CHAPTER : 1

"Oh shit, this is so dangerous..." I murmured to myself as I tried to steady myself on top of the moving van.

Yup. Its definitely not a good idea to jump off a bridge and onto a moving vehicle. They never told you this in the movies, but landing on something moving and metallic really sent a painful jolt up your legs, no matter how graceful you landed. It just bloody hurt.

But of course landing was the easy part- it was staying on the rapidly turning and shifting van that was the real struggle.

Just as I was finally getting a good grip, the psycho-driver made a sharp turn to try and shake me off. It almost worked as I lost my grip and rolled across the top, doubling over the edge and taking a clear path towards the concrete. In the last minute I managed to grip on to the side of the van before I was thrown off completely. But I was barely hanging on.

"Sonofabitch!" I seethed, holding on for goddamn dear life. Once I got my hand on this guy, it was clobbering time.

Trying to avoid getting thrown off for the last time, I found footage on the side of the van and managed to hook myself on like freaking Spidey. Then carefully, I started working my way sideways towards the driver's seat to face the crazy driver.

His ugly mug appeared in the side mirror and grimaced at me, before he picked up a Glock 21 and stuck it out the window. The gun started firing, aiming at me.

Shouting profanities, I narrowly avoid getting my head popped open like a jackalantern on November 1st. I set off with my foot and manage to kick the gun out of his hand. It flew away and crashed against a windshield of another moving car behind us. I heard the screech of a car stopping.

Not giving myself time to look back, I edged my way all the way up to the door and met Mr Ghost-Rider face to face. Sneering at me, while still keeping one hand on the wheel, he tried to punch me in the face. I grabbed his hand and twisted it backwards while still managing to cling onto the car, if you can imagine the struggle of that.

Trying to avoid getting thrown off for the last time, I found footage on the side of the van and managed to hook myself on like freaking Spidey. Then carefully, I started working my way sideways towards the driver's seat to face the crazy driver.

His ugly mug appeared in the side mirror and grimaced at me, before he picked up a Glock 21 and stuck it out the window. The gun started firing, aiming at me.

Shouting profanities, I narrowly avoid getting my head popped open like a jackalantern on November 1st. I set off with my foot and manage to kick the gun out of his hand. It flew away and crashed against a windshield of another moving car behind us. I heard the screech of a car stopping.

Not giving myself time to look back, I edged my way all the way up to the door and met Mr Ghost-Rider face to face. Sneering at me, while still keeping one hand on the wheel, he tried to punch me in the face. I grabbed his hand and twisted it backwards while still managing to cling onto the car, if you can imagine the struggle of that.

"Pull over, you goddamn shithead!" I snarled at him, twisting his hand back even further. He cried in pain and made a violent turn on the wheel.

"Cagna!"

I didn't speak Italian, but I didn't need a dictionary to understand a curse.

"And cognac to you too, asshole," I growled. I ended this stupid ****'s attempt of fleeing the law by giving him sharp elbow straight to his face. The douche jerked backwards in his seat, only to bounce forward when he accidentally hit the brakes. His forehead slammed again the stirring wheel and conked him out.

The van then came to an abrupt stop and steered sideways when the wheel automatically turned. I grabbed on to the side of the door with a curse and waited as the van doubled over on its side and skated across the road. Cars crashed behind us and in front of us as we rammed into the curb of the highway. The van then finally came to a complete stop and left a trail of damage behind us.

I groaned painfully. That did not go as planned.

Cursing a little, I began to dismount the van and jumped onto the road. The van was lying on its right side, looking as beat as I felt. I could hear sirens behind me, finally catching up with us.

"Wilkens!" I heard my mission supervisor call. I saw him coming out and between the crashed cars in his suit, an army squad following behind him. "Wilkens, you OK?"

Sending him a flat stare, I worked my shoulder around which had taken most of the blow from getting whirled off the van. "Oh yeah, I'm great. I mean, I just wrecked the congested LIE and caught you your Italian spy, blew my back out in the process while you and your trained dogs took your sweet time getting here, but I'm wonderful."

Monroe, as his name was, came up to me, securing his gun back in his belt. "You know they say sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"Yeah? They also said that men are better soldiers, yet somehow I'm the one who just stopped a spy and you're the one in the perfectly unharmed $5000 suit."

"Do I have to remind you who's the agent in command here?" Monroe retorted, crossing his arms. "Your women skills only got you to secret agent, not supervising agent. What does that say about femininity?"

I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth. I couldn't believe the bureau still hired arrogant imbeciles like him. He belonged in the 1850's where men still thought they had a claim on women and had the legal right to put them in their place - but I didn't take that kind of shit from anybody. Especially from men like him.

