Chapter 1 - Valentin
God, why the hell do stakeouts have to be so damn boring? I’ve been sitting in this car for over three hours straight, and with the sun on high today and the air-conditioning acting out, I feel like I’m burning up in an oven. Can’t even have the windows down because the black tint is all that keeps me from being seen.
I remind myself to tell my darling brother Trifon that he needs to sign off on a new Mercedes for all the shit he makes me pull. He doesn’t trust our younger brothers with a responsibility as large as overseeing this operation, and as his second-in-command, I don’t question when an order has been given.
I don’t mind doing these stake-outs. To protect my family, I’d walk through hell itself.
But I’d rather do it in a nicer ride.
I love this car, but it’s clearly paid its dues. With any other owner, she would have stayed a beast. But I’ve run it ragged through all the chases I’ve given and escaped from.
From where I sit, I have the perfect view of the Zakharovs’ building. Though, of course, those bastards think we don’t know who it truly belongs to. But we’ve got the mightier reach, and it took a week of solid spying to trace this little asset, which they believe to be tucked away in plain sight on the streets of Boston, right back to them.
The Zakharovs have always been creative with their fronts. We've been watching them for over a month now, waiting for them to make a move. They've been trying to form alliances with smaller factions, including with his wife Yulia’s family, with whom they were once in talks.
But Trifon and Yulia shut that down quickly, thank god.
For now, the Zakharovs look like they’re lying low. But I know they’re real slime balls. Watching their business isn’t just business, but personal.
Just last winter, they pushed onto our docks and killed our captain in cold blood, all to steal a crate of shipment that wasn’t even worth the dirt beneath their shoe. This rivalry goes back generations, when our grandfather won a territory they’d been eyeing. Since then, in their thirst for gaining power on our ground, they’ve killed a whole graveyard of our men, and we’re done leaving their crimes unpunished.
It’s only a matter of time before they bring trouble to our door again. That’s why Trifon has me doing these stake-outs. But lately, I find myself faltering in my line of duty. I’m supposed to be watching our enemies, but somewhere along the way, I’ve grown distracted.
Through my binoculars, I can see everything—the revolving door, the elderly security guard who occasionally dozes off, and most importantly, when she finally decides to leave.
“Anything on the back entrance?” I mutter into the radio, getting bored with the wait. Every day, we stake out a different location—a warehouse, a factory, a hideout, an office. But time and time again, I find myself drawn back here.
I tell Trifon it’s essential. The truth? I don’t fucking know. It might be something. Might be nothing. But she’s here…
“Nothing yet, boss. Just the usual lunch deliveries,” Dmitri informs me.
I grunt and sign out, and my eyes never leave the main entrance. My shirt sticks to my back in the afternoon heat. Thecar's temperature gauge reads 88, but it feels like a damn sauna in here.
I check my watch again. Gela Jones is a creature of habit, and if the pattern holds, she should be walking out those doors any minute now. The thought alone makes me sit up and wonder where the hell she might be.
“We've got movement on the third floor,” one of my guys tunes in on the radio. “Looks like they're setting up that new co-working space. A lot of fancy furniture coming in.”
“What fucking assholes,” I hiss back. “How many people have they suckered into leasing this building, you think?”
“Three new companies this month. They’re mostly tech startups run by clueless kids.”
The Zakharovs are total assholes to tie up innocent businesses while running drugs through the basement. Yeah, we’re all criminals in this world, but even we have honor. What the Zakharovs are doing is what even the scum in our world won’t. He’s involving civilians, setting them up. If Anton Zakharov's drugs are ever caught in there, he’ll make every tenant liable and reduce his fucking jail time.
It sounds impossible, doesn’t it? The tenants will, of course, claim innocence, and maybe even have solid proof. But the evidence won’t matter when the judges and prosecutors eat right out of Anton’s palms.
I reach for the radio now and put on some music to kill the boredom. But just as my hand brushes against the knob, the doorman opens the door, and I catch sight of light brown hair that almost looks blonde in the sunlight.
I sit up so fast I almost hit my head on the roof of the car.
It’s her.
I bring the binoculars up again, my hands shaking. God, what is it about her that makes my heart race so?
She has no idea I exist. No idea I'm watching. No idea what kind of building she walks into every day.
Gela Jones steps out into the sunlight, and I find myself holding my breath. Today, she’s got on a far-too-sheer white blouse that’s all the rage now, and she runs a hand down her navy pencil skirt that hugs curves I've committed to memory.
Even from this distance, I can tell she's smiling at something on her phone. God, her dimples light up her whole, entire face.
