“No formal training, but—” Marcus spreads out several surveillance photos. “She’s learned adaptation the hard way.”
The images tell a story that tightens my chest. Liv crouched behind rubble in Syria. Liv speaking to a group of women outside a factory in Bangladesh. Liv sharing cigarettes with armed men in Kosovo.
“She gets close to her targets,” Marcus continues. “Uses her perceived vulnerability to gain trust. This one—” He taps a photo of Liv sitting across from a middle-aged man in an expensive suit. “Turkish diplomat involved in human trafficking. She spent three months building his trust before exposing his operation.”
“Human trafficking?” The words taste bitter.
“It’s become her focus lately. She’s tracked rings across Europe, following supply chains, money trails.” Marcus hesitates. “Sir, there’s more. We found a connection to Roberto Mutini.”
The name hits like ice water. “The journalist? The one who specialized in sensational news?”
“They’ve had regular contact over the past year. Encrypted channels, dead drops, the works.”
I lean back, studying Liv on the monitor. She’s sitting at my kitchen counter now, laptop open, the picture of innocence.But I know better. Every casual move is calculated, and every seemingly random glance has a purpose.
“Focus on Mutini,” I order. “I want to know exactly what information they’re trading.”
“Already on it.” Marcus gathers the photos but leaves one—Liv in a bullet-scarred building, camera in hand, determination etched into every line of her face.
Marcus’s phone buzzes, interrupting my study of Eve’s surveillance feed. His expression shifts—subtle, but enough to catch my attention.
“Sir, Mr. Montoni is in the lobby. He’s demanding to see you.”
My muscles coil instinctively. Ano Montoni. The bastard has balls showing up here after I explicitly denied his request for a meeting this morning.
“He’s already in the elevator,” Marcus adds, his tone carrying a hint of apology.
I straighten my tie, muscle memory from countless confrontations with men who think their money makes them untouchable. “Let him come.”
The door opens, and expensive cologne floods the room—Clive Christian No. 1, if I’m not mistaken. Ano steps in with the practiced confidence of old money, but I catch the microscopic tremor in his right hand as he declines Marcus’s offer of a drink.
His eyes dart around my office—left corner, windows, security cameras, exit. The movement is almost imperceptible, but it’s there. The behavior of prey, not predator.
“Remy.” His voice carries fake warmth that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I apologize for dropping in unannounced.”
“No, you don’t.” I keep my tone flat, watching him settle into the chair across from my desk. His movements are too precise and too controlled. He’s overcompensating and trying to project strength.
Morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the slight sheen of sweat above his upper lip. His makeup is expertly applied, but it can’t quite hide the sleepless nights etched around his eyes. The great Ano Montoni looks more like a cornered animal than the ruthless businessman Chicago’s elite fears.
I remain standing, letting the silence stretch. It’s a simple power play, one he recognizes judging by the slight tightening around his mouth. His manicured fingers drum once against his knee before he forces them still.
“We need to discuss—”
“No.” I cut him off, my voice carrying just enough edge to make him flinch. “What we need to discuss is why you’re in my office after I explicitly told your assistant this morning that I don’t take unscheduled meetings.”
Ano’s composure slips as he leans forward. “I need you to handle a situation.”
“You need?” I raise an eyebrow. “Forcing your way into my office suggests you’ve forgotten how this works.”
“This is time-sensitive—”
“And your disrespect makes me distinctly disinclined to help.” I keep my voice measured and controlled. “Get out.”
Color floods his face. “You don’t understand what’s at stake.”
“I understand perfectly. You think your money buys you the right to demand my time.” I adjust my cufflinks. “It doesn’t.”
“Listen to me, you arrogant bastard.” He stands, jabbing a finger at my chest. “My shipping company is under investigation. Some bitch is digging where she doesn’t belong.”
