My Star My Spy
Chapter 8
Inside Allysa's mansion, Bernard stepped through the grand entrance. The doors closed softly behind him as the maids greeted him in perfect unison.
"Good morning, Sir Bernard. Welcome back."
"Good morning to you as well," Bernard replied, his tone calm, a faint smile forming. "Where's Allysa?"
"She's in the master bedroom, sir. She's been expecting your arrival."
"Alright. And prepare food for everyone."
"As you wish, Sir Bernard."
They bowed in sync before dispersing toward the kitchen, their movements quiet and efficient.
Bernard adjusted his sleeves slightly and headed upstairs, his footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floor.
---
On the first floor, down a quieter hallway that branched away from the main living area, Gary slipped in through the window of his room.
The space was dim, minimal—functional.
Not personal.
He landed silently, closing the window behind him before pulling off his jacket. His eyes drifted toward the mask resting on the table.
Patrick Weston.
The lie he wore.
Gary picked it up slowly, gripping it tighter than necessary.
"Stay focused," he muttered under his breath. "You're E.I.S.'s top agent. Don't slip now."
A pause.
Then he put it on.
The hesitation vanished.
By the time he stepped out into the hallway, Patrick was back.
---
The kitchen wasn't far—but not directly connected either. A short walk through the corridor brought him into the open space.
Bright.
Clean.
Controlled.
Miguel stood near one of the cabinets, posture relaxed but observant, eyes tracking everything without being obvious. Charlie sat at the counter, sipping his coffee like he was trying to act normal.
Too normal.
"Charlie," Miguel said, voice calm, "I need to ask you something."
Charlie glanced up. "Sure, Sir Alejandro."
"How do we know we can trust you?"
Straightforward.
No sugarcoating.
Charlie leaned back slightly, scratching his cheek as if thinking.
"Well…" he started, a little awkward. "I'm good at keeping secrets. Back then, me and my friend got drunk—even though his mom told him not to. He begged me not to tell, and I didn't."
He gave a small shrug.
"Four years. No one found out."
Silence followed.
Miguel didn't react immediately. He just watched him.
Measuring.
From the side, Celine stepped in, stirring sugar into her coffee.
"Alejandro," she said casually, "relax. He's fine."
She took a sip before adding, her tone light—but edged:
"And Charlie… remember our agreement."
A small pause.
"If you break it, you won't see the light of day again."
Charlie laughed nervously, raising his hands slightly.
"Yeah, yeah—I remember. No need to remind me, Ms. Scarlet." He glanced at her. "You're scary… but, uh… also pretty."
Celine didn't react much—just another quiet sip.
Miguel exhaled lightly, shifting the topic.
"Second cup already?"
That caught her.
She looked at him, narrowing her eyes slightly.
"You ruined my morning coffee earlier," she said. "This is recovery."
Miguel gave a small nod.
Fair enough.
---
"Yow."
Zion's voice cut in as he entered, energy completely different from the rest.
Relaxed.
Loud.
Confident.
"That wasn't even hard," he added, grinning.
Miguel gave him a quick tap on the shoulder.
"Good work," he said quietly—low enough that only Zion caught it.
Zion nodded once, satisfied, before turning toward Charlie.
"…And you are?"
"Charlie," Celine answered before he could. "Driver."
"Ohhh," Zion said, stepping closer with a grin. "Nice to meet you. Jonathan. Loudest one here."
Charlie chuckled. "Yeah, I can tell."
Zion glanced at Celine.
"And I hope Ms. Scarlet didn't welcome you too warmly."
Charlie laughed.
"I got tackled, actually."
That earned a grin.
"Yeah, that sounds about right," Zion said. "Careful with her—she's got two modes."
Celine rolled her eyes.
"Jonathan."
"What?" he said, shrugging. "I'm just being honest."
She gave him a flat look.
"It's too early for you."
Miguel, standing off to the side, took a quiet sip of his coffee—watching the chaos unfold with mild disbelief.
Gary stepped into the kitchen, his presence quiet but immediately grounding the room.
"Good work out there," he said calmly, eyes sweeping over the group.
Zion leaned back slightly, a grin already forming.
"Ah, it was nothing, broski. As long as we keep it quiet, we're good."
A few light chuckles followed, easing the tension from earlier.
