The next morning, the sky was painted with soft hues of rose and gold as we left the apartment, stepping into a world that was anything but ordinary. The playful intimacy of the night before now hung like a delicate secret between us. Our mission awaited. We reached the headquarters just as the sun climbed higher. An undercurrent of urgency pulsed around us as the team welcomed us with warm smiles and respectful nods. But beneath those greetings, we all knew—this was the calm before the storm.
As we stepped into the meeting room, the lights dimmed abruptly, plunging us into darkness. A sharp click, and the projector flickered to life. Blue light spilled across the room, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Miss Serena stood at the front—her presence sharp, commanding, and laced with authority. That voice—sharp, calm, and impossibly cold—cut through the darkness like a blade.
"After Vincenzo's kidnapping," she began, "we intercepted a vital piece of information."
My spine straightened. She continued, "Andrew Watson is hosting a private party at his house—a celebration for his birthday. Only handpicked guests will be allowed entry—high-profile, dangerous, and trusted. As you all know, Watson's mansion is one of the most tightly guarded secrets in the underworld. No one has ever come out with real intel about its interior. Until now."
A rough blueprint appeared on the screen. The screen flickered, unveiling a faint, fragmented floor plan of the infamous estate—just a tangle of blurred lines and uncertain shapes, barely worth trusting.
"This is all we have. A crude outline. No security layouts. No internal surveillance maps. Which is why this invitation… is a golden opportunity."
There was a pause, a silence thick enough to drown in. Then Serena turned. Her gaze landed on me. I felt its weight before she even spoke.
"We've learned that an Arabic dance troupe has been invited to perform at the party," she said slowly, her voice laced with something heavier than usual. "So I've made a decision."
She stepped closer to the light.
"Eva," she said, eyes locked onto mine, "you will infiltrate the mansion as one of the dancers."
The room went still.
"You'll be outfitted with a concealed camera in your costume. You'll be our eyes inside the lion's den. Your mission is to gather every possible detail about the house—entry points, guard rotations, restricted zones… and most importantly—"
She tapped the screen again, revealing a blurred image
And said her voice, serious—"Watson's office."
"We have intel that Andrew keeps a secret hidden cabinet in his private office. You need to find it. Whatever is inside could change everything."
I nodded without hesitation. "Yes, ma'am. I'll take the mission."
She raised a brow. "As expected."
Then she paused—her tone turned cold and cutting, like a blade slipping into silk. "But understand one thing very clearly, Eva—if you're caught, we can't save you. Not even your corpse will return to us. There will be no backup. No rescue. No record that you ever worked for us."
A deadly silence draped over the room like a shroud.
"Understood," I whispered. I could feel Vincenzo's gaze burning into me from across the room.
Serena turned next to him.
"As for you, Vincenzo—you'll be nearby, outside the perimeter. We can't get you inside. But if something goes wrong… if she needs help getting out…"
He stepped forward, his voice low and unwavering.
"I'll be there. No matter what it takes."
Miss Serena looked at us, her eyes briefly softening, as if she saw the unspoken bond we hadn't dared to name. Then the moment vanished.
"You two are our best officers. But make no mistake—if this goes wrong, the entire mission is compromised. If this mission fails, it will end everything. We vanish. You vanish. You will be disowned. We'll deny you ever existed. ", she said.
We stood together, shoulder to shoulder, our silhouettes bathed in the cold light of the projector.
"We understand, ma'am," we said in unison.
"We'll make this mission count. We won't let you down."
Serena nodded once, curt and final.
"Good. You have one week to prepare. The event is this Sunday. Train hard, plan well, and be ready to walk into hell like you own it."
The lights clicked back on. We left the meeting room with heavy hearts and clear minds, returning to the familiar silence that bound us together more than words ever could.
When we returned home that evening, something was different. There is a stillness in the air, not the kind that feels peaceful. Not the uncomfortable kind—but the type that wraps around your throat and makes you feel things you're trying to avoid. It was the silence before a storm, when the wind forgets how to blow and the world forgets how to breathe. We didn't say a word. We just sat beside each other on the couch, shoulders brushing, hearts full of noise but lips refusing to speak. The weight of the upcoming mission lingered between us like a ghost. Finally, after what felt like forever, his voice broke the silence. Quiet. Too quiet.
"What do you want to eat? I'll cook it for you."
His voice was gentle, but there was a roughness beneath it. The usual playful spark—the one that made me want to melt into his arms—was missing. Like someone had stolen a piece of his light when we left headquarters. I turned to him slowly, searching his face.
"What's wrong?" I whispered. "You're not the same since we got back."
He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around me, resting his head on my shoulder like it was the only safe place left in this dangerous world. I felt the weight of him, not his body, but his silence. I instinctively rubbed his back, trying to comfort something I couldn't see.
"Talk to me, Vincenzo…"
But he only sighed, sinking deeper into me.
"Nothing," he murmured. "I just… want to hold you."
But I saw what his words couldn't say—the fear, the helplessness, the unspoken goodbye hidden beneath his strong facade. To break the tension, I stood just enough to meet his eyes and smiled softly. "Go on, make me something to eat. I'm starving."
He slowly pulled back, brushing his fingers over my cheek.
"Alright. What do you want to eat?" I gave him a mischievous smile.
"Hmm… tonight, I'll eat what you like."
He chuckled faintly, a sound I missed. No, I'll make what you want."
I shook my head gently, my eyes meeting his with quiet gravity.
"No, Vincenzo. I want to taste something you like. Who knows if I'll ever get this chance again?"
The moment those words slipped from my lips, his smile disappeared. The light faded from his eyes.
"What are you saying?" he asked, voice clipped.
I forced a laugh, hiding the tremble in my chest. "I mean… what if something happens during the mission? If I die, how would I ever taste your food again?"
His eyes were blazing now, and I saw it—the terror behind his anger.
"Don't say that." His tone turned sharp. "Don't you dare say that. You're not going to die. I won't let anything happen to you."
His fierce protectiveness hit something deep inside me. I looked down, heart heavy, and whispered— "That's our life, Vincenzo. We walk in shadows. And sometimes… we disappear into them. That's the truth of who we are."
A thick silence choked the air, and then… he broke it by pulling me into a hard, desperate hug.
"I don't care," he said, his voice trembling with emotion. "I don't care what this life is. I know this—if saving you means giving my life, I'll do it without hesitation."
His words tore through me like a storm. My hands cupped his face, and I lifted it gently, forcing him to look at me. His eyes… they weren't just eyes. They were wounds—wide open and raw, filled with something dangerous yet beautiful: love steeped in fear. And I couldn't hold back anymore. I rose on my toes, heart thundering, and kissed him. It wasn't a soft kiss. It was a kiss that spoke the words we couldn't say aloud. His hands gripped my face, and the kiss deepened—hungry, fierce, addictive. His lips devoured mine like he needed the taste to survive. His mouth moved over mine with maddening precision, and then he slid his hands down, grabbing my hips and lifting me as though I weighed nothing.
My legs wrapped around him instinctively.
We weren't just kissing. We were burning.
Breathing in each other's pain. Each other's passion. Each other's fear.
When we finally parted, gasping for breath, I stared into his eyes and whispered—
"I want to live this week like it's my last. I want to do everything I've ever dreamed of—with you. I want to smile, dance, cry, laugh…."
He didn't say anything. He just kissed me again, like he was memorizing the shape of my lips. And in that silence, we made a silent promise:
To live. To feel. To love… for as long as the shadows allowed.