For a long moment, neither of them moved.

The silence wasn't awkward.

It was dense.

Three years of unfinished conversations pressing into the space between them.

The office still smelled faintly of smoke and expensive whiskey. Somewhere outside the door, boots passed, radios crackled, men shouted orders — but inside the room it felt strangely suspended, like time had decided to wait and see what they would do.

Camilla leaned back into the couch slowly, like she had all the time in the world.

Like there wasn't a gun still in Dane's hand.

Like they weren't standing in the middle of a blown operation.

Her eyes drifted to the table.

Crystal decanter.Two glasses. Half-filled and untouched. Seems like the last reunion here went so well they didn't even touch the glasses.

She reached forward casually.

Dane didn't stop her, he didn't even speak. He just watched.

She poured herself a glass, the amber liquid glugging softly against the crystal, absurdly loud in the quiet room.

Then she drank it in one smooth swallow.

Didn't even wince. Set the glass down with a soft click.

Only then did she look up at him. Not Katia. Not the trembling girl.

Camilla. Sharp. Dry. Infuriating.

"So," she said lightly, "what the fuck are you doing here?"

His eyebrows lifted.

"Me?" he scoffed. "You're asking me?"

He stepped closer, running a hand through his hair, pacing once like he used to when something wasn't going according to plan.

"What I should be asking," he muttered, "is what the fuck are you doing here, Kov—"

She lifted a finger.

"Ah. Ah. Ah."

A warning.

"It's Katia."

He stared at her flatly.

"What the fuck ever you're calling yourself. Katia, Camilla, ghost number three. What are you doing here?"

She shrugged.

"Working."

He blinked.

"Working."

"Yes."

"Working how, exactly?"

She tilted her head, all faux innocence again.

"Well... I'm the mistress." A small, lazy smile. "He sleeps with me. I sleep with him. I get diamonds. Seems like a decent career path. Don't really see the confusion."

"Stop playing games."

"As if you'd believe the truth if I gave it to you."

"That would make this easier."

She rolled her eyes.

"Oh God. Here we are again."

He frowned.

"Your trust issues," she continued, gesturing vaguely at him, "have not improved. Three years and you're still allergic to believing me."

"Anyone else in this room would've shot you already," he said quietly.

She finished the rest of the whiskey and set the glass down.

"And if it wasn't you in this room," she replied just as softly, "this conversation would've gone very differently."

That made him pause.

"...You knew," he said.

She gave him a look.

"Dane. Your interrogation style is painfully recognizable."

He frowned deeper.

"And the tattoo on your wrist?" she added. "Kind of hard to miss."

Instinctively, his sleeve tugged down.

Too late.

He stared at her like she'd just broken into his head.

Because she had. Because she always had.

"You really didn't know I was here?" she asked, suddenly more serious.

"No."

The answer came too fast.

She studied him for a long second.

"You raided the most paranoid arms dealer in Europe," she said slowly, "and didn't read about the woman he keeps glued to his side?"

"I don't waste time on girlfriends."

She laughed under her breath.

"There it is."

"What."

"Impulsive Agent Pierce." She leaned back. "Kick the door down first, ask questions later. Still collecting medals for that?"

His jaw tightened.

"That's none of your concern."

"Mm." A smirk. "So that's a no."

He exhaled sharply, clearly fighting the urge to snap at her.

"We have bigger problems," he said. "This wasn't supposed to be a raid. Not exactly."

She looked at him sideways.

"Oh?"

"The team outside?" he said. "They're not mine. Well mine mine."

Her brows lifted slightly.

"What do you mean not yours yours?"

"I'm embedded."

Now it was her turn to go still.

"They're connected to an Italian syndicate," he continued. "They want Volkov dead. I'm supposed to help them get close, identify buyers, then pull intel before they make a move."

"And instead?"

"He vanished. Which means they're improvising. Which means they're dangerous."

"So what you just infiltrated yourself in a Italian mafia?"

"They'll use anything they can. Including you."

