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My hotel’s underground parking garage materializes like a concrete sanctuary, and I slide into my usual bay—the camera’s blind spot. The lot is deserted, save for a few high-end vehicles scattered around like expensive chess pieces.

I lift her from the backseat, cradling her like a lover who’s had one too many on a night out. She fits against me too easily—her head finding the hollow of my shoulder, her perfume seeping into my skin. It lingers, unsettling me in ways it shouldn’t.

The service elevator carries us to the penthouse on the twenty-third floor—my home for the past two weeks. Temporary, like everything else in my life. I fumble with the keycard, hyper-aware of Luna’s soft breathing against my neck.

Inside, I do a quick sweep. Everything’s as I left it. I head straight for the bedroom, laying her on the king-sized bed. Her dark hair fans out on the pillow like spilled ink. She looks . . . peaceful. Like she’s just fallen asleep after a long night, not been drugged and hauled out of a club filled with predators.

I tug off her boots, then pause, staring at the arch of her foot. And then I let myself really look at her.

She might be out cold, but there’s a residual energy to her, a fierceness wrapped in entitlement and dominance—like a sheathed sword. I catch myself tucking in the covers around her, then push away from the bed and return to the living room.

What a fucking mess. And the real problem? I wasn’t on assignment. Hector’s execution was personal, which means cleaning this up will take finesse. No help from the Bureau on this one.

I’m just loading up the feed from street footage when my phone vibrates.

I swipe to answer. “Quinn.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Agent Marcus Hawkins sounds like he’s growling through gritted teeth, fury evident in every syllable.

I smirk, not that he can see it. “What do you mean? I’m home.”

“Cut the bullshit. You’re supposed to be invisible between hits. Why the fuck am I getting reports tying you to a club shooting? There’s a missing woman, a stolen car, witnesses, and an e-fit out there with your face on it. Chicago PD’s on high alert, and they’re looking for ‘Rocky Savage.’”

I close my eyes, exhaling through my nose.Shit, that was fast.Funny how Eduardo’s not mentioned. Hawkins never brings up the bodies—just the living loose ends.

“What’s the story?”

“The story,” he hisses, “is that you and Hector Lobo had a fallout and you took his woman. You’re seriously going to blow your cover over a piece of ass?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Calm down. I didn’t blow my cover. I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to be doing: kidnapping women.”

“That’s your excuse?”

I flick through the feeds from street cameras. They’re grainy and unclear.Perfect.“It’s not an excuse, Hawkins. It’s my job.”

“Why the fallout with Hector?”

“We’re friends.” I keep my voice dry. “Friends fight.”

His breath leaves in a rush, followed by a silence that tells me he’s trying not to lose his shit. “Hector is a major player in the trafficking ring,” Hawkins explains patiently. “You can’t afford to burn bridges with him.”

“Oh, the bridges are still standing. Just a little scorched.”

His exasperation crackles through the line. “This isn’t some alley shakedown, Quinn! The Chicago PD is now involved. And soon the media too will be.”

“Then you tell them all to take a hike off a federal investigation,” I snap.

Hawkins’ silence tells me he’s still scrambling. In all the years he’s been my handler, I’ve never once gone off-script, so this is new for him.

I let him stew for a few moments, then mutter, “Fine. When I return from Moscow, we can let Chicago PD arrest me for optics and send out a press release. Whatever makes the brass happy.” I pause. “Now, can you get off my back?”

Hawkins hesitates. “Why did you take Hector’s woman? Was it to intercept a sale?”

The question hangs in the air like smoke. I consider lying. But what’s the point?

“Yes.”

There’s a beat of dead silence, then Hawkins explodes. “You were off duty! You had no clearance to seize any merchandise!”