The night is dark and quiet, and I can’t sleep.

The air is cool, but my skin is hot. I toss and turn, feeling like fire is crawling under my skin. My temples are wet, and my mind is well and truly alight.

How long can I stay here? It can’t be long now. They’ll either kick me out because I’m a cold, emotionless statue that tells them nothing…or I tell them the truth, and they kick me out for being a spy and a liar.

That’s the best case scenario. If they find out what I’m really up to, I could be killed.

I don’t want to think any one of these beautiful boys could hurt me, but it’s a fact of my life. I’ve been deceiving them. And I know they’re not squeaky clean.

Anything could happen.

They show no signs of losing faith in me, but I just know it’s coming to a point soon. Life isn’t a fairytale, and I know that even the best of things comes to an end. It seems the more I love something, the shorter time I have to enjoy it.

I sigh as I roll out of bed. I might as well find something warm to drink. A poor attempt to soothe myself. Maybe a slug of brandy will settle my nerves.

I quietly slip through the shadows of the wide hallways, trying not to make any sound. I don’t want to disturb the brothers. I don’t even want to see them, not really.

It’s a feeble attempt to put off the inevitable.

As I turn towards the kitchen, I see a soft light further down the hall, and a soft whisper of voices drift toward me. Feeling like doom is creeping up inside me as I stalk up the hallway, I pause near the open door.

All three are in there, speaking softly. I strain to hear.

“Definitely time to do something—” Marco said. He sounded firm and determined.

I can’t move or they’ll see me.

I’m as close to the door as I can get. I strain to hear more.

“—time to show our true colors.”

Antonio! What are they talking about?

“—been going on long enough. Can’t take the lies anymore.”

Franco.

“Soon. I can’t take another day of this.”

Marco again.

I crumple against the wall, putting my face in my hands and trying not to sob.

It’s me. They must be talking about me. Did they find out I’m a spy?

Are they going to murder me and dump my body somewhere?

This possibility hurts me far less than the thought of their eyes as they accuse me of lying to them. The hurt in their faces as they remember the intimacy we’ve shared in the face of my betrayal. The idea of hurting them is cutting into my chest.

I would rather have them just kill me, I think, than accuse me. I don’t want to explain myself. I truly don’t understand my own actions.

And I can’t answer for them. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

I run down the hall softly and quietly, trying to hold myself together. As I get back to my room, I close my door softly and crumple down to the floor, letting my tears flow.

I don’t sob, or gasp, or do anything that might alert the brothers.

I don’t know what to do. Sit here and wait for judgment?

Flee in the middle of the night?

I can’t leave. I can’t just slip out of this place, like a shadow that never was.

If I must play this out, I at least owe the brothers my honesty. Such as it is.

We’ve shared too much for me to just walk away.

Painfully, I admit to myself that even this is selfish.

I just want to see them again.

To look into the beautiful eyes of Marco, Franco, and Antonio.

To see them light up as they look at me.

To try and prove to them that maybe, just maybe, I’m a woman worth having.

I slip back into bed and wrap the sheet around myself. Tears still slip unevenly from my eyes as echoes of misery hang from my heart. I haven’t checked my phone for some time, as I’m avoiding the big boss.

I haven’t done my job. I have next to nothing on the brothers and their operations, and I can’t give up what I have learned so far. I know there’s no explaining to him that the business isn’t what it seems.

The senator’s world is black and white.

I reach for the phone anyway, not planning to reply to him but to see if there’ve been any updates. Perhaps the government and tax checks have come back clean on the brothers.

This would legally prove they’re not criminals.

I know this is a reach. Still, it’s possible that the old dog is calling off the hunt.

I can hope, at least.

There’s one email flashing quietly and is marked urgent. It’s from Sammy, an old friend of mine who had disappeared on a mission some time ago. I haven’t heard from her in ages.

It’s such a shock to see the message. She’s used our private code in the subject field, a collection of symbols we invented to ensure secrecy between our channels.

No one can crack it, not even a tech expert. It’s definitely from her.

I flick in to the message, and it isn’t long.

Beware of The Old Dog. He knows new tricks. He wants to be his own master.

I stare at the phone in stupefied disbelief. I’ve just referred to the senator in my own thoughts as ‘The Old Dog.’

Strange—that’s what Sammy and I used to call him.

The old hunting dog.

It can’t be about him. He’s the cleanest guy I know.

He even goes to church regularly and helps out at charities.

He detests bad guys. One of the reasons I work for him is his passion for stamping out injustice. This doesn’t make sense.

Where did Sammy go? What happened to her? Why message me now?

The old dog knows new tricks.

Can this really mean what I think it means?