"They don't talk much. They kill without delay.
You're here to profile them.
Or to deliver them.
And sometimes… that's exactly the same thing."
OCLO (Central Office for Organized Crime Control)
08:17 — Briefing Room, Level 2 — Internal Use Only
It's freezing.
Not because of the AC.
Because of the looks people exchange.
Eleven chairs. Most are taken.
Cold coffees. Hidden Glocks.
And silence. The real kind—the kind that knots your gut.
This is Alpha Team.
No rookies. No mistakes.
Only ghosts. Syria. Chechnya. Rio. Naples.
But today, it's not war they smell.
It's the hunt.
The door creaks.
The chief walks in.
Grey suit. Armored file. Clockwork steps.
No words. No glance.
Just three sharp clicks against the floor.
Click. Click. Click.
Then the photos hit the table.
Each face, a dry slap.
The screen lights up.
Cold LED. Black background.
"File 731-OCLO. Target: Conti."
First photo.
Broad shoulders. Black suit. Winter eyes.
"Gaëtan Conti. Alias: The Flame.
29 years old.
Mastermind of the former Conti network.
An underground empire: trafficking, laundering, extortion.
213 men under his command. Not one flinches.
Marseille is his kingdom.
He builds in silence.
He rules through fear."
Second photo. Jaw like concrete.
"Marco Ortega. Right-hand man.
Childhood friend. Loyal to the grave.
Handles the dirty work.
Cleans fast. Cleans clean.
Alias: The Dog."
Third photo. A creepy preacher.
"Fernando Galiano.
Sicilian. Citizenship fast-tracked thanks to a corrupt senator.
The type to pray before slicing your throat.
Private masses. Coded executions.
One hand on the Bible.
The other on the blade."
Fourth photo. Blonde. Razor-sharp. Too polished to be clean.
"Zara.
Former Quai d'Orsay. Master of ghost files.
On paper: international lawyer.
Behind the scenes: eraser of evidence, witnesses, identities.
Suspected to be 'Ghost.'
Case buried last year."
Fifth photo. Clinical pallor. Tie adjusted to perfection.
"Layann Romano.
Alias: The Devil.
Pulls the strings in France, Italy, the Balkans.
Even silence comes at a price.
No witnesses. Ever.
Always three steps ahead of death.
And he never backs down."
Final shot. A woman.
Too beautiful for this setting.
Too calm not to be hiding a blade.
Chestnut hair, long, gliding like a promise always broken.
Sun-kissed skin. Storm in her eyes.
Gray. The same as her husband's.
Eyes you only meet once…
Right before the fall.
"Nina Romano.
Official wife of Layann.
But rumors say… siblings, maybe.
They live together.
Rule together.
Former dancer. Now head of Romano Couture.
Influencer. Businesswoman.
And at the heart of a state scandal: alleged affair with the President.
A media tornado. Then blackout.
Cases closed. Witnesses gone.
She took the hit. Then flipped the storm.
Behind the runways?
She's the one who pays.
She's the one who commands.
She's the one who decides.
Soft on the outside. Deadly inside.
A velvet poison."
Silence blankets the room.
A whisper finally breaks it:
"Are we really stepping into this mess?"
The chief lifts his head. Calm.
"This isn't a raid.
It's microsurgery.
Target: Conti.
If he falls, the whole structure shakes.
We might not make it out…
But we'll open a breach."
I scan the room.
Eleven chairs. Eleven stations.
Eleven faces. Locked in.
Martinez — cyber. Blinks too fast. Types faster.
Fromentin — forensics. Already measuring angles.
Aïd — analyst. Eats her pens like they insulted her.
Moreau — ballistics. Dead silent.
Djenna — undercover, Serbia. Gaze colder than steel.
Lopez — explosives. Battered, still standing.
Erwan — telecoms. Ex-hacker. Never less than three signal jammers.
Solas — captain. A statue. Barely breathes.
Galliano — the kid. Profiler.
Too young. Too neat.
But he stares at the photos…
…like he's seen them before.
And me?
Seat eleven.
Identity blurred.
I'm here to infiltrate.
I am you.
You are me.