Gary didn't smile.
He stepped further in, posture straight, voice shifting—firmer now.
"Listen up."
The room settled almost instantly.
"This is only day two," he continued. "We tighten security starting now. Inside and outside coverage—rotations, no gaps."
Zion straightened a bit. Miguel's attention sharpened. Even Charlie instinctively focused.
Gary's gaze moved between them.
"Jonathan. Alejandro. You take the outer perimeter."
A brief pause.
"Scarlet—you're with me. We handle the inside."
Celine's lips curved slightly.
YEEEHHHHH… future man secured.
She kept her face composed, though the thought lingered.
Gary's voice cut back in, steady and controlled.
"Am I clear?"
"Sir, yes sir," the three answered in unison.
Charlie blinked, a little amused by the sudden shift in discipline—but said nothing.
The tension eased just slightly.
Zion glanced at Gary, then smirked.
"C'mon, Patrick… at least drink some coffee first. We can start after."
A small pause.
Gary exhaled, slower this time.
"…Yeah," he admitted quietly. "You're right."
He rubbed the back of his neck, fatigue slipping through just a bit.
"Haven't slept since last night."
For a second, the "perfect leader" cracked—just enough to remind them he was still human.
Then he reached for a cup.
And just like that—
the mission moved forward.
Morning light slipped through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow across the master bedroom.
Everything felt… pristine.
White walls, untouched surfaces, and a polished wooden floor so smooth it reflected the room like glass. At the center stood a king-sized bed, perfectly made, with a lamp resting quietly on the nightstand beside it.
Near the vanity, framed in soft gold, sat Allysa.
She wore a silk robe, loosely tied, the fabric falling gently over her shoulders. Her long, wavy hair cascaded down her back as she brushed it slowly, each stroke careful, almost meditative.
Her eyes stayed on her reflection.
Calm.
Composed.
But awake.
Beside the mirror, a framed photograph caught the light—Allysa and Bernard, standing close, hands intertwined, smiling like nothing in the world could touch them.
The door clicked open.
Soft.
Measured.
Bernard stepped in.
Allysa's gaze shifted—not through the mirror this time, but directly behind her.
She stood, setting the brush down gently on the vanity before turning toward him.
"Hi, my love. Good morning," she said, her voice warm as she walked closer.
Bernard smiled, meeting her halfway.
"Good morning to you as well, my beautiful fiancée," he replied smoothly. "Up this early?"
"I didn't sleep last night," Allysa said lightly. "Scarlet and I ended up watching a movie."
Bernard's smile lingered, but his eyes sharpened just slightly.
"That's good," he said. "I can tell you're getting close to your security team… the female one. What was her name again?"
"Scarlet," she answered.
"Ah… Scarlet," Bernard repeated softly, as if committing it to memory.
A small pause settled between them before Allysa spoke again.
"I was actually waiting for you," she said, her tone still gentle. "You didn't call or message. What happened?"
Bernard exhaled quietly, his expression shifting into something apologetic—controlled, practiced.
"Work's been exhausting," he said. "Southern Los Angeles has been hectic lately. Strong winds, constant movement… I barely had time to check my phone."
He reached for her hands.
"I'm sorry."
Allysa's expression softened instantly.
"It's okay," she said warmly. "I understand. I just hope you ate."
She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him.
"I really missed you."
Bernard returned the embrace without hesitation, his hold firm but measured.
"I missed you too, Allysa," he said quietly.
For a moment, they stayed like that—
still,
perfect,
framed in the soft morning light—
like the photograph beside the mirror.
But unlike the photo…
this moment felt just a little harder to read.
Bernard's hand lifted slowly, his fingers resting beneath Allysa's chin as he guided her gaze toward him.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Just silence… and eye contact.
Allysa didn't pull away.
Bernard leaned in first.
Their lips met—soft at first, almost careful.
Then it deepened.
Allysa responded without hesitation, her hands finding his back as she pulled him closer. Bernard's grip shifted, one hand settling at her waist, drawing her in as if closing the distance wasn't enough.
The kiss lingered—longer than it should have.
Warmer.
He stepped forward.
Allysa instinctively stepped back—
Until her back met the wall.
