Agent 7. The Shadows: Part I

▪️◼️Chapter Thirty Five◼️▪️

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MATTEO
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I watch as Alina obediently walks away toward the ticket counter and realize that she's still dressed in nothing but a baggy camicia, skimpy cotton shorts, and white socks—dirtied on their bottoms.

I scowl in her direction, plagued with an array of unwanted emotions.

Concern, irritation, desire.

Each one crashes into me like a car smashing into a brick wall. It's surprising and painful and unwanted, all at once.

Having feelings for another human being has always been an arbitrary concept that I've never understood.

Long before I could talk, it was ingrained in me not to feel. Not for myself, and especially not to feel for others. Growing up in The Agency, apathy was taught like an art form. Either you possess the skill naturally or you must be trained to hone the craft.

I have always believed I was naturally gifted in the art of not giving a fuck.

That is, until I met Alina.

She's different.

And knowing that all of these people are seeing her vulnerable and bare has a growl forming in the back of my throat. A guttural sound that is undoubtedly fueled by the jealousy erupting within the deep confines of my chest.

My eyelids close thinking of last night and how her nipples teased me through the thin white material of my camicia she was wearing—the camicia she's still wearing. My eyes pull open and narrow on her retreating body. The memory of the soft skin of her breasts beneath the rough press of my fingers has me wanting to kill any man who lays an eye on her in this moment.

Dio mio, she makes me feel everything and I fucking despise it.

I shake my head ridding myself of such volatile thoughts. Alina is distracting and distractions will get us both killed.

Keeping pressure on my bicep with my good hand, I dig into my pants pocket with the hand of my injured arm and retrieve my burner phone. My fingers, now stained with my own blood, have a slight shake as I punch in the only phone number I know.

"Marco." He snaps.

"It's me." I pinch out. I've been shot once before, years ago, but it was a mere graze of my leg. This time is worse. Much worse. I can feel the bullet lodged in the meaty muscle of my bicep every time I move even the slightest bit and I'm still bleeding a concerning amount.

As soon as we get on that train I will need to remove the bullet and Alina will have to assist me.

"Mr. Seven, it's been a long time." He breathes into the receiver, sounding surprised to hear my voice. To him, my silence over the past couple of years has either meant that I'm alive and off the grid or dead, but there has been no way for him to know for certain.

"I have a job." I tell him, cutting to the chase.

My eyes flick to Alina to see that she has made it to the front of the ticket counter line.

"Of course, sir." He answers immediately.

"I need you to wipe interior and exterior security camera footage for the past thirty minutes and for the next hour at Okruzhnaya Station." I request knowing that I can trust Marco to come through.