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Chapter 17

Seanna

Matteo kills the engine, and for a moment, the silence feels almost reverent. Sacred. Like we’ve stepped into some kind of confessional booth where sins aren’t just whispered—they’re cataloged.

I push open my door and step out, heels clicking against cracked concrete, the air inside this abandoned shell of industry stale and thick with dust. Eli and Jensen approach, their body language as tight and sharp as mine.

But it doesn’t matter that I just walked out of a cartel nightclub in stilettos and a skin-tight dress without flinching. Doesn’t matter that I’ve got three of the most dangerous men I know watching my six. The weight on my shoulders isn’t Reyes, or Cruz, or the meet I have to finesse tomorrow. It’s them.

Rule and Ruin.

The ghosts I can’t seem to shake.

The warehouse smells like oil, metal, and secrets. Not the comforting kind—if those even exist—but the kind that rot from the inside out. The kind that cling to your skin like old smoke.

“Back room,” Jensen says, breaking the silence as he jerks his chin toward the hallway that splits off from the loading bay. “Let’s not stand around like targets.”

We fall into step, boots crunching over cracked concrete as we move deeper into the belly of the warehouse. This place isn’t unfamiliar—we’ve used it before when shit got too hot or too complicated to bring back to HQ. The bones are solid, the location off-grid, and the interior? Just polished enough to pass for a war room if you squint.

The temporary debrief space is a converted office in the far corner—bare fluorescent lights overhead, a battered table in the center, mismatched chairs, and an old whiteboard still stained with marker ghosts from our last op here. One of the dry erase pens sits in a coffee mug with “World’s Okayest Sniper” printed on the side. Matteo's, obviously.

I take the seat at the head of the table without waiting for anyone to offer. Matteo drops the pouch onto the table and leans against the wall behind me, arms folded. Jensen pulls up surveillance feeds on the tablet and drops it in front of me while Eli flops into a chair like it personally offended him.

“He’s hooked,” Matteo says, eyes tracking mine like he knows exactly how close I am to snapping. “You hit the exact nerve we needed. He wants to trust you. Thinks you’re some high-class drug queen looking to move weight.”

“Good,” I say flatly. “That means we’re one step closer to Reyes.”

“That also means,” Eli cuts in, his tone serious, “you’re one step deeper in Cruz’s territory. Which makes you a fucking red target if you so much as twitch wrong tomorrow.”

“Then I won’t twitch wrong,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. My voice slices the air, and the silence that follows is taut, brittle.

Jensen watches me with that unreadable expression of his—quiet, careful. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off.

“Seanna,” he says finally, voice low, deliberate. “You sure you’re good? You’ve been… off. Since this morning.”

I meet his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“Define ‘fine’ ,” Eli mutters from the side, pretending to scroll through his tablet. “Is it the ‘slept great, ate breakfast, ready to kick ass’ kind of fine? Or the ‘didn’t sleep, punched a mirror, and now holding it together with caffeine and spite’ kind of fine?”

My jaw tightens. I don’t answer.

Because the second one is dead-on.

And because I’m not giving them the satisfaction of saying it out loud.

Matteo moves toward the window, peering out through the slats. “No sign of tails,” he says. “But I still don’t like this. Cruz is a snake, he won’t confront you head-on, but get too close and he’ll sink his fangs in.”

“Let him bite,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “I’ll tear his fangs out and shove them down Reyes’s throat.”

Jensen lets out a low whistle but says nothing. Eli doesn’t even try to hide his smirk.

“Graphic,” he mutters.

“I’m not here to be delicate,” I snap.

Matteo steps away from the window and leans against the edge of the table. His tone shifts—calm, even, but undercut with steel. “Delicate isn’t the problem. The problem is what happens if Cruz gets a whiff of the wrong scent off you tomorrow. If he suspects anything—fear, hesitation, lies—you don’t walk out of there. None of us do.”

“I know,” I say, because I do. Every possibility has already played itself out in my head a dozen ways. Best case, Cruz believes I’m the supplier I claim to be and opens the door to Reyes. Worst case? My body gets dumped in a shipping container bound for nowhere. I’m not afraid of either outcome. But I am tired of pretending that’s not the truth we’re dancing with.

Jensen exhales slowly, like he’s weighing how hard to push. “You’ve got that look in your eyes again. The one that says you haven’t slept and your demons are getting mouthy.”

“They never shut up,” I say, sharper than I mean to. I roll my shoulders, trying to loosen the tension that’s been welded there since last night.

Eli doesn’t press the issue, but his gaze flicks up from the tablet long enough to clock me with concern—buried beneath sarcasm, sure, but there. Always there.

The silence hangs for a beat too long.

Then Matteo shifts off the wall. “We need to talk about tomorrow.”

I nod, grateful for the pivot. “Cruz wants a full commitment. Product volume, drop location, capital—all of it. He’s playing like he believes me, but he’s still testing. If we show up with a half-assed proposal, he’ll bail.”