A quiet breath escaped her as Bernard's lips trailed away from hers, moving down to her neck. Her head tilted slightly, giving him space without thinking, her fingers tightening faintly against his back.
His hand slid upward, brushing through her hair, holding it gently in place as he continued.
The room felt smaller.
Quieter.
Closer.
The soft fabric of her robe slipped slightly from one shoulder, unnoticed.
Allysa let out a faint, unguarded sound—barely more than a breath.
And still, Bernard didn't stop.
The shelves stood neatly arranged, books aligned with quiet precision. Nothing seemed out of place—
except for something small.
Hidden between the books, barely noticeable, a tiny device rested in silence. No camera. No lens.
Just a listening device.
A faint red light blinked.
Beep.
Soft. Almost unnoticeable.
Down the hall, inside Gary's room—
He sat quietly, a cup of coffee in hand.
No mask. No Patrick Weston.
Just Gary.
The morning felt calm… until that sound reached him.
Faint.
Distant.
But familiar.
His hand stopped.
The cup hovered mid-air as his expression shifted—serious at first… then something heavier.
His eyes changed.
The kind of change that didn't need words.
He knew.
Slowly, he lowered the cup.
Without hesitation, he reached for the transmitter and cut the signal.
Click.
Silence.
Gary remained still for a moment before sitting down, his posture sinking slightly.
The usual control in his face faded—just enough to reveal what he kept buried.
His eyes said everything.
Sadness.
Weight.
Something deeper.
And for once—
he didn't hide it.
Back in the master bedroom, the moment lingered between them—close, quiet, and heavy—
Until a phone rang.
The sound cut clean through everything.
Allysa pulled back slightly, her breath uneven as she glanced toward the source.
"This might be important… give me a second," she said softly.
Bernard nodded, already stepping back. "Alright."
He adjusted the buttons of his shirt, regaining his composed appearance, while Allysa fixed her robe before picking up the phone.
"Hello? Who is this?" she asked, her voice steady.
"Hey, Allysa. This is Beatrice."
Allysa's expression eased slightly. "Oh—Beatrice. What's up?"
"Manager Maxine needs you here by ten," Beatrice said from the other end.
Allysa frowned faintly. "Why?"
"It's about the drive-by incident yesterday," Beatrice explained. "You need to give a statement—to the media and your manager."
A small pause.
"…Alright. Got it. Thank you, Beatrice."
"No problem."
The call ended.
Allysa lowered the phone slowly, her fingers still wrapped around it as she turned back toward the room.
Bernard was already seated at the edge of the bed, watching her.
"Who was that, my love?" he asked.
"It was Beatrice," Allysa replied calmly. "I have to go out later. It's about the drive-by incident… I need to face the media. And my manager."
Her tone stayed composed—but there was a slight tension beneath it.
Bernard nodded, understanding.
"I see," he said gently. "You should eat first. The maids are probably done downstairs."
Allysa let out a small breath, then gave a soft smile.
"Yeah… sure."
Downstairs, the mansion was already alive.
In the kitchen, the maids moved with quiet efficiency, preparing breakfast with practiced precision. The scent of freshly cooked food drifted through the air, warm and inviting—completely at odds with the tension lingering beneath the surface.
Outside, near the perimeter, Zion and Miguel stood on watch. Their voices carried faintly through the open space as they talked, casual on the surface—but their eyes never stopped moving.
Inside the living room, Celine sat comfortably on the large couch, a pistol resting in her hands. She cleaned it with careful attention, her movements smooth and familiar.
Across the hall, Gary walked past.
Mask on.
Patrick Weston.
But something was off.
No smile. No charm.
Just a blank expression as he moved through the space, quiet and unreadable.
Nearby, Charlie stood by the kitchen entrance, casually chatting with one of the maids, his posture far more relaxed now compared to earlier.
Then—
"Good morning, everyone!"
The voice rang out from above.
All heads turned.
Nathalie descended the staircase with energy, her presence immediately filling the room. Her tone was bright, almost theatrical, cutting clean through the calm atmosphere.
Celine looked up first, a grin forming instantly.
"Good morning, Nat!" she greeted, her voice lively.
"Good morning to you too, Scar," Nathalie replied warmly as she stepped down the last few stairs. Her eyes flicked toward Celine's hands. "I see you're cleaning your Glock 21."
