They moved my seat at a luxury charity gala so I would sit beside the scarred mafia boss everyone was afraid to look at

The penthouse overlooking the Potomac River was a fortress disguised as a glass monument to modern wealth. Three days had passed since we arrived in Washington under false flight manifests and dummy corporate identities.

Downstairs, the capital moved in its endless cycle of political theater, motorcades, and television crews. Upstairs, Leandro was waging an invisible war.

"Look at this," I said, tapping the glass table where dozens of digitized bank ledgers were projected. Over the last seventy-two hours, I hadn't slept more than four hours a night. My background in corporate forensic auditing—the very thing that had made me a boring guest at that high-society charity gala—was now our deadliest weapon.

Leandro walked up behind me, carrying two cups of black coffee. He set one before me and placed his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs working gently into the knotted muscles of my neck. The sheer warmth of his touch sent a shiver cascading down my spine.

"Tell me what you found, little accountant," he murmured against my hair.

"Vance didn't just take Harkort’s dirty money," I explained, turning in the swivel chair so I could see his face. "He built a shadow consortium. Twelve private defense contractors, three pharmaceutical giants, and a hedge fund called Aegis Meridian. They aren't just funding his campaign. They’re buying policy. If Vance wins the presidency, Aegis Meridian gets the exclusive rights to federal infrastructure reconstruction contracts worth half a trillion dollars."

Leandro’s eyes narrowed, cold and calculating. "And Harkort was their original treasurer."

"Exactly. But here is the vulnerability," I continued, pointing to a single wire transfer flagged in bright red. "Every month, a payment of four hundred thousand dollars goes to a private estate in McLean, Virginia. Not to a company. To an individual named Evelyn Cross."

Leandro went dead still. The ambient hum of the penthouse servers seemed to drop an octave.

"Evelyn," he whispered.

"You know her?" I asked, a sudden, sharp twist of jealousy and unease prickling in my chest.

"She was Mateo’s fiancée," Leandro said, his voice dropping into a register of utter disbelief. "When Mateo was killed, she vanished. We searched every morgue, every hospital between St. Paul and Montreal. We assumed the assassins took her out into the woods and burned her body."

"She’s alive, Leandro," I said quietly. "And Vance has been keeping her hidden in Virginia for four years."

Before Leandro could answer, the secure comm unit on his belt chimed twice. His second-in-command, Dominic, strode into the library, his expression grim.

"Boss," Dominic said, casting a respectful glance at me before addressing Leandro. "The invitation just came through an encrypted courier. Senator Vance is hosting an exclusive donor reception tonight at the National Portrait Gallery. Five hundred guests. Secret Service detail, private mercenary security, and national media."

"Does he know we're in D.C.?" Leandro asked.

"He knows," Dominic said, handing over a heavy gold-embossed card. "The card wasn't addressed to your alias. It’s addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Leandro Moretti."

I caught my breath. Leandro looked down at the card, then up at me.

"He thinks he can use a public room full of cameras as a shield," Leandro said, a predatory glint igniting in his hazel eye. "He thinks because the press is watching, I won't slit his throat where he stands."

"He's daring you," I said, rising to my feet. "He wants to see if you have the courage to walk into his territory."

Leandro stepped forward, closing the distance between us until the heat of his chest pressed against mine. He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering along my jawline with a fierce possessiveness.