HONEY AND KNIVES

The interrogation

The warehouse smelled like rust and salt water.

Docks. Off-grid. Exactly what the FBI told me not to do.

The black SUV stopped. The doors opened.

Two of Dante’s men got out first. Then Dante. He didn’t get help. He walked, one hand pressed to his shoulder, the other gesturing for me to follow.

“Move,” the driver said. Not cruel. Just done.

_“Doll, we’ve lost visual. Last ping was 2 minutes ago. Do not transmit.”_

Handler was whispering now. Like that would help.

I stepped out. Heels on concrete. The wind off the water cut through my red dress.

Dante didn’t look at me. He just walked ahead, into the warehouse.

The inside was big. Empty. One light hanging from the ceiling. One metal chair. One table.

No windows.

It was a room designed for one thing.

Dante sat down on the edge of the table. Not in the chair. Like he was trying to prove the shoulder didn’t matter. It did. His shirt was almost black now.

“Close the door,” he told his men.

They did. And stayed outside.

Now it was just us.

#### *Rule 1: Let them talk first.*

Dante studied me. Blood on his hands. Blood on his cuff.

“You were at the gala,” he said. “You were at the shooting. You were in my car. And there was a voice under my seat that wasn’t the radio.”

He wasn’t yelling. That was worse.

I hugged myself. Made myself small. Honey.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. My voice shook. Real this time. Because fear is easy when you’re cornered.

“Then explain the voice.”

I blinked. “Maybe it was someone’s phone? A walkie? I was scared, Dante. People were dying.”

He hummed. “Dante. You’re calling me Dante now.”

“Is that wrong?”

He stood. Slow. Pain made his jaw tight. He walked a circle around me. Cataloging. The same way he did at the gala.

“You don’t scream,” he said. “You don’t panic. You took a knife from a man’s body and didn’t flinch. And your assistant called you during an active shooter situation?”

_“Doll, we’re trying to get a location. Stay alive.”_

I swallowed. “I do panic. I’m panicking now.”

Dante stopped in front of me. Close. I could see the sweat on his forehead. The way he was favoring his left side.

“Who sent you?”

“No one.”

“FBI?”

I laughed. Too loud. Too fake. “I’m a model. I sell skincare.”

He reached out and took my clutch from where he’d set it on the table. Opened it.

Lipstick. Phone. Mints. No taser. I’d palmed it into my sleeve before we got out of the car.

He frowned. “That’s it?”

“Check my pockets if you want,” I said. Daring him. “You won’t find anything.”

He believed me. Or he wanted to.

He set the clutch down and sat back on the table. The movement cost him.

“You’re lying,” he said. Simple.

“So are you,” I shot back. “You’re not fine. You need a doctor.”

For a second something like amusement crossed his face.

“You’re worried about me?”

“I’m worried about bleeding out in a warehouse with you,” I said. “That’s different.”

#### *Rule 2: Give them a truth to hold.*

Dante’s phone buzzed again. He ignored it.

“Someone tried to kill me tonight,” he said. “Not the first time. But tonight they were good. Military. And then you show up. Zara Cole. 2.3 million followers. Face on every billboard.”

“And?”

“And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

I took a step forward. Then another. Until I was standing right in front of him.

“Good,” I said. “Because I don’t either. Someone tried to kill you. And someone tried to kill me. I was in the wrong place. Just like you.”

It was a gamble.

I watched his eyes. Looking for the c***k.

He grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Just enough.

“You moved like training,” he said quietly.

“You watch a lot of action movies,” I said.

He stared. Then he let go.

“Sit,” he said, nodding to the chair.

I did. My back to the door. Bad position. But I needed him to think I was compliant.

Dante paced. Each step slower than the last.

“You know what I think?” he said. “I think you’re not FBI. FBI would have kicked this door down by now.”

“Then what am I?”

“I think you’re someone’s problem. And I think you don’t know whose.”

He was close. Too close.

My sleeve itched. The lipstick-taser was there. One move and I could have him on the ground. But then what? His men were outside. The FBI didn’t know where I was. And the bug under his car seat was still transmitting.

_“...package moves at midnight. Don’t tell Moretti. He’ll go off the rails...”_

The voice came through again. Faint. From under the table. From the bug I’d kicked there when I sat.

Dante froze.

He heard it too.

He crouched in front of me, fast, and reached under the table.

His hand came up with it. Small. Black.

A listening device.

His face went completely blank. The most dangerous look he had.

“Explain,” he said.

#### *Rule 3: When you’re caught, change the game.*

I looked at the bug. Then at him. Then I did the only thing I could.

I told the truth. Half of it.

“It’s not mine,” I said. “I found it. In the car. Under the seat. I thought... I thought maybe it was yours. To track me.”

Lie.

But plausible.

Dante turned the bug over in his hand.

“This is encrypted. Government grade.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “I take selfies.”

He stood. Walked to the door. Opened it.

“Marco. Sweep the car. Now.”

One of the men nodded and ran off.

Dante came back in and closed the door. He was pale now. Losing blood.

“You have 10 seconds,” he said. “Who are you really working for?”

The sirens started then. Far away. Getting closer.

_“Doll, we’ve got you. 60 seconds. Hold.”_

Dante heard them too. He looked at the door. Then at me.

“FBI,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

He smiled. Tired. Resigned.

“You played me good, Zara.”

“I didn’t play you,” I said. And for once it wasn’t honey. It was just me. “I saved your life.”

The door crashed open.

FBI. Vests. Guns. Lights.

“Hands up! On the ground!”

Dante didn’t move. He just looked at me.

“You’re good,” he said. Quiet. Only for me. “Real good.”

Then his men came in from the side door. Chaos. Shouting.

I hit the floor. Hands over my head.

Handler was in my ear. “Doll, status!”

“Alive,” I said.

They cuffed Dante. He didn’t fight. He looked at me one last time as they pulled him up.

Blood on his shirt. Blood on his hands.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said again.

“Me neither,” I said.

They took him out.

I sat in that chair for a long time after. Shaking. Not acting.

Because the third rule is:

If they think you’re honey...

Let them.

Right up until the knives come out.

And sometimes the knives are the truth.

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