Celine glanced at it, a small proud smile forming. "Yeah. Shiny now."
Nathalie gave an approving nod, her tone turning playfully instructive. "That's good, my dear. Keep it well-maintained. And a little tip—don't overshoot it, or it might jam."
"Alright, Nat," Celine said with a light smile.
At that moment, Gary stepped closer to the couch, his presence quiet but noticeable.
No words.
Just there.
Watching.
Gary stepped toward the couch and sat down beside Celine.
She glanced at him, her energy still bright.
"Good morning!" she greeted cheerfully.
"Hey," Gary replied—short, flat.
Nathalie turned toward him almost immediately, a playful smile forming.
"Good morning, good-looking security," she said lightly. "Did you eat already?"
Gary leaned back slightly, his tone cool.
"Just had coffee. That's all."
Nathalie's smile softened as she studied him more closely.
"…Are you okay, Pat?" she asked. "You look like you didn't sleep at all."
Gary didn't hesitate.
"It's nothing," he said. "Probably just getting a little sick."
Before he could pull away, Nathalie stepped closer and placed her palm gently against his forehead.
Gary froze for a brief second, eyes shifting toward her.
"…You're warm," she murmured, concern slipping into her voice. "You might be coming down with a fever."
Gary clicked his tongue inwardly.
Shit… I might actually be getting sick.
Out loud, he gave a small, awkward laugh.
"Ah—no need, Nat. I'm fine. Really. It's nothing."
Behind him, Celine stayed quiet.
Her hands moved steadily as she loaded rounds into her pistol—precise, controlled.
But her eyes…
They flicked up.
Just once.
Lingering a second too long.
Something tightened in her chest.
She looked back down.
The click of metal echoed softly as another round slid into place.
---
A maid approached, posture straight, voice composed.
"Ms. Nathalie, Sir Patrick, Ms. Scarlet—you may proceed to the kitchen. Breakfast is ready."
She bowed politely.
Nathalie turned to her with a warm smile.
"Thank you. And make sure the others eat as well."
"Yes, ma'am." The maid bowed again before turning and walking off toward the kitchen.
Gary watched her go, his expression unreadable.
Nathalie turned back to him.
"Pat," she said gently, "you should eat something warm and get some rest. I'll inform Allysa you're not feeling well, so you can take the day off."
Gary shook his head slightly, tension slipping into his voice.
"No, really—I'm fine. You don't have to do that."
Celine stayed silent.
Another round—
Click.
Then—
A small slip.
One bullet fell from her hand, hitting the floor with a soft metallic tap.
All eyes shifted down.
Nathalie bent slightly, picking it up before Celine could.
She glanced at it briefly.
".45 ACP…" she said, then looked at Celine with a gentle smile. "Be careful with these, Scarlet."
Celine reached out, taking it back.
"…Thanks, Nat."
---
Outside, along the mansion's outer perimeter, the morning had fully settled in.
Sunlight stretched across the open field, spilling over the garden and reaching the garage near the side of the property. The air felt warmer now—brighter… but not exactly comfortable.
Miguel stood still, eyes scanning the distance.
Beside him, Zion shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders.
"You know," Zion muttered, squinting toward the sun, "it's getting hot out here."
Miguel didn't look at him.
"It's temporary," he said calmly. "Mission's a mission. This is our post today—Gary's plan. We rotate."
Zion exhaled, nodding once.
"Yeah… figured."
The space fell quiet again—just the sound of distant movement and wind brushing through the garden.
Then—
Footsteps.
A maid approached from behind, posture straight, movements careful.
"Good morning, Sir Alejandro," she said politely.
Miguel gave a small nod in acknowledgment.
The maid hesitated slightly before turning to Zion, her voice softening.
"Um… good morning, Sir Jonathan," she added, a hint of shyness slipping through. "Breakfast is ready. You're both requested inside."
"Oh—nice, thanks," Zion replied, his tone easy.
Miguel gave Zion a light tap on the shoulder.
"I'll head in first," he said. "I'm starving."
Without waiting, he turned and walked toward the door, pushing it open.
"Bruh…" Zion muttered under his breath, shaking his head with a small grin.
The maid stayed.
A brief, awkward silence settled between them.
