Page 299 of Rosetti Family New York
It doesn't last. The alarm shatters the afternoon calm like a scream. These aren't his usual gentle system chimes but sharp alerts that make my heart race.
Someone's in his network.
I find Emilio at the kitchen's hidden console, his fingers moving quickly with intense focus. Multiple screens show red alerts cascading, system after system lighting up with warnings of unauthorized access.
"What's happening?" I ask, though I kind of already know. The way he's moving, the controlled anger in his stance. This isn't random.
"Callahan breach," he says without looking up, his voice cold enough to scare anyone. "Someone's accessed our exterior surveillance feeds. They're mapping the penthouse layout."
The implications hit me hard. They're not just watching, they're studying us. Learning our routines, our weaknesses, even the details that could allow a physical attack.
"How deep have they gotten?"
"Deep enough." His jaw tightens as another system falls to the intrusion. "Kitchen cameras, hallway feeds, even the elevator surveillance. They're building a complete blueprint."
On the screens, I see our morning replaying. Me in the kitchen, him making breakfast, private moments being recorded by hostile eyes. The violation fills me with anger.
"Can you stop it?"
"I can, but not from here." He stands with smooth precision, moving toward a panel I hadn't noticed. "The primary systems are compromised. We need to work from the panic room."
The hidden door reveals a space like something from a spy movie. Reinforced walls, its own power supply, enough computing power to run a small country. The processors hum intensely, their fans whirring as they fight the intrusion. But it's tight, meant for one person, not two.
I follow Emilio inside, standing close to him so I don't bump the control.
"Panic room protocols engaged," a female voice announces as the locks click shut with a heavy thud. "Environmental systems adjusting for extended occupancy."
"How long will this take?" I ask as he settles into the single chair in front of the monitors.
"Hours," he replies, fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. "Maybe longer. They're good. Military-grade intrusion protocols, adaptive algorithms. This isn't your regular criminal hacking."
The room's temperature rises steadily as the processors work hard, battling in a way that could decide if we live or die. Sweat forms on my forehead.
"I can help," I offer, looking at the data streams that seem familiar from my own hacking experience. "I've seen similar attacks before."
"I'm sure you have," he says. "But this needs a specific approach. My approach."
His casual dismissal makes me grit my teeth. "I'm not some amateur, Emilio. I've been surviving digital warfare for three years."
"Have you?" He doesn't take his eyes off the screens, but his tone challenges me, making my heart race. "Or have you been playing in the shallow end while I've been fighting in the deep water?"
His arrogance is maddening. But, even more frustrating, his words stir something else in me.
"Try me," I say, moving closer to study his method.
"Sit down first." He gestures toward his lap without looking away from the screens. "I need access to the primary interface."
"There's nowhere else to sit."
"No," he agrees with a satisfaction that makes my skin tingle. "There isn't."
The implication feels like a challenge. He could stand, could work differently, could make space for me. Instead, he's making my involvement depend on a level of closeness I haven't agreed to.
"You're serious."
"Completely." His gaze finally meets mine, storm-gray eyes holding a patient intensity. "You want to help? These are the terms."
I should say no. I should keep the boundaries that stop this from becoming more dangerous than just surveillance and obsession. But the screens show Callahan's intrusion spreading like a disease through the systems meant to protect me, and my professional pride clashes with my need for self-preservation.
