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I close the distance between us in two strides and catch her lips in a kiss that starts gentle but deepens as we give in to it. Her fingers curl into my shirt, and before I know it, I’m tugging on her nipple, relishing the shudder that runs through her.

“Fuck, Luciana,” I murmur, my hand slipping lower. She’s wet, hot, ready.

“I want you,” she whispers, her voice a breathy plea.

“Good.” I step back reluctantly, a smirk curling my lips. “Hold that thought.”

I lift my fingers to my mouth, and her eyes track the movement like a magnet, her cheeks flushing in a way that makes leaving her in this state feel like a mortal sin.

As if suddenly needing the distraction, she forces her gaze away, then lifts her wrist, showing off the multiple rows of tungsten beads I wrapped around it a couple of hours ago.

“I take it you won’t be needing your rosary where you’re headed?”

“Nah,” I claim her lips in one last lingering kiss, then make myself leave.

The clubhouse is quiet, and most of the brothers have retired to their rooms. About a dozen stragglers linger in the common room, hunched over beers at the bar or gathered around the pool table, their laughter subdued.

They sit straighter as I pass, throwing gruff greetings my way. I nod back absently, my mind already spinning on possibilities ahead.

Grabbing Phoenix’s keys off the wall, I step into the cool night air, heading straight for his Harley.

As I peel out of the clubhouse lot, I narrowed my thoughts down to a simple fact: whatever has the two most-feared men in Chicago dragging me out of bed at three a.m., it’s bad.

Very bad.

The motel on Down Street lives down to expectations. The two-story building is a study in neglect. The doors are marked with faded numbers that barely cling to their frames.

A sleek Escalade sits in the farthest corner of the lot, its armored, bulletproof frame absurdly out of place—like a wolf slumming it in a junkyard.

I kill the Harley’s engine and dismount. The heavy crunch of my boots over scattered gravel is the only sound as I approach Room 3.

I don’t bother knocking.

The stale smell hits me first. Cigarettes, old carpet, and something metallic that sets my teeth on edge. A single lamp casts yellow shadows across the brothers’ faces.

Nico sprawls in a chair like a king. Dante, an eerie replica except for his long hair, perches on the desk’s edge, his fingers drumming against the stained wood.

Both are in suits. At three in the morning.

“You didn’t have to dress up, ladies,” I drawl, leaning on the doorframe.

“It’s a special occasion,” Dante replies smoothly, but there’s something in his gray eyes that makes my trigger finger itch.

I kick the door shut and lean against it, crossing my arms. “Alright. What’s this about?”

“You’re gonna want to sit down for this, Quinn,” Nico states.

Thewords chill me to the bone, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I grab a chair, turn it backward, and straddle it, resting my arms on the back. “Spit it out.”

Nico nods at Dante, who slides a thick folder across the desk and toward me. “Special Agent Quinn,” he begins, his tone dripping with mockery. “You’re not who you think you are. You never have been.”

My hand tightens on the folder as I flip it open. Pages blur in front of me—dates, reports, redactions. My life in ink.

“That’s a copy of your file,” Dante says. “The one you thought you were building all these years. The one that defined your existence.”

I glance up at him. “Okay. And?”

Dante doesn’t blink. “It belongs to a man who no longer exists.”