Chapter 3 - The King’s Private Quarters
Tessa felt the heat of Marco’s body radiating through her tactical gear. He was overwhelmingly solid, towering over her with an intensity that made the cool air of the wine cellar feel like a blast furnace. His fingers remained wrapped around the neck of the Margaux, his knuckles millimeters from hers.
“At your mercy?” Tessa’s voice was remarkably steady, though her throat had gone dry. “I don't remember that being part of the standard testing protocol.”
“You breached my home twice in twenty-four hours,” Marco said, his gaze dropping to the parted fullness of her lips before rising back to lock onto her hazel eyes. “Standard protocols ceased to exist the moment you touched my coffee.”
He slowly pulled the bottle from her grasp and set it on the nearby tasting table without breaking eye contact. The physical proximity was suffocating, intoxicating, and undeniably dangerous. Tessa could smell the cedarwood and dark tobacco clinging to his sweater. Her professional detachment, honed through a decade of dealing with arrogant billionaires and federal directors, was fraying at the edges.
“You left the diagnostic port exposed on the auxiliary keypad,” she said, forcing her mind back to blueprints and circuits. “A two-dollar plastic cover would have stopped that exploit.”
“I’ll buy the cover,” Marco said softly, stepping closer until her back met the cold oak frame of the wine racks. He placed one heavy palm against the wood beside her head, effectively caging her. “What else did you break, Tessa?”
Hearing her first name in his gravelly baritone made a shiver trace its way down her spine. “Nothing. I don't break things. I just show you where they’re already broken.”
Marco’s eyes searched her face. Up close, he could see the golden flecks in her hazel irises and the slight sheen of perspiration on her skin from the sprint through his underground tunnels. She was breathtaking. Not in the fragile, ornamental way of the women who usually drifted through his social circle, but in the way of a storm—wild, unpredictable, and brilliantly destructive.
He raised his other hand, his fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before gently brushing aside a loose tendril of hair that clung to her cheek.
Tessa held her breath. The touch was unexpectedly gentle, a stark contradiction to the rumors of the merciless mob boss who had once dismantled a rival faction in a single bloody weekend.
“Who trained you?” he murmured.
“My father,” she said, her voice dropping. “He was chief of physical security for the Department of Defense. Taught me to pick a Master Lock before I learned to ride a bike.”
“He taught you well.” Marco leaned in, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “Too well.”
Before the tension between them could ignite into something neither of them could control, Marco’s tactical earpiece erupted with high-priority static.
*“Boss!”* Cal’s voice cracked over the channel, stripped of all its usual sarcastic calm. *“We’ve got a Code Black at the eastern perimeter gate!”*
Marco didn't pull away immediately. He kept his eyes locked on Tessa, his jaw hardening. “Cal, report. If this is another one of Ms. Morgan’s signal loops—”
*“It’s not her!”* Cal shouted over the sound of distant, sharp pops echoing through the microphone. *“Heavy gunfire! Two blacked-out SUVs just rammed the outer substation! They’re cutting the power grid right now!”*
In an instant, the cellar was plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.
The backup generators whirred to life three seconds later, bathing the stone walls in eerie, pulsing red emergency illumination.
The game was over. The real world had just breached the walls.
Tessa’s demeanor changed in a heartbeat. The playful arrogance vanished, replaced by the razor-sharp tactical focus of a survivor. “Automatic weapons? That’s not red-teaming.”
“No,” Marco said, his voice instantly turning to ice as he drew the concealed Glock 19 from beneath his sweater with practiced fluidity. “That’s the Petrov Syndicate. And they didn't come to audit the locks.”
He grabbed her hand—his grip firm, unyielding, yet protective—and pulled her away from the wine racks toward the hidden emergency lift behind the tasting display.
“Stay behind me,” Marco ordered, racking the slide of his weapon with a sharp *clack*. “The evaluation is officially suspended.”
Tessa adjusted the utility belt around her hips, pulling a heavy-duty tactical taser and a pocket-sized signal jammer from her pouches. A small, reckless grin touched her mouth despite the sirens wailing through the foundation.
May you like
“Suspended?” she said, matching his stride as they moved toward the stairs. “Mr. Duca, I believe you’re going to need a passing grade today whether you like it or not.”
***