"It tells me you're intimidated by a strong woman and that you might have compensatory issues," I shot back and walked past him while the CIA team took care of the whole 'van-situation'. Curious civilians were getting out of their cars and were whipping out their phones to snap pictures or maybe even to record a video of the scene. There was going to be some major paperwork later, I could tell.

"Watch your goddamn mouth, Rya," Monroe growled, catching my arm and squeezed it until he cut my blood supply off. "I'm not above hitting a woman."

I ripped my arm out of his in wild rage. Instead of walking off like I should, I whipped around and fired a fist right in his goddamn eye. "And I'm not above punching my goddamn supervisor. Cya, asshole."

Monroe yelled behind me, clutching his face. "Goddamn it, you bitch! I'm taking this up with Howard!"

I just flipped him off over my back. I wasn't scared of Howard, the big boss upstairs. I wasn't on his goodie-list, but he secretly loved me and my skills. I had nothing to worry about.

So walking off to the first CIA van, I jumped inside, groaning as I leaned back into the seat. My shoulder was seriously bruised. I closed my eyes as the driver looked into his rearview mirror, giving me a glance. "Home?"

Opening my eyes an inch, I looked at him and nodded. "Home."

Stepping through the front door to my apartment, I discarded my jacket and duffle bag by the door. I kicked off my shoes and walked into my living room. "Hi Bob, I'm home!"

My only companion and male friend I could trust in my life was waiting for me in the living room - swimming around in his fishbowl. Bob, my goldfish, looked as gold and happy as I'd left him this morning.

"Did you miss me?" I conversed as I walked into my open kitchen, stripping out of my shirt and pants, holding on to the gun I had stuffed into the back of jeans. It was my coming home ritual; Getting out of my smothered work clothes and getting into a hot bubble bath. "I missed you, too. How was your day? Mine sucked."

Like always, I could expect Bob to reply with silence. It was nice. I had never met anyone like him who listened so great. Yup. Bob was the only man in my life.

"What's for dinner today, hm?" I pondered, opening my freezer to look for a microwave meal, shivering when the cold hit my exposed body. "Looks like lasagna again. Sounds good?" I glanced over to see Bob swim into his little sea castle. "Yeah, I know, we had that yesterday, but I'm too tired to go shop. Mama had a long day today and needs a hot bath."

"Would mama like some help with that?"

Whipping around, simultaneously grabbing my gun I had momentarily left on my kitchen counter, I aimed it towards the sound of the deep male voice coming from my living room.

Stepping out of my bathroom, into the middle of my tiny living room, he looked enormous. At six-foot-at-least-five and wearing a navy-blue suit that clung around his masculine body like a second skin, he could have been a hired assassin. The slight Italian accent told me I could be very right. His dark hair was short, but still just long enough to run your fingers through. His angular jaw was defined by unshaven stubbles, stubbles that - if he hadn't been here to kill me - might have made me think he was sexy as hell. His high cheekbones, dark lashes and brooding chocolate eyes topped off his sex-appeal. The little smirk on his lips did it, too.

"Who the hell are you?" I growled, arming the gun.

His smirk grew bigger as he lifted his palms in the air, indicating surrender, the same time his eyes did a slow take down my nearly ***** body. "I'm someone who's here to intercept on behalf of the Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna of Italy, or AISE. I came to you, because you were the one who stopped our spy today. Am I correct?"

His deep voice and that accent should be illegal on the grounds of ****-me. I was a goddamn professional, but that struck me places it seriously shouldn't.

Moving uncomfortably in my spot, feeling exposed under his heated gaze, I gripped my gun tighter. "You didn't answer my question properly. Who are you? I want a name."

Chuckling deep and sexily, the Italian giant walked closer, seeming unconcerned with the gun pointing at him. He walked into my kitchen while openly taking in my body to the fullest. "My name is unimportant for now. I came here with one purpose, and one purpose only; to talk."

"Talk?" I scoffed. "Talk is something you do over the phone. A house visit means you're up to trouble, and I'm not buying your whole cool façade." I moved a little uncomfortably again when he came too close, invading my personal space. "How did you get in here anyway?"

"Maybe Bob let me in."

I jabbed the gun under his jaw to indicate I was not amused.

His smirk only grew more devilishly handsome. "I climbed the drainpipe and jammed your window open. Satisfied?"

"With you breaking into my apartment?

I'm thrilled. That means I have the right to kill you, even without my license."

"But that would be too traumatizing for Bob, wouldn't it?" He curled his hand around the barrel of my gun, dragging it away from his throat. After a moment, I let him. Probably a bad idea.

"You're making fun of me," I said. "I don't like it."

He smirked, leaning in over me. "I am only teasing you, Rya."