The chief claps once.
Sharp. Like a race starting gun.
"Alright. Everyone to your stations.
We've got six months. No more."
He turns to me.
Me — the shadow in the room.
He speaks to the team, but his eyes lock on mine.
"You…"
He pauses.
"I need you to think like them. Feel what they feel.
Sniff out what they're hiding.
And bring me everything. Every shred. Every detail."
He steps closer.
Not too close — just enough to feel the weight of his words.
"They've got friends in high places.
Judges. Cops. Elected officials.
Maybe even ministers.
If we want to bring this network down, we'll need concrete.
Not suspicion."
His voice drops.
Deeper. Slower.
"You know what almost brought down the Cali cartel?
Not the drugs.
Not the murders.
Not the wiretaps.
No.
What made them tremble…
was a damn electricity bill."
Silence.
"Ninety-two thousand dollars.
Paid in cash.
By a guy claiming to sell clothes."
He looks at me.
A beat.
"So bring me that bill.
The one that blows it all up."
He steps back.
"You know what to do.
And more importantly…
you know why you have to do it."
Then he turns on his heel.
And the war begins.
Chairs scrape the floor.
No one speaks.
Each retreats into their bubble — screen, notes, gun.
I stay seated a second longer.
The chief's gone.
The mission has started.
But me?
I feel like it just wrapped its hands around my throat.
I finally get up.
Walk to the coffee machine.
Not for the coffee.
Just to do something.
To breathe.
Aïd follows.
The analyst.
She's got that look — the kind that sees through people.
Moves quiet but quick.
She steps ahead of me.
Taps the machine with her fingers.
"If we catch them…"
Her voice barely above a whisper.
"…it'll be historic."
I look at her.
She stares at the machine's screen like it owes her an answer.
I answer instead. Calm. Steady.
"We'll get them."
She tilts her head slightly, studies me.
Not suspicion — curiosity.
The coffee starts pouring.
She grabs her cup.
"How many infiltrations for you?"
I keep my voice neutral.
Cold, but not closed.
"First one."
She raises an eyebrow.
Now there's suspicion.
"Before this?"
I pause.
"Narcotics. Financial branch.
I tracked transfers, not bullets."
She nods.
Thinks she understands.
"And you're not scared?
You're about to dive into a pit of vipers."
I smile. Just a little.
"I read a lot."
She frowns.
I clarify:
"And when you read enough…
you develop empathy.
You can slip into anyone's skin.
Even a monster's."
She doesn't flinch.
Keeps that analyst's calm — the kind of silence that judges without speaking.
She takes her coffee.
"Let's hope, in your books,
the good guys make it out."
She walks off.
I stay there.
Just a second longer.
In front of a machine louder than a silencer in the dead of night.
Then I turn.
Time to step in.
Set my entry points.
Slip into their world without them smelling the cop.
A voice cuts through.
Calm. Precise.
Too polished to be spontaneous.
"You're the OCLO's rising star, huh?"
I pivot.
Galliano.
The profiler.
Young. Clean. Sharp.
Like an Excel spreadsheet with a heartbeat.
"We'll stay warm.
You're the one getting close.
Beasts… but icons."
I shrug. No act.
"Just doing my job."
I move again.
He adds, voice still steady:
"One piece of advice."
I stop.
I feel it coming.
Like rain.
"If you've got a woman,
enjoy her tonight.
The monsters, they're fine.
But Nina and Zara…"
A pause.
A warning wrapped in velvet.
"One messes with your head.
The other scrambles your priorities.
And in their world,
that's enough to flip you upside down."
A dry chuckle escapes.
No warmth.
"Profiler tactic?
Playing the fantasy card?"
He doesn't flinch.
"Yeah. I've studied them.
Zara leaves loaded silences.
Nina — armed looks.
Two styles. One mission:
Seduce anything that breathes."
I hold his gaze.
Then glance down.
My ring.
"You got it wrong."
I show him the wedding band.
"…I'm a widower."
It takes him a beat.
"My condolences."
I nod.
"Thanks.
But focus on the ones
that'll actually cause trouble."
I walk away.
This time, he doesn't say a word.
