The Riddle at the Palazzo

Maya should've recognized him—former CIA, now corporate intelligence, the kind of man who could extract secrets over drinks without you noticing your glass was empty. But she'd been too distracted by the way his eyes tracked her across the rooftop bar, ignoring the infinity **pool** glittering behind them like spilled jewelry.

"You're Hawke's new fixer," he said, not asking. His hand closed around hers, warm and deliberate, reading her **palm** like he was checking for wire taps. "You don't have the look of someone who enjoys cleaning up other people's messes."

"And you're the **spy** who couldn't stay retired." She pulled away, annoyed that her pulse hadn't gotten the memo about professional distance. "I saw your file. Three agencies in fifteen years. Now you're consulting for the same people I'm supposed to be investigating."

The rain came—sudden, tropical—driving them inside to his suite, where the **cable** news flickered silently against the darkness. They stood too close, years of tradecraft and trust issues dissolving into something else entirely.

"I know what you're thinking," he murmured against her throat. "You're wondering if this is another operation. If I'm playing you."

"I'm wondering why you never asked about the files I found." She traced the scar along his jaw. "The ones linking Hawke to that collapsed construction project in Cairo. The one with the **Sphinx** mural where the workers died."

He went still. "That wasn't in the report."

"It's in the encrypted folder. The one you gave me access to yesterday, assuming I wouldn't know what to look for." Maya stepped back, her expression cold. "You burned your own asset because he knew too much. And now you've given me the same ammunition."

"Or," he said quietly, "I trusted you'd know what to do with it."

She chose to believe him. That was the mistake—the one that would cost her everything, starting with the job, ending with her heart. Some operations, she'd learn, were designed to fail from the start.