Chapter 39: The Waters Run Too Deep to Fathom

“You’re safe now, Ms. Sabina.”

Inside the villa, at the very instant Fraser collapsed onto the floor, Sabina, clad in a sheer lace dress, went limp and fell straight into Roan’s arms.

Roan instinctively caught her, noticing her hands were still bound behind her back. He hurriedly drew another pen from his pocket and snapped the restraints, his expression grave as he bent down to ask, “Ms. Sabina, are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, not a scratch,” Sabina replied, shaking her head. She looked up at Roan, her eyes slightly unfocused, and as soon as her hands were free, she reached up to touch his cheek, asking in a dreamy tone, “What about you, Agent? Are you hurt?”

Roan’s face stiffened for a moment.

But then he recalled the men and women who had served Sabina at the club, and it dawned on him—this was simply her style. Not a single unattractive person had ever attended to her, not even Craig, the young Black man, who, among his peers, was unusually handsome by white standards.

Given how Sabina had stared at Roan the moment he entered, even making the murderer Fraser jealous, her touching Roan’s face was, if anything, a sign of restraint.

“FBI!”

Roan had just removed Sabina’s hand from his face when Lacey, wielding her Glock 19, rushed up the stairs and into the bedroom. She shouted her badge only to find the suspect sprawled on the ground, back to her, with Roan crouched nearby, cradling Sabina.

“Whew—”

Seeing Roan was unharmed, Lacey holstered her gun with a deep sigh of relief, then smacked Roan hard on the shoulder, swearing, “Fuck you, Roan Greenwood! Are you insane? Going up against an armed suspect with nothing but a bulletproof vest? Are you trying to get killed? A vest can protect your body, but not your head!”

“I’m fine, aren’t I?”

Roan stood, still holding Sabina, and headed out of the bedroom, laughing, “Trust me, I value my life.”

“Bullshit! You think I believe that?”

Lacey flipped him off as he walked away, but then she gave Roan a scrutinizing look and frowned, “Roan, where did you hide your gun? I didn’t see it on you.”

“Hide my gun?”

Roan looked back at her, bewildered, unsure what she meant—or perhaps suspecting she meant what he thought she did.

Sabina, in his arms, quickly caught on, her cheeks flushing as she replied, “Agent Roan didn’t use a gun. He killed the man who took me hostage with nothing but a pen.”

“What the—?”

Lacey sucked in a sharp breath. She’d been too busy climbing the wall to see what happened inside. At Sabina’s words, she turned and rolled over the corpse. Only then did she see the half-buried tip of a pen lodged squarely in the center of the man’s forehead.

A heavy silence fell over the room. After a long pause, Lacey finally managed a strangled, “Holy shit!”

“Hello, Agent!”

Roan was just stepping out of the villa with Sabina when a female reporter with wine-red hair hurried over, thrusting a microphone toward him, eyes sparkling with excitement. “What’s your name? How did you manage to kill the suspect with just a pen? Is that a new technique taught to FBI agents? And do you have a girlfriend?”

Roan: “...”

Glancing down, Roan saw Sabina’s face alight with interest. He took a deep breath, forced a polite smile for the camera, and then turned to the reporter, replying, “I’m sorry, Miss, I have work to do and can’t answer your questions. If you have any, please attend our supervisor’s press conference later—she’ll answer everything. Thank you.”

With that, Roan led Sabina away toward where Darrin was waiting, ignoring any further questions from the reporter.

Watching Roan’s retreating form, the cameraman muttered in annoyance, “What an arrogant man.”

“No, that’s not arrogance!”

Lynette, the reporter, cut him off, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on Roan’s handsome back. “He’s not spouting nonsense in front of the press—that’s the mark of a man with real emotional intelligence.”

The cameraman: “...”

Aren’t you a journalist? Is that really what you should be saying?

“Oh my God!”

As Roan and Sabina approached, Darrin, who had been waiting anxiously, rushed over, wrapping Sabina in a tight embrace, his face flushed and eyes brimming with tears. “Sabina, darling, are you alright? Did he hurt you? Damn it, if only I hadn’t been away on business yesterday! It’s all my fault—I’m so sorry...”

Seeing her husband clinging to her, Sabina’s own eyes reddened, and she threw her arms around his neck. “I’m alright, Darrin, really. I wasn’t hurt. I’m sorry to have worried you...”

Watching Sabina burst into tears on cue, Roan’s face remained impassive—women really were born actresses, he thought.

He turned to leave, planning to give the couple some space, when Sabina suddenly reached out and hooked him back.

“?”

Roan turned in confusion, only to see Sabina—still clutching Darrin’s neck, tears streaming down her face—flash him a ‘call me’ gesture, silently mouthing the words, “Call me.”

Roan spun on his heel and left without another word.

This woman was out of his league. He was too young to get involved in such dangerous waters—he feared he’d drown.

—

At the reception, watching Roan’s composed face on television as he fielded reporters’ questions with a polite referral to his supervisor, Bronson’s face alternated between red and white, his knuckles turning white around his glass.

Matthews, standing nearby, looked utterly lost, his own glass trembling in his hand.

“Bronson.”

A stern-faced, bald, elderly white man in a suit—Senator Mattei—watched the broadcast with narrowed eyes, took a sip of his drink, and came over. Unconcerned by Bronson’s expression, he asked bluntly, “What’s this agent’s name? Do you have his contact information?”

“He’s Roan Greenwood. Yes, I have it,” Bronson replied, grinding his teeth, barely managing to keep his voice steady in front of Senator Mattei, though he was seething inside. “I’ll have his file and contact details delivered to your assistant tomorrow.”

“Good.”

Senator Mattei nodded in satisfaction, drained his glass, then thrust the empty vessel into Matthews’ hands before leaving the reception with his entourage, never glancing back.

Matthews stared down at the glass, his mouth dry, and watched the senator depart. After a long silence, he approached Bronson and asked quietly, “Sir, I—”

He had barely begun when Bronson turned on him, his gaze like that of a predator, “Get out!”

“...Yes, sir.”