Page 2

Chapter 1

Seanna

Men are only good for one thing. Okay, maybe two—if their aim doesn’t completely suck. Which, let's be honest, it usually does.

I watch the faint, unmistakable red dot lazily trace patterns across the chest of Diego Alvarez—mid-level cartel trash who clearly thinks he's hot shit because his boss tossed him out here as a sacrificial lamb. Poor bastard doesn't even realize he's already screwed. He's too busy stripping me naked with his eyes, probably deciding whether I'm his next big mistake or his future fantasy girl. Spoiler alert: I'm absolutely both.

I lean casually against the hood of the sleek black SUV parked smack in the middle of this god-awful parking garage—a charming spot filled with rust-stained concrete, oil-slick floors, and a potent bouquet of piss, mold, and despair. Romantic, right? Honestly, I couldn't have picked a better place to watch Diego squirm.

Beside me, Eli and Jensen are doing their best "bored muscle" impersonations. Eli's dark hair falls carelessly around a smirk that promises trouble, while Jensen stands like a human brick wall, inked arms crossed loosely, somehow looking both bored and murder-ready. They might fool Diego, but I know better—they're wolves just waiting for the chance to rip someone apart.

Matteo’s hidden somewhere above, watching quietly from his sniper perch. He's exactly the type I trust—silent, precise, and capable of turning someone's head into confetti at a moment's notice. I bet he's up there right now, mentally laughing his ass off at the disaster unfolding below.

A few other agents are stationed close by, silent and ready to move if things go sideways.

“I already told you, sweetheart,” I drawl lazily, voice dripping honey-coated venom. “I’m here for business. But blind dates aren’t my style. If I'm dropping serious cash, I expect to see your boss face-to-face. Got it?”

Diego’s jaw tightens. Good. Angry men fuck up fast, and I don't have all night.

“The boss doesn’t waste his time with random bitches flashing cash,” he snarls, puffing his chest like he’s auditioning for alpha asshole of the year.

Internally, I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. Typical macho bullshit. “Cute. You really think real threats come with a resume and a fucking billboard? Honey, your intel sucks harder than your fashion sense. Less posturing, more research next time.”

His nostrils flare like an irritated bull, fingers twitching nervously toward his jacket. Bingo. God, men are predictable.

“You’re asking too much,” Diego growls, eyes darting between me, Eli, and Jensen. “How do I know you aren't some cop bitch playing games?”

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 things my way."

"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.

Sliding into our usual booth, I watch as the others settle in around me. Eli drops down on my left, his muscular frame filling out his black leather jacket in a way that turns more than a few heads as we pass. His dark hair still hanging around his face, a faint scar slicing through his left eyebrow—courtesy of an earlier bust gone sideways—and he catches me watching, offering a cocky smirk.

“See something you like, boss?” he teases, nudging me lightly.

“Hard pass,” I reply smoothly, sipping my whiskey. “I’ve seen enough of you for two lifetimes, Eli.”

He laughs, utterly unfazed as he reaches for his bourbon glass, eyes sparkling. “Your loss.”

Jensen snorts, shaking his head as he stretches out comfortably across from us. Jensen’s the oldest, mid-thirties, built as solid as a mountain, his dark skin inked with tattoos that map out his entire military and undercover history. He’s grinning at me, clearly entertained. “Ever get bored of rejection, Eli?”

“Adds spice,” Eli retorts, raising a brow.

Matteo scans the crowd, responding dryly, “Your idea of spice seriously concerns me.” Matteo is tall, and muscular with an intensity that rarely fades, his dark eyes constantly scanning the room, taking in every detail. Tonight his thick brown hair is messy from the wind. He catches my glance briefly and offers me a tiny, crooked smirk.

“Enjoying the view, Seanna?” Matteo asks.

I roll my eyes and raise my whiskey, savoring the slow burn as it slides down my throat. “Don’t flatter yourself. Just wondering if you ever smile wider than that.”

He scoffs, but the corners of his lips curve slightly, eyes dancing. “Not likely.”

Eli chuckles again, leaning back comfortably. “Leave Matteo alone, Seanna. If he smiled any bigger, he’d scare away the locals.”

I grin into my drink, relaxing into the rhythm of our easy banter. Tonight my long black waves are braided down my back, keeping them away from my face, fully exposing my bright blue eyes. I’ve noticed a few stray glances already; I know my looks draw attention, but tonight I’m not interested in playing nice.

We’re halfway through our second round when I feel a presence beside the booth. Turning my head slowly, I see a younger man hovering near me. He’s attractive enough in that clean-cut, overly-confident way, probably used to charming his way into whatever he wants. He runs his hand through his blond hair, offering me what I suppose he considers his best smile as he leans in closer.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” he says, trying to pitch his voice over the music. “Wanna dance?”

I tilt my head slightly, slowly letting my gaze drift over him from head to toe, openly appraising. Then I meet his eyes again, smile colder than the ice in my glass. “Sweetheart, I'd snap you like a twig before the chorus even starts. Save yourself the trouble.”

Matteo snickers into his drink, Jensen bursts out laughing, and Eli whistles low, amused. Humiliated, the frat-boy stammers something incoherent and quickly vanishes into the crowd.

“Did you have to crush him that hard?” Jensen chuckles, shaking his head.

“Better shattered pride than false hope,” I say coolly, taking another sip of bourbon. “Fragile egos bore me.”

Eli grins, swirling his drink. “That was cold.”

I arch an eyebrow playfully. “You expect anything less?”

He shakes his head, a warm chuckle escaping him. “Never.”

Matteo shifts slightly, glancing down at me, his voice low enough only I can hear. “You do seem to enjoy breaking spirits.”

I look up into his dark eyes, matching his subtle smirk with one of my own. “Only the weak ones.”

Eli raises his glass suddenly, cutting into the moment. “To Diego—may he realize quickly just how badly he fucked up.”

“To Diego!” Jensen echoes, laughing again as we all clink glasses, the sharp sound lost in the club’s loud music.

I lean back comfortably, the warmth of the bourbon settling nicely in my chest. Nights like these remind me exactly why I do what I do. The danger, the power plays, the thrill—it’s intoxicating. But the bond with this team, forged in fire and sealed in whiskey, makes it worth every risk.

Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow, the real work begins again. After all, breaking arrogant men is absolutely the best part of this job.