POINT OF VIEW: NINA
The gate shuts behind me with a metallic snap.
Muted. Almost swallowed by the night.
Or maybe by fear.
The Devil's house stands in front of me —
still, proud, silent.
Majestic. Frozen.
Just like him.
Men line the driveway, saluting one by one.
Lowered heads. Avoiding my eyes.
"Mrs. Romano."
"Mrs. Romano."
Again.
And again.
I want to scream.
Mrs. Marceau, goddamn it.
Not his name.
Not the one they shoved down my throat.
I stride through the living room like a blade.
My heels strike the marble.
Sharp. Loud.
This isn't a walk.
It's a warning.
And then —
in the private corridor —
usually locked —
I hear them.
The moans.
The breaths.
The slaps.
Always fucking.
Always spilling himself into someone
as if it might wash away what he is.
Two guards stand by the door.
Stiff.
Too stiff to be at ease.
"Let me through."
They glance at each other, tense.
"Mr. Romano gave strict orders — no one disturbs him. Not even you."
I smile.
But it's a smile with no warmth.
The kind that announces disaster.
I draw my gun.
Calm. Steady.
"So? Which one of you do I shoot first?"
They pale instantly.
One lowers his gaze.
The other tries to smile. Nervous.
"Ma'am…"
"I'm his wife.
Open.
The.
Fucking.
Door."
A beat of silence.
Then the handle turns.
I put my gun away.
The door opens —
slowly,
as if it's afraid too.
And what I see…
doesn't even touch me anymore.
Not really.
Not after everything we've been through.
She's bent over the bed,
hands gripping the mattress.
He's holding her by the hips,
driving into her.
Hard.
Relentless.
Animalistic.
No kisses.
No tenderness.
Just flesh slamming into flesh.
His fingers dig into her skin.
She moans — loud —
like it might make her real.
And me?
I don't move.
I've had that body too.
Between my legs.
With rage.
With tenderness.
With cruelty.
With… love, maybe.
Or what we thought love was.
That's how it is with the Romanos.
Truths too dirty to bury.
Blood ties that should've stopped everything
but came too late.
Too late to forget.
Too late to undo
what's already been done.
I stare at him.
He won't look at me.
Too busy ripping another scream from this poor girl.
And me?
I'm his wife.
His sister.
And the end of this fucked-up show.
She sees me.
She screams.
Grabs for something to cover herself.
There's nothing.
She panics.
Wants to disappear.
Layann half-turns.
Out of breath.
Sweat dripping down his chest.
Not a trace of guilt.
Never.
"We have a problem."
I stand tall.
Unmoved.
"Go ahead.
Don't mind me…
I'm not the shy type."
I glance her way.
My smile sharp.
"Besides, my brother's always had this weird thing —
he gets harder when I'm in the room."
She turns pale.
Frozen.
He watches me.
Still him.
Always the same.
I take a step.
Then another.
"Come on, Layann…
Do it.
Harder.
Even harder."
My voice is soft.
Almost sweet.
But it drips venom.
He closes his eyes.
Just for a second.
Maybe to stop himself from snapping.
Maybe to stop himself from proving me right.
Then he lets her go.
She bolts.
Clutching a pillow to her chest.
Pathetic.
To the very end.
And me?
I don't move.
Rigid.
Heart empty.
Layann straightens.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Breathing hard.
Chest rising, falling.
His cock still hard — exposed.
Not a single trace of shame.
A king without a throne…
but still standing.
"What's the problem, sister?"
The word drips like poison.
He knows exactly what he's doing.
I don't drop my eyes.
Not now.
Not with him.
"Operation OCLO has started."
He freezes.
For just a second.
"An undercover is coming."
I take a step closer.
My heels click on the marble.
Each sound, a warning.
"To our place.
Conti's place. Anywhere.
Doesn't matter."
Another step.
Close enough now to feel his breath against my cheek.
The heat of it.
The weight of him.
"Their goal is clear…"
I whisper, low, deliberate:
"To lock us all up.
One. By. One."
"Whether you're a cop, a mole,
or just a curious reader…
our job's the same:
find you.
Erase you."