“Alright, we’re all done,” said the doctor.

  John got up off the metal table with a new stitch in his side. His shirt and vest removed, exposing his abs and toned young body to the world

  “The blade was super thin.” said the doctor, going to a small sink to wash his hands. “That’s good because it won’t leave much of a mark.”

  “Thanks.” said John, inspecting his bandage to make sure it would stay. “Lea, you got a shirt for me?”

  Lea was leaning against a wall, staring at him. Morse specifically, her eyes were scouring all over his chest and abs. Not too bulky but sculpted with the “go” and not “show” muscles of a martial artist.

  “Lea!” John said again.

  “Huh?” Lea said, snapping out of it. “Um, right. There’s a t-shirt in the car. Let’s go.” Lea left the room quickly, her face blushing.

  ***

  On the drive home, John sat in the front with her. He dozed off, dreaming of the day he read his dad’s will exactly one week prior. That was the day his dad died. The day he went to read the will. The day all this trouble started.

  ***

  John got ready the same way he always did.

  Two slices of toast. Eggs. Tea. The same breakfast he’d had every morning for the past year.

  He even drove to Langley, to CIA headquarters, just as he did every day.

  But this time, he sat in his car for an extra twenty minutes.

  He wasn’t going to be late—he was never late. He always arrived thirty minutes early. But today, for the first time, he would only be ten minutes early.

  Twenty minutes.

  They blurred by in a haze, his mind caught in a loop. He leaned his seat back, eyes fixed on the car roof, thinking. Contemplating.

  Exactly one week ago, he had spoken to his mafia father for the first time in six years. That conversation had ended with a revelation—his father was dying.

  And now, this morning, a text had come from an unknown number.

  He hadn’t needed to verify it.

  He knew it was real.

  His father had died a few hours ago.

  Dead as dead gets.

  His thoughts drifted.

  His mother—how devastated must she be?

  His siblings—how were they handling it?

  And then, the inevitable question:

  Would he fulfill his father’s dying wish? Would he go to the will reading? The funeral?

  But mostly, he wondered what would happen when he stepped through those CIA doors.

  A mafia boss’s son working for the U.S. government.

  His father was dead. And by the end of the day, John would be boarding a plane to Boston to sit at a table full of criminals and hear his father’s final words.

  To the CIA, that meant one thing.

  Wear a wire.

  And that? That was something John would never do.

  He had joined the Economics Division of the CIA to fight corruption where it mattered most—by following the money. He knew firsthand that the surest way to take down a powerful man wasn’t with bullets. It wasn’t with hearsay.

  It was with numbers.

  If someone had dirty money, it would always betray them.

  That was how you caught them. That was how you took them down.

  It was a desk job. Safe. Behind doors. No fieldwork. No moral dilemmas.

  And, most importantly, it never required him to rat out his own blood.

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  Despite everything, that idea never sat right with him.

  Instead, he had handed over the books on a rival mob family. It was a trade—one that earned him the cushy CIA desk job he wanted.

  But now?

  Now, all eyes would be on him.

  The kind of “you can’t get out of this one” attention that made his stomach coil.

  John exhaled slowly, then pushed open the car door.

  He stepped out, stretching his legs—a nervous tick he’d had since childhood. Whenever his nerves were tight, loosening the muscles in his legs always calmed him down.

  Today?

  It wasn’t working.

  John stepped into the CIA headquarters, and the shift was immediate.

  He could feel it in the lobby.

  All eyes were on him.

  Agents, analysts, security personnel—they all knew. No one said a word, but the weight of their stares was unmistakable. Even people waiting patiently to be seen by whoever for whatever reason noticed that the workers were looking at him so they did too.

  An elderly white woman standing near the entrance clutched her purse in reaction. Usually John would blame racism but in this case, he would've done the same in her position.

  He didn’t look at them. He wanted to get to his desk as soon as possible and rip it off like a band-aid. Get it over with and done.

  He just kept walking, crossing over the massive CIA seal embedded in the lobby floor.

  At the security checkpoint, Thomas, the usual guard on the employee side, was reading a newspaper in his chair. There it was on the front page: “Mob Boss Michael Lear Nero, Dead”. Thomas was an older guy, late 40s. Tattoos on his arms. Former marine infantry.

  In the three years John had worked there, Thomas had not missed a day. He was showing some of the other guards the paper when John went up to the airport style security receptacle and cleared his throat. At the sight of him, they all scattered like kids who’ve just been caught doing something they shouldn’t.