She shifted slightly, hands clasped in front of her.
"Um… my name is Christine," she said quietly. "Christine Pratt."
Zion blinked, then smiled—just a little.
"Hey, Christine. Nice to meet you," he said. "How long have you been working here?"
"About five months," she replied, still a bit shy—but steadier now.
"Ah… got it."
Another small pause.
Zion rubbed the back of his neck lightly.
"Hey, uh… you wanna head inside?" he said. "We should probably eat too."
Christine nodded quickly.
"Y-Yeah. Sure."
Zion stepped forward and opened the door, holding it for her.
"Ladies first," he said with a casual smile.
Christine paused for a second—then walked past him.
"Thank you," she said softly.
A faint blush touched her cheeks as she stepped inside.
He's… nice, she thought quietly.
Behind her, Zion followed—closing the door as the bright morning light faded into the calm of the mansion interior.
They moved inside.
The dining area opened into a long table already prepared for breakfast. Plates were neatly arranged, and the food was laid out in abundance—warm bread, freshly brewed coffee, hotdogs with rice, eggs, and crisp bacon.
The team gathered around it—but no one sat.
Five seats remained empty.
Nathalie walked in first and took her seat, glancing up at them.
"Guys, sit down," she said casually.
Celine hesitated. "Are you sure, Nat?"
Nathalie smiled, waving it off.
"I'm sure. And I'm also sure Allysa wouldn't want you all just standing there. Come on—eat."
She paused, glancing at the limited seating.
"…Though, I'm sorry. Looks like a couple of you will have to stand."
Miguel gave a small nod.
"It's fine," he said calmly. "Me and Patrick will stand. Let Scarlet sit."
Celine looked at him briefly.
"…Thanks."
Nathalie nodded, satisfied, and began eating.
Celine sat down, reaching for a plate and serving herself some bacon. Across from her, Gary remained standing—but his balance shifted slightly.
A faint wave of dizziness hit him.
Subtle.
But there.
Hold it together…
Miguel grabbed a plate as well, taking what was available without fuss.
A moment later, Zion and Christine entered from the hallway.
They paused briefly.
"I'll see you around, Jonathan," Christine said softly, giving a small wave. "I'll be nearby if you need anything."
Zion smiled back.
"Yeah, sure."
They split.
Christine headed off toward the kitchen area, while Zion moved toward the group, grabbing a plate and joining in.
The atmosphere settled into something almost normal—the quiet sounds of eating, light movement, the clink of utensils.
Then—
Footsteps approached.
Allysa and Bernard entered.
Celine looked up immediately, her energy returning.
"Good morning, Allysa!"
"Good morning, Scarlet," Allysa replied with a warm smile as she took her seat.
Up close, there was a faint tension in her expression—
subtle.
Hidden well.
But there.
Bernard sat beside her, composed as ever.
"Good morning," he added smoothly.
Miguel and Zion straightened slightly.
"Good morning, Ms. Allysa. Sir Bernard," Miguel greeted.
"Good morning," Zion followed.
Allysa nodded. "Good morning to all of you."
Gary stayed quiet.
Standing.
Watching.
The moment Bernard sat beside Allysa—
something in Gary shifted.
Not visible.
Not obvious.
But there.
And beneath it all—
the dizziness crept back in.
He steadied himself slightly, jaw tightening.
Stay focused.
Gary stayed quiet.
He didn't reach for a plate. Didn't move.
Just stood there—watching, listening.
Then—
"Guys," Allysa spoke, her tone calm but carrying authority, "I need one security with me today."
The room settled slightly.
She placed her utensils down before continuing.
"I'm heading to Hollywood Studios," she said. "My manager and the media want a statement about yesterday's drive-by incident."
Everyone listened.
No interruptions.
No jokes.
Just attention.
A short pause—
"I'll go."
Gary's voice cut in.
Low. Direct.
Allysa looked at him for a moment, then gave a small nod.
"Alright."
Silence lingered briefly—
Then Zion leaned back slightly, breaking the tension with a grin.
"Hey, I just gotta say—this breakfast?" he said, gesturing at the table. "Way better than that last trash we had during one of our security gigs."
A few smiles cracked.
"And shoutout to the maids," he added, raising his hand slightly. "This is top-tier."
