She tore it off, crumpled it once in her fist, and dropped it in her drawer.
Her hands shook.
But her voice didn't.
"Felix," she called, calm as winter. "I need you to pull the access logs for this machine. Every keystroke. Every unlock. Now."
Felix stammered something — didn't matter.
She didn't wait for a response.
Because this wasn't a warning anymore.
It was an announcement.
Luca Romano had stepped out of the shadows.
And now he was in her space.
The day was gray enough to feel fictional.
Clouds hanging low over the skyline, sky smeared in ash tones, traffic crawling like the city was holding its breath. Navarro's convoy moved slow — two black SUVs and a matte sedan sandwiched in between. Bulletproof, of course. But bulletproof wasn't the same as immortal.
Lina sat in the back seat beside Navarro Jr., tablet in hand, scanning contract notes while he barked into his phone about cement shipments and zoning violations. The meeting had been uneventful — half-threat, half-bluff. Standard cartel business dressed in suits and fake permits.
"You're quiet," Navarro muttered, glancing at her between rants.
"I'm working," she replied, eyes on the screen.
He grunted. "You're pissed about the flowers still."
"I'm over it."
"Good," he said. "Because if Romano wanted you, he'd have taken you by now."
Lina didn't answer. Mostly because something outside the window caught her eye — a van. Parked too close to the curb. Engine running. No logo. No movement.
She opened her mouth to say something.
Then the world exploded.
Gunfire tore through the quiet like an execution — short bursts, sharp and controlled. The first SUV jerked violently, front tires blown. Glass shattered around them. Navarro shouted, ducking low as the driver swerved hard.
"Down!" Lina yelled, grabbing his shoulder and dragging him below the window line.
Bullets hit the rear window with a sound like hail against steel. The SUV jolted sideways, tires squealing as the driver lost control. They crashed against a parked taxi, metal crunching. The convoy split — the third vehicle veering off behind them, engines screaming.
Doors opened.
"Go!" one of Navarro's men yelled from the front seat.
Navarro bolted, crouched and running, ducking behind a trash truck. Lina scrambled after him, but arms grabbed her from behind — not rough, but firm.
She twisted, elbow flying.
A hand caught her wrist.
A mask stared back.
Black fabric. No logo. No eyes.
She tried to scream. Tried to fight.
But a cold voice said, "No one's going to hurt you."
And then everything went dark.
A needle in her neck.
A hand on her head.
And the last thing she saw was Navarro Jr., running the other direction — not once looking back.
Lina woke to silence, the kind that didn't belong in a city like New York.
No horns. No sirens. No footsteps overhead. Just the faint hum of temperature-controlled air and the slow rise of her own breath.
The bed beneath her was impossibly soft — not hers. She knew that before her eyes even opened. The pillow smelled like expensive soap and clean cotton. Her boots were off. Jacket gone. But everything else was untouched. No bruises. No restraints.
She opened her eyes slowly.
The ceiling above her was coffered, painted in a subtle cream. A chandelier hung overhead — real crystal, not some plastic knockoff. The walls around her were soft gray, the curtains sheer and drawn open just enough to show the glass skyline beyond.
She was high up.
Penthouse high.
Her fingers flexed against Egyptian cotton sheets, sharp with tension.
The door was closed. No sound from behind it.
She sat up, ignoring the throb at the base of her skull, and scanned the room.
To her right, a sitting area with a leather chaise and a table set for one — untouched breakfast: eggs, toast, berries, coffee still warm. To her left, a massive walk-in closet, door slightly ajar. A soft white robe hung on the outside.
The room didn't look like a prison.
But it felt like one.
She stood slowly, eyes catching on the faint red mark at her neck — a needle prick.
Her hands curled.
She approached the window. Floor-to-ceiling glass. No balconies. Nothing but sky and steel. Across the rooftops, the city looked too far away — like another country.
Then she noticed the camera.
Small. Black. Subtle. Mounted in the corner above the television. Another near the entryway.
Not blinking.
But definitely live.
Her pulse slowed. Hardened.
She crossed to the door and tried the knob.
Locked.
Of course.
She leaned against it and exhaled, slowly, forcing her thoughts into order.
This wasn't Navarro's place.
This wasn't police.
Which meant only one thing.
Romano.
He hadn't just stepped into her life.
He'd taken her out of it.
The lock clicked.
A clean, mechanical sound. No footsteps. No warning.
Lina turned sharply just as the door opened — and Luca Romano stepped through.
He didn't rush. Didn't speak.
He simply closed the door behind him and looked at her like she was a painting he wasn't sure whether to buy or burn.
Black button-down. No tie. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked more like a man stepping in from a boardroom than the one who'd ordered her abduction. His watch glinted once in the filtered sunlight.
She didn't speak first. She wouldn't give him that.
"You're safe," he said. Voice soft, not gentle. A simple fact.
"Kidnapping me was a strange way of showing it."
He raised an eyebrow. "It wasn't about you. Not at first."
Lina didn't move.
Luca stepped further inside, calm as a priest. "You were never the target. Navarro was."
"And yet I'm the one who woke up here."
"You were in the line of fire. You think I let that happen?"
"I think you arranged all of it."
Luca gave the faintest smile. "If I'd arranged it, Navarro would be dead."
He placed a manila folder on the table beside the untouched breakfast.
"Photos," he said. "From the ambush. Traffic cams. Drone footage. Cell intercepts."
She didn't move.
"Take a look," he added, almost bored. "The SUV you were in was intentionally exposed. The two guards flanking your side weren't Navarro's regulars. One of them disappeared after the hit. The other was shot before the first bullet was fired."
Lina's jaw tightened.
"Why?" she asked.
He didn't shrug — Luca Romano didn't do careless body language.
"Navarro knew the meeting today would be bait. I think he planned to let you get hurt — or taken — so he could blame me. Stir the pot. Start a war."
"And you're just here to clear your name?" she asked, voice sharp. "You kidnapped me."
"I pulled you out of a burning car."
"You drugged me."
"I kept you alive."
Lina crossed her arms. "You want a thank you?"
"No," Luca said. "I want answers."
He leaned against the back of a chair, posture loose but eyes laser-focused. "Navarro trusts you. He speaks around you. I want to know what you've heard. What's he planning? Who is he talking to offshore?"
Lina laughed once. Cold.
"You think I'd tell you anything? After this?"
Luca tilted his head. "You will."
"And why's that?"
"Because you're smart enough to know what happens when a man like Navarro decides you're not worth protecting." He let the words settle, quiet and final. "You've seen how he operates. You've felt what it's like to be disposable."
"And you think you're better?"
"I'm honest," he said.
She stared at him. "You're delusional."
He smiled — not offended. "Maybe. But I didn't lie to you. I never said you were free."
She didn't speak again.
Not yet.
But she didn't move away, either.
Which meant he wasn't wrong.
And he knew it.