  Everyone but Thomas. He calmly put down the paper and gave him a nod. “Good morning, John.”

  “Morning, Thomas.”

  John placed his briefcase on the conveyor belt and stepped through the metal detector and John stood up and they went through the motions.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Thomas smirked. “What’ve you got on you this time?”

  John forced a chuckle. “Man, I hope it’s something interesting. Feels like I shouldn’t have come into work today..”

  Thomas motioned him over for a secondary scan, running a handheld detector up and down his frame. “Alright, just a quick pat-down.”

  “Yeah, sure,” John said.

  Routine.

  It was all routine.

  Until it wasn’t.

  As John reached for his briefcase, Thomas hesitated.

  “Oh—by the way,” Thomas said.

  John turned. “Yeah?”

  Thomas exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

  John’s grip tightened around the handle of his briefcase. He took it off the belt.

  “It’s in all the papers, and TV and stuff…” Thomas added. “Everyone’s kind of… talking about it.”

  John nodded to himself.

  Thomas was a straight shooter—one of the few left in this place. Honest. Hardworking. The kind of guy who’d be terrible at espionage.

  Sometimes John wondered why he even worked here.

  But then again, the world needed people like Thomas. People who did the right thing simply because it was right.

  “I know,” John said, “I appreciate your concern.” He forced a smirk. “Just make sure no one gets in this building who doesn’t belong.”

  Thomas chuckled. “You know me—always willing to serve.”

  John nodded, then turned toward the elevator, pressing the up button.

  The doors slid open—

  And there she was.

  Lea Donavan. Black and white business casual. Her clothes doing a terrible job of hiding her hourglass-like curves.

  She was reading something on her phone, leaning against the elevator.

  No briefcase, thought John. He noticed a small coffee stain on her white collar. Her hair was already starting to frizz and she was picking something in her teeth.

  She had already been there a while. Eaten whatever breakfast and drank her coffee too.

  “Hello, John,” she said without looking up at him. “Went with the standard cologne today I see.”

  He stepped in, the doors sliding shut behind him.

  The elevator hummed softly as it ascended, the silence thick between them.

  Finally, Lea spoke again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” John said automatically.

  Lea tilted her head. “Is it?”

  John exhaled sharply through his nose.

  “I mean,” Lea continued, her tone careful, “I know you didn’t like him very much. You obviously had some… let’s say, issues.”

  “Yes, let’s say issues,” John muttered.

  Lea sighed. “But at the same time… he was your father. You don’t feel anything? You don’t miss him?”

  John’s jaw tightened. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Well,” Lea said, crossing her arms, “you might not want to talk to me about it, but you know they’re going to want to.”

  “I know.”

  “And?”

  “I’m not wearing a wire.”

  Lea frowned. “A wire?”

  “Yes, a wire,” John said flatly. “I know what they’re going to ask. They’ll want me to wear one to the will reading, maybe even the funeral, but I’m not doing it.” He exhaled sharply. “I’m not a field agent. It’s not my job to be a spy. I sit behind a desk. I do my job. That’s it.”

  Lea smiled. “I think that’s what I like about you, John.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “You always play it safe,” she said. “Your intentions are always to play it safe.”

  She stepped forward, meeting his gaze.

  “And yet, that never seems to happen, does it?”

  John smiled back. The only smile he’s had all day. “What are you, my therapist?” said John.

  They had trained together at The Farm, the CIA’s infamous training academy. Back then, she was one of the only people who hadn’t treated him differently—who hadn’t judged him for his family name. They became close. Once almost too close. Lea made it very clear to him that she was focusing on her career and a scandal this early into the game would ruin her reputation.

  His mind flooded with the several times he and her trained together. She may have stopped after the Farm, but he hadn’t. Despite choosing desk work, John had still passed the field agent tests every year. Not because he wanted to go into the field, but because he had to be prepared.

  With a father like his. With siblings like his.

  He couldn’t afford to be out of shape.

  He couldn’t afford to be unprepared.

  But the field? That wasn’t plan A. It wasn’t plan B.

  Hell, he preferred it wasn’t even plan X.

  The elevator doors slid open.

  John stepped out, walking side by side with Lea toward his division—the Economic Crimes Unit.

  He barely had time to sit down before—

  Chief Roman swung his office door open, his voice booming across the floor.

  “Nero! Get in here!”

  Damn, I can't even get to my desk first?, John thought.