Dante
The trophy sits on my desk, a cheap piece of gold plated junk. It gleams under the desk lamp, a monument to a perfect lie. Her lie. Our lie.
I replay the last two hours in my head. A constant, looping analysis. Julian Thorne’s arrogant speech. The other pledges, pathetic and scared. And her. Always her.
I dissected her every move. The diversion at the party was not an accident. A lesser talent would have pulled a fire alarm. An amateur move. Crude and loud. She started a social drama. Surgical. She identified the alpha male, calculated his ego, and used it as a trigger. She weaponized their own vapid culture against them.
It was brilliant. And it was terrifying.
Her movements inside the house were silent. She understands stealth. She knows how to use shadows. When she entered the trophy room, she did not make a sound. She was a ghost. A girl who watches a lot of movies does not move like that. A girl who has been trained to kill does.
My suspicion from the mixer has now hardened into a certainty. She is not a civilian. She is one of us, playing the same game on the same board.
The question is, for which king?
I sit at my laptop, the screen a cold blue light in the dark room. Her fabricated identity is a fortress. Lia. No last name in the pledge roster, a calculated move by The Aegis to maintain secrecy. The university records I sliced into give me a little more. Lia Sterling. An orphan from a new money tech family in California. Deceased parents. A trust fund managed by a faceless bank in Switzerland. It is perfect. Too perfect.
Every digital breadcrumb leads to a professionally curated dead end. Social media profiles with vapid posts dating back years. Photos with friends who look like stock images. School records from an exclusive boarding school that has a firewall even I find tedious to bypass. It is the best cover I have ever seen. It screams of money, resources, and deep training.
Frustration tastes like metal in my mouth. I slam the laptop shut. Digital reconnaissance is useless. Her ghost is better than mine.
I need a new tactic. Direct observation.
The next day, I find her in the campus coffee shop. It is a nauseatingly cheerful place, all blond wood and the smell of burnt sugar. She is sitting with her roommate, Chloe. The picture of normalcy.
I take a table in the corner, hidden behind a ridiculously large potted plant, and pretend to read a book on macroeconomic theory. My eyes are on her.
Chloe is talking, her hands waving animatedly as she describes some drama from her sociology class. Lia is leaning forward, her expression a perfect blend of interest and empathy. She laughs at the right moments. She nods with practiced sincerity. She is playing the part of ‘best friend’ with an award winning commitment.
But I see the truth. I see the cracks.
Her eyes, even when they are fixed on Chloe, are never still. They track everyone who enters and leaves the cafe. She has positioned her chair so her back is to the wall, with a clear view of both entrances. A tactical choice. A subconscious one, maybe?
When a barista drops a tray of mugs, the sound echoes through the shop. Everyone jumps. Chloe yelps. Lia does not even flinch. Her body remains perfectly still, but her eyes are instantly on the source of the noise, assessing, dismissing the threat, all in the space of a heartbeat. Then her shoulders slump in a performed gesture of surprise, a half second too late.
She is a predator resting in a sunbeam. A lioness pretending to be a house cat. The sheer control it must take is staggering. And the loneliness of it… it is a feeling I know all too well.
“You are going to burn a hole through her head.”
The voice is low, familiar. Mikhail slides into the chair opposite me, placing a cup of black coffee on the table. He is dressed as a teaching assistant, complete with a tweed jacket and a weary expression. He does not look at me. His eyes are on the girls across the room.
“I’m conducting reconnaissance,” I say, my voice flat.
“It looks like stalking,” he replies without heat. He takes a sip of his coffee. “Last night was reckless.”
“We secured the objective. Julian is off balance. The other pledges are intimidated.”
“You partnered with an unknown variable,” Mikhail says, his gaze finally flicking to mine. It is as hard and cold as Siberian winter. “A highly skilled variable. Who is she?”
“I’m working on it. Her background is a clean fabrication. Sterling family. Tech money.”
“A lie,” he states. It is not a question.
“Obviously.”
“Andrei did not send us here to get distracted, Dante.” The use of my real name is a slap. A reminder of who I am, and to whom I answer. “He sent us to dismantle a threat.”
“And I believe I have found a second one,” I counter.
“Or an obsession.” Mikhail leans forward, his voice dropping lower. “I saw you last night. You move with her. You anticipate her. It is not the coordination of strangers. It is something else.”
“It’s professional respect,” I lie.
Mikhail almost smiles. It is a cold, grim sight. “Do not insult my intelligence. Your father wants a report on The Aegis. Not a sonnet about a mystery girl. Your fascination is a weakness. It is a vulnerability an operative like her will exploit.”
“She doesn’t know who I am.”
“Do not bet your life on that. A woman with her training can smell a rival. And you reek of the Bratva.”
He is right. The thought sends a cold thrill through me. She looks at me and sees Leo Rossi. But maybe, just maybe, she senses Dante Bellandi.
“What is the directive?” I ask, forcing the mission back into the conversation.
“The directive is to identify the power behind The Aegis. Find out why they are encroaching on our territory in Boston. And eliminate the problem.” He looks pointedly at Lia. “All of the problems.”
My jaw tightens. Neutralize it. The word from his text message echoes in my mind.
“She is an asset,” I say. “Her skills are undeniable. She could be useful.”
“She is a liability,” Mikhail shoots back. “She is not one of us. That makes her the enemy, until proven otherwise. And our family has a very specific way of dealing with enemies.”
He stands, leaving his coffee untouched. “File your report. Stick to the mission. Or I will file one of my own.”
The threat is clear. Mikhail is my second, but his loyalty is to my father first. If he believes I am compromised, he will have me pulled. Or worse.
He walks away, disappearing into the lunchtime crowd of students. I am left alone with the dregs of my cold coffee and his warning hanging in the air like poison gas.
Across the cafe, Lia is laughing again, a bright, beautiful sound that is completely manufactured. She catches me looking. Her smile does not falter, but her eyes narrow for a fraction of a second. It is a challenge. A question. A warning of her own.
Mikhail is right. My fascination is a weakness. A dangerous, intoxicating indulgence. She is a rival. A threat to my mission and my family.
But when I look at her, I do not see an enemy.
I see a mirror. And I cannot bring myself to look away.
