Chapter 6: The Art of Deception
The transformation began at dawn. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, studying my reflection while Dante explained the delicate art of simulating torture.
"It has to be believable but not permanent," he said, his voice clinical and detached. "Vincent will expect to see fear, exhaustion, maybe some physical evidence of interrogation. But nothing that would prevent you from functioning."
His professionalism should have been reassuring. Instead, it reminded me exactly how experienced he was at violence.
"What kind of physical evidence?"
Dante met my eyes in the mirror, and I saw reluctance there. "Bruises. Maybe some rope burns on your wrists. Dark circles under your eyes from sleep deprivation."
"And how do we create convincing bruises without actually hurting me?"
"Makeup. Theater techniques." He pulled out a small case I hadn't noticed before. "I've done this before, Elena. When Vincent needed someone to appear injured for legal or medical reasons."
Of course he had. Dante Russo, master manipulator, skilled in every aspect of deception required by organized crime. The thought should have terrified me. Instead, I found myself fascinated by the careful way he opened the makeup case, selecting colors and brushes with an artist's precision.
"This might be uncomfortable," he warned, approaching with a small brush loaded with dark purple pigment.
"More uncomfortable than being murdered by Vincent's men?"
His smile was grim. "Good point."
The first touch of the brush against my cheekbone made me flinch. Not from pain, but from the unexpected gentleness of his touch. I'd expected clinical efficiency. Instead, Dante worked with careful attention, his fingers barely grazing my skin as he created the illusion of violence.
"Hold still," he murmured, concentrating on the area around my left eye.
I tried to focus on anything except the warmth of his breath against my face, the way his dark eyes narrowed in concentration, the unconscious way his tongue touched his lower lip when he was working. This was professional necessity, nothing more.
But when his thumb brushed across my cheek to blend the fake bruising, electricity shot straight through me.
"Sorry," he said softly, though his hand didn't move away immediately.
"It's fine." My voice came out rougher than intended.
We were standing too close, his body heat radiating against mine in the small bathroom. I could see the pulse point at his throat, could smell his cologne mixed with something uniquely masculine. When he leaned closer to work on the bruising around my wrists, I had to close my eyes to maintain any semblance of professional distance.
"Elena." His voice was barely above a whisper.
I opened my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that made my knees weak. The makeup brush had stilled against my skin, his thumb tracing gentle circles over the fake rope burn on my wrist.
"This is insane," I breathed.
"Completely insane." But he didn't step away.
The space between us seemed to crackle with tension. I could see the exact moment when his control wavered, when the professional mask slipped to reveal something raw and desperate underneath.
"Dante—"
Whatever I'd been about to say was lost when his phone rang downstairs. The sound shattered the moment like breaking glass, and we stepped apart so quickly I nearly stumbled.
"Vincent," Dante said unnecessarily, his voice rough with frustrated desire.
"You should answer it."
He nodded but didn't move immediately. "Elena, about what just—"
"We have work to do." I turned back to the mirror, studying the bruises he'd created. They were disturbingly realistic, transforming my face into that of a woman who'd been through hell. "How do I look?"
Dante's reflection appeared behind mine in the mirror. "Like a federal agent who's been thoroughly interrogated by Vincent Castello's best enforcer."
The phone continued ringing downstairs.
"Go," I said. "I'll finish up here."
He hesitated for another moment, then left to answer Vincent's call. I spent the time studying my reflection, practicing the defeated posture and haunted expression of a broken woman. It was easier than I'd expected to access that performance. All I had to do was imagine what would happen if our deception failed.
When Dante returned twenty minutes later, his expression was grim.
"Vincent wants to see you tonight," he said. "At the warehouse."
My stomach dropped. "That's fast."
"He's suspicious. About the timing, about how easily you escaped his men, about why I happened to find you so quickly." Dante ran a hand through his hair. "We need to be perfect, Elena. One mistake, and we're both dead."
I nodded, though fear was making it hard to think clearly. "What's our story?"
"I tracked you to a safe house in Montana. You tried to run, I caught you, brought you back for questioning." His voice was steady, professional. "You've been interrogated for the past eighteen hours. You're scared, exhausted, but not completely broken. Vincent will want to believe he can still get information out of you."
"What kind of information?"
"Details about the FBI investigation. Names of other agents. How much the Bureau knows about Vincent's operations." Dante's eyes met mine. "You'll give him some truth mixed with carefully crafted lies. Enough to seem cooperative without actually compromising your colleagues."
The complexity of the deception was staggering. One wrong answer, one inconsistency, and Vincent would know we were playing him.
"What if I can't pull it off? What if he sees through the act?"
Dante crossed the room and took my hands in his. The gesture was meant to be reassuring, but the warmth of his touch only heightened my awareness of how far we were venturing into dangerous territory.
"You can do this," he said firmly. "You've been undercover for eighteen months, fooling everyone in Vincent's organization. This is just another performance."
"No, it's not." I pulled my hands free, though I immediately missed his warmth. "This time, if I mess up, it's not just my cover that's blown. It's both our lives."
"Elena." His voice carried absolute certainty. "I won't let anything happen to you. No matter what Vincent does, no matter how convincing we have to make this look, I will not let him hurt you."
The promise sent heat through my chest, but it also terrified me. Because Dante's protection meant he'd have to watch Vincent interrogate me, maybe even participate to maintain his cover. The thought of him having to pretend to harm me, to stand by while Vincent threatened me, made my stomach clench with dread.
"What if Vincent wants to... personally question me?"
Dante's jaw tightened. "Then I'll be right there with you. Vincent trusts me completely when it comes to interrogation. He'll expect me to take the lead."
"And if he wants you to prove your loyalty by hurting me?"
The question hung between us like a sword. I watched Dante's face carefully, looking for any sign that he might actually be capable of violence against me.
Instead, I saw something that made my breath catch. Raw, protective fury, barely contained beneath his professional exterior.
"That won't happen," he said quietly. "I promise you, Elena. Whatever else occurs tonight, I will not hurt you."
I wanted to believe him. More than that, I realized with disturbing clarity that I did believe him. Somewhere in the past forty-eight hours, I'd started trusting this dangerous man with my life.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it felt like coming home.
"Okay," I said. "Tell me everything I need to know about Vincent Castello."