Jensen tosses another folder on the table. “We’ve got a mock portfolio set up. Cash logs, shell companies, the works. It’s convincing. But you’ll need to memorize it top to bottom. If he asks even one question you can’t answer—”

“He’ll slit my throat with that smug little smile,” I finish. “Yeah, I know.”

“No pressure,” Eli mutters. “Just cartel thugs and fake bank statements between you and a shallow grave.”

I smile thinly. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”

We decide to meet back here tomorrow morning, early, a few hours before the second meet with Cruz. Time to re-check comms, final prep, confirm surveillance, and rehearse contingencies in case shit goes sideways. Which, let’s be honest, it will.

But for now, we split.

Matteo heads for his car. Jensen and Eli pile into the SUV they arrived in. Eli stretches with an exaggerated groan like he’s shaking off the tension, before lighting a cigarette. Jensen’s already dialing someone, probably to double-check one of the narcotics teams.

“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” I call out and they don’t question it. I walk off without comment, angling toward the east side exit. My car’s parked a block away—always is when we use this place. Too many blind corners for my taste.

We’ve done what we can today. All that’s left is to rest, reset, and hope nobody ends up in a body bag tomorrow.

The air is cooler now, slick with the scent of metal and rain. As I walk into the evening, the gritty wind scraping down the alley, my phone starts buzzing in my palm. I pause mid-step, frown at the screen.

Hydessa.

“If I hide…” she says softly, her voice barely audible, like a secret she’s afraid the shadows might overhear.

I close my eyes for half a second, just breathing in the exhaustion, the weight of everything.

“Then I’ll seek…” I say, trying not to let too much show through. But Hydessa knows me too well. She pauses.

“Are you okay?” she asks gently, all concern and intuition, like she already knows I’m unraveling by degrees.

“Yeah,” I lie with a practiced ease. “Just a lot going on. Don’t worry about me.”

A beat passes. I shift my weight to lean against a lamppost, pressing the phone tighter to my ear. I can hear waves in the background—she’s still on the island.

“How’s your investigation going?” I ask, keeping my voice light, trying to redirect her from the minefield I’ve built under my own feet.

“It’s going well,” she says, but I can tell she’s holding something back. “I have a possible lead.”

“That’s great!” I say, letting genuine pride leak through. “And have you taken the time to have some fun with a hot guy yet?”

There’s a pause. Too long. Something catches in her breath.

She hesitates.

That’s all it takes. I smile a little to myself, because that’s the sound of guilt. Or… maybe something else.

“Oh my god, you have!” I say, pouncing on the moment like a bloodhound. “Spill the details! Who is he? Is he cute? Tell me everything!”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

And that silence is loud.

My smile starts to fade.

“It’s… complicated,” she finally says, her voice softer now. “I’m not sure it’s about having fun. It’s more… like a dangerous game, and I’m not sure where it’s going.”

My chest tightens. Something in her tone needles its way under my skin. I push off the post, walking slowly down the sidewalk, scanning instinctively for anything out of place.

“Are you safe?” I ask, carefully. Not just out of sisterly concern—out of something deeper. A whisper in my gut that refuses to shut up.

“I’m doing everything I can to stay safe,” she replies, but there’s something in her voice—like she’s not telling me everything. I know that tone. I use that tone.

I feel my phone vibrate in my hand, a second buzz low and sharp. A text coming through.

But I don’t check it.

“I need you to promise me something,” she says suddenly.

“What is it?”

“Be careful. Watch your back. Trust your instincts. Promise me, okay?”

“I promise,” I say. And I mean it. But I also know the promise is only half a lie. I can’t tell her about Cruz. About the meet. About Rule. About what happened last night. Because if I do, she’ll try to protect me. And we both know how that ends.

There’s a beat before I say, “And you promise me the same. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”

“I won’t,” she lies, just as smoothly.

We chat a few more minutes—lighter things, Organization gossip, some teasing about the new recruits. She makes me laugh, and for a few breaths, I remember what it’s like to just be her sister. Not her shield. Not the one holding back a tidal wave of shit with a loaded gun and a bad attitude.

Eventually, we say our goodbyes.

I end the call and the street around me is quiet. Too quiet.

Then I check the message.

UNKNOWN

You only have yourself to blame, darling.

Unknown number. Yet another one. No name. But I don’t need it to be signed off. It was Rule or Ruin—hard to say which this time. Not that it fucking matters.

I’m still staring at the screen when my phone starts to ring.

Eli.

I blink. That's... weird. I literally just left him ten minutes ago. He’d barely had time to chain-smoke his cigarette and bitch about surveillance logs.

I swipe to answer. “What now?”

There’s noise in the background—Jensen’s voice, clipped and sharp, talking to someone else on another line. Probably PD.

“You better get down to the Orchid, boss,” Eli says, his voice low, tight.

I freeze.

“We’ve got a situation.”