act. Little does he know I have zero interest in playing demure little games—I'm here for one thing and one thing only: information to take him and his entire operation down.

"Of course, of course," he assures me easily, gesturing toward a secluded booth tucked away in a shadowy corner. "We have complete privacy. Please, make yourself comfortable."

I saunter toward the booth, hips swaying with just a hint of exaggerated swagger. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man from before nudge one of his buddies, murmuring something that makes them both snicker crudely. Pathetic. Like they've never seen a woman who knows exactly how appealing she is before.

Matteo follows a few paces behind, slipping into the role of silent bodyguard with ease. I slide into the booth while he takes up a position a few steps away. I cross my legs intentionally to allow the slit in my dress to gape open even wider. Cruz's gaze darts downward, tracking the motion like a horny teenager, before he forces his eyes back to my face.

"Drink?" he offers with a wolfish grin, signaling to one of his men before I even have the chance to respond.

"Whiskey," I say coolly, tilting my chin up and letting a chill settle over my words. "Neat." It's what Samantha Delgado would drink. Strong and sharp—like poison dressed in silk.

Cruz seems delighted by this answer, barking out something in rapid Spanish that sends one of his lackeys scurrying behind the bar like an eager little rat fetching scraps for their master. Meanwhile, he leans back against the booth's plush leather with all the ease of a man who thinks he's untouchable.

The lackey returns quickly, placing a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid in front of me. The glass clinks softly against the table, the sound barely registering over the thrum of my pulse. Cruz watches me expectantly, that arrogant grin still plastered across his face as he gestures toward the drink.

I let my gaze linger on the glass for a long, deliberate moment, considering it carefully. The whiskey swirls invitingly, the dim light glinting off the surface. Part of me is tempted to simply pick it up and take a sip, let the smooth burn of the alcohol slide down my throat and settle in my belly. But I know better. This is Cruz's domain, his playground - I can't afford to let my guard down, not even for a second.

Instead, I lean back against the plush leather of the booth. I let my fingers trail along the rim of the glass, tracing the edge with a feather-light touch as I hold Cruz's gaze.