“Yeah. You?” I’m fishing for last night’s vibe, but it’s nowhere in sight.
He just hums, taking a slow sip of coffee. The silence stretches long enough that I cave and pour my own cup. I lean on the island, waiting for eye contact that doesn’t come. “Rough night of spreadsheets?”
“Business doesn’t sleep,” he says, still studying the skyline. Not snappy, just switched off.
I focus on not sloshing coffee over his fancy marble counters. He finally glances over, gives me a quick once-over, then drops the day’s marching orders. “Dmitri will drive you. Schedule’s in your inbox.”
Translation: work mode engaged, feelings on mute. I swallow disappointment and remind myself of the deal—bodyguard king, damsel under glass. Some days you get the soft-spoken protector, other days the bloodless CEO.
“Got it,” I say, forcing a smile.
He nods then turns back to his city.
I polish off the coffee, tell myself to just roll with it, and think of the bigger picture. I’m alive, Volkov’s furious, and my brother is most definitely plotting something. So, if Vlad needs to brood and keep the walls up for a while, fine.
I pad back to my bedroom, dig out a blazer, and breathe. The man is a weather system—last night’s heat, this morning’s cold front. My job is to prepare for whatever season shows up and keep moving.
CHAPTER 18
VLAD
Jersey blurs past the tinted windows—strip malls, billboards, the occasional diner glowing in the early morning light. I sip a travel mug of black coffee while Dmitri handles the wheel, knifing through traffic with his usual under-the-radar finesse. He glances at the dash GPS, then at me.
“So you’re really pulling the trigger on this place? Six months you’ve kept the cleaning-supply outfit on a string.”
“Time to yank,” I reply, rolling my shoulders. “We need a legit interstate warehousing license on this side of the river. Their footprint works.”
“And you just woke up this morning suddenly decisive.” Dmitri flicks his turn signal. “Something in the coffee?”
“Something in the math. Not to mention an email from the owner letting me know he was motivated to sell ASAP.”
“And the girl?” Dmitri asks.
“Teresa stays at the center of the circle, whether we like it or not,” I tell him. “The more fortified we look, the harder it is for Volkov to flank us.”
He grunts. “Full Bratva shield around a single woman. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“Neither did I.”
Up ahead sits a beige warehouse surrounded by chain-link and nothing else. No delivery vans, no smokers on a break, just empty asphalt shimmering underneath the weak winter sun.
“Where’s the crew?” Dmitri mutters at the same time my phone buzzes with a text from Ralph Gambini, the owner.
In back loading bay. Door’s up.
That’s odd. It’s nine in the morning and weekday shipments should be rolling. I scan the lot—no tire tracks in the thin icing of salt dust. “Something’s off.”
Dmitri unclips his seat belt. “You want to reschedule?”
“Let’s check the place out first but be careful about it.” I thumb the safety on my SIG.
Dmitri releases the safety on his own weapon. We step out, the Jersey air hitting cold and sterile. The back of my neck prickles the way it does when my instincts are on high alert.
“Eyes open,” I say, moving toward the side gate. “If Gambini’s playing games, we end them fast.” The chain-link creaks under Dmitri’s push, and we slip inside, two shadows hunting answers in plain daylight.
The warehouse sits at the far edge of an industrial cul-de-sac, low and unremarkable—exactly the kind of place that shouldhum with forklifts and curse words at nine a.m. on a weekday. Instead the yard is empty. We approach the bay door. The air smells of diesel, and a forklift idles in the corner, engine still warm. Someone left in a hurry.
Boot prints track through the thin coat of salt dust—four sets, angling toward the pallet maze. I tap Dmitri’s elbow and point two o’clock. He nods, taking the near flank while I ease left. My finger rests along the side of the SIG’s trigger guard.