"That's Agent Wilkins to you," I quipped, keeping my voice firm. "I still need your name or I'll start calling you Spaghetti."

He raised a brow. "Spaghetti?"

In hindsight I probably could've come up with something better, but I was exhausted and the ache in my shoulder was becoming worse. I was beginning to think I pulled a muscle. "Yes, Spaghetti. So unless you want me to start eating you, give me your name. Then we can talk."

"How about..." He fingers brushed up against my side, dangerously close to my *****, causing all my defense mechanisms to trigger. "... we talk right now, and if you behave, I won't eat you."

I swallowed hard. Not because I was scared or because his giant frame gave me the least bit of anxiety. No, it was because of the way the words rolled off his tongue so casually, so gracefully, so lethally. His plump lips curved upwards in a little smirk when he noticed my small nervous-adjacent gesture. My face instantly grew hard.

"I'm not one to push around," I said and brought the gun back to his neck. "We do it my way or no way. Bob or not, I'll kill you if you pose a threat to me. Got it, Spaghetti?"

A moment passed where we simply looked at each other. Italiano there just glared down at me like he couldn't decide if I was shitting him or being dead serious. To further prove my point, I pressed the gun right up under his jaw again, enhancing his prominent jawline.

And then in a flash, Italiano moved, gripping my wrist and whirling me around. I never even saw him move, but I cursed loudly when he twisted my arm around and then locked it up against bad shoulder, testing my bone's flexibility. He then pried the gun from my hand and shoved me up against my sink, face forward, and then pressed himself up against my back. I felt my gun get jabbed into the side of my head, the muzzle touching my temple. I groaned in pain and hissed when he tightened the twist on my arm. Ah, dammit.

"Now, bella mia," His lips were right by my ear, his voice calm and husky. "I'm not going to hurt you - not if you keep quiet and listen to me. I came here to say something, so I'm going to say it."

I curled my lip back and jerking a little in his grip. "Let me go or I'll kick your Italian *** back to Napoli."

The sexiest chuckle seeped into my ear. "Selvaggia. Mhmm." He pressed his nose into my hair and drew an impossible reaction from my body; I shivered. His warm breath tickled my ear as he leaned closer and spoke; "Now, listen, dolcezza; I am here to tell you that there will be another break-in to your headquarters in two days. This time you won't catch the agent, and this time we will get what we have to make your peace with it."

"What makes you think I won't catch this agent, too?" I asked, trying to distance myself from the misplaced things that was happening in my body. I thought I felt something hard press against the lower part of my back, and it really wasn't a gun.

"Because this time we are putting our best agent on the job," He replied, lowering his voice to a whisper. "And trust me when I say you won't catch him."

"You realize I could put you in jail for threatening to steal from the CIA, right?" I said, gritting my teeth when he twisted my arm a little. If he wanted me to whimper, he could forget about it. "I know they say that orange is the new black, but I don't think boo-boo." you could pull off orange,

"Mia cara, you have no idea what I can do," He huskily whispered. I shuddered when I felt him nibble at my ear. "Not just to your precious CIA."

Goosebumps spread across my body. Good God, what the hell was wrong with me? I needed to grow a lady-pair.

Jerking my head away from him, I ignored the gun poking my temple and took a deep breath. "You're going down, Spaghetti. All of you. Go ahead and send your best agent. I'll be waiting for him."

"I was so hoping you would say that," He chuckled, sounding pleased. And then without further ado, he whipped me around, forced my chin his lips against mine. up and mashed

Pressing me up against the sink, I squealed in shock. His lips were dominant, passionate, almost violent against mine. Trying to fight him, I leaned even more backwards, but he just followed. He had my wrists locked in his hands and a leg pressed between my thighs. With not much room to move and no space in my head to think, all I did was stay there and try my best not to moan.

Because goddamn. Spaghetti could kiss like Mozart could compose; It was a freaking symphony. His tongue swept across my lips, pushing for entrance, but my pride denied him access. He might have me pinned tight against my sink with Bob watching us from my living room, but he couldn't take my willpower - even if he was doing one hell of a job of - trying.

Finally, after kissing me only partially against my will for another moment, he drew back, a sexy smile on his damned perfect lips. "We'll meet again, dolcezza."

Seething at him, I glared lethally into his eyes. "You have five seconds to let me go, before I fucking cut off your **** and feed it to Bob."

"In that case, it will be quite a mouthful for the poor guy."

"Three seconds."

He smirked. "Ciao."

And then, just because this day hadn't been bad enough, he flipped my gun over and knocked me over the head with it. Groaning and losing my balance, I doubled over on the floor and saw my sight dotting over with black spots. I thought I heard Italiano chuckle before he strode out of my apartment, disappearing out the door.

- And that was about as bad as Mondays could get.

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