Margot's eyes narrowed, suspicion moving across her refined features like a candle flickering in a draft. She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled under her chin, studying Harry with the focused intensity of a jeweler looking for flaws in a stone. He could see her mind working behind those honey dark eyes, calculating, probing, trying to figure out whether he was a threat or an opportunity. Harry knew he had to stay sharp, keep the upper hand even with his wrists zip-tied and his fate hanging by a thread. A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, deliberately cocky, the kind of look that suggested he was sitting on more than he was giving away. "I told you I know who the mole is," Harry said, his tone easy, almost conversational, like they were talking over coffee somewhere. "Never said it was you, though, did I?" He let that sit in the air and watched her closely. Her spine straightened just a fraction, shoulders pulling in slightly. He had her hooked. "So then who is it?"

The guards half-carried Harry down a narrow corridor, his feet barely keeping up beneath him as his wounded arm pulsed with pain at every step. Blood had already soaked through the bandaging, warm and sticky against his skin. They stopped in front of a plain white door with no markings on it, and one of the guards keyed a code into a panel on the wall. The lock released with a mechanical click.The room inside looked nothing like a holding cell. A queen-sized bed took up most of the space, made up in crisp white linens that probably cost more than most people paid in rent each month. A small sitting area was tucked into one corner, a plush armchair beside a side table with a reading lamp throwing warm amber light across the floor. Abstract art hung on the walls, muted grays and blues in minimal frames. The hardwood floor was spotless. Through a half-open door, a small en-suite bathroom was visible, all marble and chrome finishes.Harry's eyes went straight to the ceiling corners. Two

Harry lay completely still as the digital clock on the nightstand blinked 3:30 AM in harsh red numbers. Hours had dragged by since Margot had pressed herself against him, her body warm and unbearably close. Every minute felt stretched out as the drug worked through his system, refusing to let him sleep, refusing to let his mind settle or his body quiet down.The arousal was overwhelming, chemical, artificial, not something that came from real desire but forced on him by whatever they had folded into that meal. His thoughts churned between fury at being manipulated and the physical discomfort that refused to ease no matter how hard he tried to push past it. He was tempted, genuinely tempted, to reach out and touch her. The way she was pressed against him, the silk of her nightgown brushing his arm with every breath, the scent of her expensive perfume layered over something softer underneath, it would have been so easy to just stop fighting it.But Monalisa's lessons came back to him. T

The door to Harry's room swung open at exactly 10:30 in the morning. It wasn't Margot. It was the buzz-cut guard, the ex-military one who had carried himself with something close to decency throughout the whole ordeal. "Time to move," he said, keeping it simple, gesturing toward the hallway.Harry got to his feet and pulled the tailored suit jacket carefully over his bandaged shoulder. The wound still announced itself beneath the fabric, but the pain had settled into something he could work with. He followed the guard through corridors that were mostly a blur from the night before, down a service elevator, and out into a back courtyard where morning sunlight was already sitting warm and bright.Margot was nowhere around. Smart move on her part. She couldn't afford to be seen with him, couldn't be the one walking him into this meeting. If Ricardo or any of the other heads caught even a hint that she'd coached him or rehearsed any part of this with him beforehand, the whole thing would

Every eye in the room landed on Harry the second Ricardo's words died out. The weight of those stares was almost something he could feel on his skin, pressing in from all sides like being submerged somewhere deep. Each of them was sizing him up in their own way, working out what he was worth and what kind of threat he posed. Alexei's was the most unsettling, his metal teeth showing as his lips pulled back into something that couldn't quite decide whether it was a grin or a warning. The Russian's hands sat flat on the table, thick-fingered and scarred and tattooed, the kind of hands that had done things Harry didn't want to picture in detail. They were tapping out a slow, patient rhythm against the polished wood, the quiet restlessness of something that hadn't decided yet whether to strike. Lucius Tucci watched with the removed interest of a surgeon looking at something on a table, his sharp Italian features giving nothing away. The fedora sat in front of him like a piece of regalia,