Leona Hart had been expecting this meeting.
The only question had been when.
She had been too close for too long.
When you spent your career investigating financial anomalies, shadow corporations, and men who had no past but infinite wealth, it was only a matter of time before someone in a suit and a bad mood wanted a word.
So when she had received a cryptic “Let’s talk” message from an unknown number, she had done two things:
- Ordered a black coffee.
- Brought a recording device disguised as a pen.
Because if she was about to get disappeared, she wanted evidence of it.
The coffee shop was casually busy.
People milled around, sipping overpriced espresso and pretending their conversations were more important than they were.
But Leona’s table?
It was empty.
Except for the two men who sat across from her.
They had entered separately. No words exchanged. No eye contact.
Classic tradecraft.
The first man—early forties, crisp suit, CIA written all over him—set down a folded newspaper like this was a 1960s spy novel. His name was Agent Moore, though Leona doubted that was what his mother called him.
The second—younger, sharper, dressed like a businessman but had ‘government’ in his posture—took a slow sip of his coffee. This one had danger in his eyes.
Leona sipped her own coffee.
Then she smiled.
“Gentlemen,” she said. “Let me guess—you’re here about my article.”
Agent Moore did not smile.
“We’re here,” he said, “because you’re poking around places you shouldn’t.”
The second agent—the one with knife-sharp eyes—tilted his head.
“You’ve been investigating Darian and Arias.”
Leona didn’t blink.
But inside, her mind raced.
Not ‘the brothers.’ Not ‘your subjects.’
Darian and Arias. First names.
That meant the CIA knew exactly who they were.
Which meant…
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She was right about everything.
Leona set her coffee down, folding her hands neatly.
“That’s interesting,” she said. “Because last time I checked, two eccentric billionaires aren’t a national security threat.”
Agent Moore’s expression did not change.
The younger agent—let’s call him Agent Knives, given his whole ‘I might kill you or I might buy you a drink’ vibe—leaned forward.
“You’re very good, Miss Hart,” he said. “You dig deep. You see patterns other people miss.”
Leona smirked. “Thank you.”
Agent Knives continued, voice smooth.
“So tell me—what do you think they are?”
Leona felt the trap instantly.
That was a test.
If she said the wrong thing, they’d know exactly how much she had figured out.
She took a slow breath.
And then she lied.
“I think they’re old money,” she said casually. “Extremely old money. The kind that hides its age with offshore accounts and expensive lawyers.”
Moore’s eyebrow twitched.
Leona caught it.
She had touched a nerve.
Not because she was wrong—but because she was too close.
Moore set his coffee down.
“Miss Hart,” he said, his voice lower now. “I think you misunderstand our presence here.”
“Oh?” she said, tilting her head.
“We’re not here to threaten you.”
Agent Knives smirked slightly. “We’re here to advise you.”
Leona took another sip of coffee.
“Advise me,” she echoed.
Moore leaned forward. “You’ve been publishing a lot of interesting theories. You’re pushing buttons, drawing attention.”
Leona nodded. “That’s my job.”
Agent Knives studied her for a long moment.
Then he said something that set off every alarm in her brain.
“You’re not the first journalist to look into them,” he murmured.
Leona’s stomach dropped.
She kept her face neutral. “Oh?”
Moore’s voice remained calm.
“But you might be the first to survive it.”
Leona’s pulse spiked.
Not because she was afraid.
But because that meant—
Someone else had looked into Darian and Arias.
And they were gone.
Leona leaned back in her chair.
Then, very deliberately, she reached into her bag.
Both agents stiffened.
Leona smiled.
She pulled out a file folder and slid it across the table.
Moore hesitated. Then picked it up.
Inside were photographs, bank records, and a timeline.
A timeline of people who had asked the wrong questions.
Leona tapped the folder.
“You think I don’t do my homework?” she said. “I know about the others. The reporters, the whistleblowers, the ‘unexplained disappearances.’”
Agent Knives narrowed his eyes. “Then you know what’s at stake.”
Leona smiled brightly.
“Oh, I do. And I also know something you don’t.”
Moore’s expression darkened. “And what’s that?”
Leona leaned in.
“They know I’m here.”
The silence stretched.
Agent Knives’s fingers twitched.
Moore’s jaw tightened.
Leona took a slow sip of coffee.
“You’re worried I know too much,” she said softly. “But you should be worried about them.”
She let the words settle.
Then, just for fun, she added:
“They don’t like people messing with me.”
Moore set the folder down.
Agent Knives studied her for another moment—then stood.
Moore followed.
No more words.
Just the message left hanging.
They knew she was dangerous.
She knew they were hiding something.
And now, the game was officially on.
The agents left.
Leona watched them go.
Then she casually picked up her phone.
Sent one text.
Leona: Your fan club stopped by.
Two minutes later, she got a response.
Arias: Was he tall, brooding, and in desperate need of a personality?
Leona: Which one?
Darian: Are you safe?
Leona smiled to herself.
Leona: For now. But you boys better take me out to dinner. This story is getting expensive.
Arias responded first.
Arias: Fine, but I’m ordering the wine.
Darian’s reply came next.
Darian: Stay out of trouble, Hart.
Leona chuckled.
Oh, she was just getting started.