Where is my Secret Weapon

Ricardo's POV

I am awake before Lana.

She's still tangled in the sheets, with her bare back exposed, and her dark hair spilling across the pillows. The room smells like sex, but that's not what lingers in my mind.

Last night was different. I lasted longer than usual; not by much, but enough to notice. That's why I am intoxicated by her. Lana knows how to make it last. Unlike Antonella or any of the other hoes I've fucked.

But I'd never tell her that. My pride is too big for that. I adjust my tie in the mirror. I've already showered, already dressed, and I'm leaving.

I hear a slow rustle behind me. Lana stirs awake. She blinks at me, still groggy, then sits up slightly with the sheets slipping lower down her chest.

"Where are you going?" Her voice is husky with sleep.

I don't bother looking at her. "I don't recall needing a chaperone."

She sighs, rubbing her temple. "I'm not trying to keep tabs on you. I just want to know. Being left alone in a house like this…" Her fingers toy with the edge of the sheet. "It isn't exactly flattering."

I scoff, turning to face her. "So because I fucked you last night, you think we're something now? You think you can walk around with me in public?"

Her brows furrow. "That's not what I'm saying—"

Two strides and I'm in front of her, gripping her chin between my fingers. Hard enough to make her wince.

"You must have forgotten why you're here," I murmur. "You crossed me, Lana."

She exhales sharply, and her lips part as if she wants to argue, to say something cutting, something that would sting. But she doesn't. Instead, she swallows it down.

I smirk. "Smart girl."

Her eyes are defiant, but she stays quiet. I release her, straightening my cuffs as I turn away. "Girls like you don't get to walk side by side with men like me."

Lana exhales through her nose, gripping the sheets tighter. "Right," she mutters, more to herself than me.

Then, I walk out the door.

Charles' POV

The system is a goddamn joke.

I glare at the empty whiskey glass in front of me as my jaw clenches so hard it feels like my teeth might shatter. I've been in law enforcement for years, long enough to know that justice isn't blind—it's just for sale to the highest bidder. And Borrelli and Inzaghi? They have pockets deeper than the law.

I wasn't wrong. I am never wrong.

But the world sees it differently. The jury saw it differently. The newspapers are already spinning the story, painting me as the detective who went after ghosts, the golden cop who got his first major stain. They don't care about the facts. They don't care that these men are criminals, that their money flows through every crack in the justice system like poison, corrupting everything it touches.

They got away with it. And now I look like a fool.

I exhale through my nose, pushing the glass away. Maybe it's not just about justice. Maybe it's my pride. I built my career on being the cop who doesn't lose. I'm the one people respect, the one criminals fear. And now? Now I'm the guy who went after the biggest mafia families and lost.

My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number. Another reporter, probably, wanting a statement. I ignore it. Then, suddenly, something clicks at the back of his mind. Something important.

Lana. Shit.

I promised her days ago that for her safety, she could stay with me. That I wouldn't let her be alone, not after what happened. And what did I do? I fucking forgot.

I run a hand down my face, cursing under my breath. I had been too busy drowning in my own frustration to remember the one person who actually needed me.

I stand abruptly, pushing back from the table. I need to clean up. The alcohol is still in my system, but I force myself into the shower. Ten minutes later, I'm dressed, grabbing my keys, and already moving towards the door. As I drive, my thoughts are a mess.

She's fine. She has to be.

I get to the safe house in time, my heart is hammering harder than it should be. She's probably inside, asleep, or ignoring me because she's pissed I forgot.

But when I knock, there's no response. I wait a few seconds, then knock again, harder this time.

Still nothing. Something feels off.

"Lana?" I call out.

Nothing.

I pound on the door now. BAM. BAM. BAM. "Lana! Open the damn door!"

Still nothing.

My hand moves to my belt instinctively, but my gun isn't there. I didn't carry it with me. I didn't think there would be a need.

I pull out my phone and call her. The sound of her ringtone echoes from inside the house. She's here. She's inside.

Then why the fuck isn't she answering?

I begin to panic. My mind flashes to the worst possibilities. Has someone gotten to her? Has Borrelli or Inzaghi caught up to her?

No. Don't think like that.

I take a step back, breathing heavily, trying to think. Then I do the only thing I can; I call Alma. It rings three times before she picks up.

"Charles?" Her voice is groggy, like she just woke up.

"Alma, have you seen or heard from Lana?" I say urgently.

"What? No." There's confusion in her tone, then a pause. "Why? What's wrong?"

My fingers run through my hair. "She's not answering. Her phone's inside, but she's not opening the damn door."

"Shit."

"Yeah." I grip his phone harder.

"You think something happened to her?"

"I don't know. But I'm not waiting to find out."

"Fuck. Okay, I'm coming. Where are you?"

"My condo. Meet me there in twenty minutes."

Then she hangs up without another word. I lower my phone and stare at Lana's door for a long moment. Something's wrong. And I have to find out.