Kyle leaned back in his chair, the polished wood creaking slightly under his weight as he studied Cleopatra across the table. The room’s ambient lighting cast long shadows over her face, but he pressed on with the discussion they’d started before her abrupt phone call. "We need a solid plan against the Mafia," he said, his voice steady but probing.
"Marcello’s gathering the families—that’s our window. Hit their supply lines first, maybe leak intel to rivals like the Yakuza. Disrupt their unity before they solidify power. What do you think? You’ve got the connections; we could coordinate strikes on their key assets," Kyle suggested.
Cleopatra sat motionless, her wine glass untouched on the table, the deep red liquid swirling faintly from an earlier stir. She didn’t respond. Her eyes, usually sharp and commanding, now stared at a fixed point on the tablecloth, distant and unyielding. Kyle paused mid-sentence, his words trailing off. He’d seen her composed through threats and near-death experiences, but this was different—rigid shoulders, a subtle tension in her jaw, fingers interlaced so tightly her knuckles paled. It wasn’t fear; it was calculation, like a predator deciding whether to pounce or retreat. He set his own glass down with a deliberate clink, breaking the silence.
"Cleopatra? What’s going on? You were all in a minute ago, but now..." He gestured vaguely at her, leaning forward to catch her gaze. "That call—who was it? Your deanor changed the second you ca back."
She blinked slowly, as if pulling herself from a deep thought, and t his eyes at last. The shift was subtle but unmistakable: a hardening, like steel forging in fire. There was no warmth, no flirtation from earlier. Kyle’s instincts flared—this wasn’t the woman who’d teased him about Ella monts ago. She exhaled, her voice even but laced with an edge.
"It was Isabeau Delacroix. Head of one of Marcello’s families. She’s sent n to retrieve you," Cleopatra muttered casually.
Kyle’s heart skipped a beat, his body tensing instinctively because this was the sa woman that had called him.
"Retrieve ? What the hell does she want?" He scanned the room again, noting the closed doors and the faint hum of security outside. Trapped—that word echoed in his mind. He couldn’t bolt even if he tried; her guards would swarm like ants on sugar.
Cleopatra tilted her head slightly, her expression unchanging—cool, almost detached, as if discussing the weather rather than his potential capture. She studied him for a beat, then continued without evasion.
"You really didn’t know, did you? Isabeau’s the mole in Marcello’s circle. She’s been feeding scraps for years, undermining him from within. Our partnership’s old—built on mutual gain. But she called because of you. Whatever you said to Viktor tipped her off. She thinks you know too much about her role," Cleopatra was transparent because she had the ans to end Kyle’s life now if she thought him to be a bigger threat.
Kyle’s mind raced, piecing it together. The conversation with Viktor—the probing questions, the subtle accusations of betrayal. He hadn’t nad Isabeau, but his hints at a Russian-linked mole must have rippled back to her.
"And now she’s coming for ? To what, silence before I talk?" Kyle questioned.
Cleopatra nodded once, her posture unchanging—back straight, hands folded in her lap like a queen on a throne.
"She’s agreed to help kill Marcello. In exchange, I deliver you. That’s enough incentive for to keep you here until her n arrive." Her tone was matter-of-fact, no apology, no glee—just business.
Kyle saw it clearly now: she viewed him as a pawn, useful until expended. The alliance they’d danced around was fragile, and this call had shifted her priorities. He stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor with a harsh grind.
"This is bullshit. I’m not so package to hand over." His voice rose, but Cleopatra remained seated, unmoved, her eyes tracking him with mild interest, like observing a caged animal testing its bars. She didn’t flinch, didn’t call for guards. That calm fueled his unease—she held all the cards here.
Before he could pace or demand an exit, the double doors burst open with a heavy thud. Four n strode in, broad-shouldered and clad in dark tactical gear, hands resting on holstered pistols at their hips. Their faces were stone masks, eyes locked on Kyle.
"Co with us," the lead one grunted, his voice flat and commanding. "No trouble."
Kyle’s heart slamd against his ribs. He assessed in a flash—four ard, him unard, no clear path out. Cleopatra’s deanor hadn’t shifted; she sat poised, watching like this was a scripted play.
In a surge of adrenaline, he lunged toward her, grabbing her arm and yanking her up from the chair. She ca easily—too easily, her body yielding without resistance, like she’d anticipated the move and allowed it. He spun her in front of him, one arm locking around her waist, the other snatching a pen from the table and pressing its sharp tip against her throat.
"Back off!" he barked at the n, his voice echoing in the room. "One step, and she bleeds."
The guards halted, confusion flickering across their faces—eyes darting between Kyle and their boss, hands twitching toward guns but not drawing. They exchanged glances, unsure, as if this wasn’t in the playbook. Cleopatra, pinned against him, didn’t struggle. Her pulse thrumd steady under his grip, no panic, just a faint amusent in her posture—head tilted slightly, body relaxed in his hold.
Kyle pressed the pen harder, a bluff but desperate. "Let pass, or I end this now."
But then, a red dot appeared on his forehead, dancing like a laser pointer from hell. He glanced up—a sniper’s aim through the window, beam steady and lethal. The guards smirked, tension easing as they realized the upper hand. Cleopatra’s voice ca low, unruffled, her breath warm against his ear.
"Pointless, Kyle. Kill , and you still don’t walk out. My n have orders—your escape isn’t among those order," Cleopatra didn’t flinch at the pen’s prick, her tone casual, like discussing dinner plans.
"Drop it. This changes nothing," Cleopatra added.
Kyle’s grip faltered, the red dot a burning reminder of his trap. He was cornered, outgunned, and outplayed—stuck in a web he’d walked into willingly.
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