Soft chuckles spread around the table—
even Gary let out the faintest breath of amusement.
Miguel shook his head lightly, a small smile forming.
"Just eat, Jonathan."
Zion laughed under his breath and went back to his plate.
Allysa glanced around the table, the warmth returning to her expression.
"Alright… let's eat."
And just like that, the room settled again.
Plates filled.
Utensils moved.
Voices softened.
For a moment—
it almost felt normal.
Meanwhile, at a port in Los Angeles—
Morning light crept over the horizon, spilling across rows of perfectly stacked containers. The harbor was quiet… too quiet. No heavy movement. No workers rushing.
Just stillness.
And control.
In the distance, the city skyline stood tall beneath the rising sun.
Closer to the docks—
A convoy waited.
One black Mercedes-Benz in front.
Two Rolls-Royces behind it.
Two Mercedes V-Class vans forming the rear.
Clean. Symmetrical.
Deliberate.
Around them, armed men stood guard—pistols and rifles ready, dressed in black tactical gear. Some wore caps, others didn't. All of them alert.
Watching.
Near a pair of parked vans and a Ford Suburban, a man stood at the center of it all.
Mid-50s.
Wearing a loose tropical shirt, half-buttoned, paired with black pants. A pistol rested at his side.
Don Rosso.
Waiting.
The Rolls-Royce rolled forward and stopped in front of him.
The engine went silent.
A door opened.
Ted stepped out first, composed—but his eyes moved quickly, taking everything in.
Then—
Monarch stepped out.
Calm.
Unhurried.
Powerful without trying.
"Ah… Don Rosso," Monarch greeted, his voice smooth, almost aged with quiet authority. "It's good to see you."
Don Rosso smiled, stepping forward slightly.
"Mr. Monarch… the honor is mine," he said proudly. "The man behind the trade across the Americas… and Europe."
Monarch didn't react.
"So," he said calmly, "where's the package?"
Don Rosso gave a small nod.
"I have it."
He gestured.
One of his men stepped forward, dressed in black, carrying a briefcase. He handed it over.
Don Rosso took it—and passed it to Monarch.
Monarch accepted it without a word.
Click.
The case opened.
Inside—
Stacks of U.S. dollars.
And sealed packets of white powder.
Monarch smiled faintly.
Behind him, Ted shifted slightly.
Uneasy.
Something didn't feel right.
"Monarch," Don Rosso continued, his tone lowering, "I spoke with one of your associates. The French one. He says Don Maximo won't proceed with any deal unless you speak to him directly."
A small pause.
Monarch closed the briefcase slowly.
"Don Maximo…" he murmured. "A stubborn man."
His gaze lifted.
"He controls half of Las Vegas. Dangerous. Even my allies have trouble negotiating with him."
Don Rosso chuckled lightly.
"Then maybe you should—"
"Is this all of it?" Monarch cut in, calm.
Don Rosso blinked. "Of course. Everything you—"
"But…" Monarch added softly.
Silence.
His eyes locked onto Don Rosso.
"Have you checked your phone?"
Don Rosso frowned slightly.
"What—?"
He reached into his pocket.
Pulled out his phone.
The moment his attention dropped—
Monarch moved.
In one smooth motion, he drew his revolver—
—and pressed it to Don Rosso's head.
Bang.
The shot echoed across the port.
Don Rosso dropped instantly.
Dead before he hit the ground.
For half a second—
silence.
Then—
Gunfire erupted.
From the containers.
From the shadows.
Monarch's men opened fire.
Don Rosso's guards didn't even get the chance to react—
Bullets tore through them.
Bodies dropped.
Glass shattered.
Blood hit the pavement.
Chaos—
controlled chaos.
And then…
Silence again.
Smoke lingered in the air.
Monarch stood still, lowering his gun.
At his feet—
Don Rosso's lifeless body.
"I know a traitor when I see one," Monarch said quietly. "And you know what happens to those who betray the Monarch family."
He turned his back without another glance, picking up the briefcase.
Ted stood frozen for a second—heart pounding—but forced himself to move.
Professional.
Controlled.
He stepped forward and opened the car door.
Monarch entered.
The door shut.
The convoy didn't rush.
Didn't panic.
It simply moved—
leaving behind bodies, silence…
and a message.