Silence settled again.

He looked at her. Really looked.

"So I'll ask you one more time," he said quietly. "What are you doing here, Camilla?"

No jokes this time.

No sarcasm.

Just the truth sitting between them like a loaded gun.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The whiskey burned warm in Camilla's throat, settling somewhere low in her chest, steadying her pulse.

Outside the door, someone shouted in Italian. Boots moved past. A radio crackled.

Time was moving again.

They didn't have much of it.

Dane was still watching her the way he used to before a mission briefing — like he was trying to predict her next three decisions before she made them.

She hated that he was trying to read her.

She hated more that she could still read him.

"So?" he said at last. "You going to keep dodging the question, or are we done pretending?"

She sighed softly, rubbing her thumb over the rim of the glass.

"I have the same objective your little mafia friends do."

His eyes narrowed.

"Which is?"

"Nikolai Volkov dies."

No hesitation. No drama. Just a statement like saying the sky was blue.

Dane didn't look surprised.

He looked... tired.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Figured."

"But," she continued calmly, "my way doesn't involve storming his house with rifles and hoping for the best."

"That's not what we—"

"I know," she cut in, raising a hand. "You're never subtle. You're tactical."

She leaned back into the couch.

"I infiltrate. I gather leverage. I map accounts. Contacts. Dead drops. Buyers. Politicians he owns. Every server. Every password. Every dirty secret."

Her gaze sharpened.

"Then, when everything is documented and secured..."

A small shrug.

"I remove him."

The way she said it was almost gentle.

Not rage.

Not revenge.

Just procedure.

Like crossing the last item off a checklist.

Dane studied her for a long moment.

"You're planning to kill him yourself."

"Yes."

"UNIS sanction that?"

She gave him a look.

"That answer would require me trusting you."

Fair.

He couldn't argue with that. He exhaled slowly and ran a hand down his face.

"My group isn't like that," he said.

"No?"

"No. They're not intelligence. They're not careful. They're not patient." His jaw tightened. "They're killers."

She tilted her head.

"And you joined them anyway."

"I didn't join. I embedded."

"Still sounds like you joined."

"They think I'm one of them."

"And what are you pretending to be this time?" she asked lightly. "Broody mercenary? Ex-military? Lone wolf with trauma?"

He shot her a dry look.

"Italian."

She blinked.

Then laughed.

Actually laughed.

The sound soft and disbelieving.

"You?"

"Half," he muttered. "Half American. Half Italian. It checks out."

"You don't even speak Italian properly."

"I do."

"You pronounce 'r' like a tourist."

"Shut up."

She smirked.

God, he'd missed that expression.

Which was dangerous.

Because this wasn't the time to miss anything about her.

A shout echoed down the hall. Closer this time.

Both of them instinctively went still.

Back to work.

Back to reality.

The moment shrinking.

Dane glanced at the door, then back at her.

"They're going to come in here in about thirty seconds," he said quietly. "And when they do, you're not Camilla Kovács."

"I know."

"You're not a trained operative."

"I know."

"You're scared. Useless. Just a mistress."

"Are you seriously telling me how I should do my job?"

Her face softened instantly like someone dimmed the lights behind her eyes.

Shoulders curling inward. Breathing uneven. Katia sliding back into place like a second skin.

It was terrifying how fast she could disappear.

"It'll be fine," she said softly.

"They're not gentle," he warned.

She shrugged.

"They don't need to be."

His brow furrowed.

"You're okay with that?"

She met his eyes.

Steady and professional.

"I didn't spend eight months in that man's bed to quit because some idiot roughs me up."

The bluntness knocked the air out of him.

"If they use me for blackmail," she continued, "good. That keeps me close. Close means access."

"And access means intel," he finished.

"Exactly."

A beat.

"Does this means we are partnering up?"

"This means I do my job and you do yours." she said plainly touching her leg as if checking for something.

"Fine, then I will say that you are important for Volkos."

"And I am..." she winked getting up.