“That’s my guess. Give Mason resources, let him stalk her, wait for him to create an opening. Then they move in.”
“Today could have been that opening. If Alexi hadn’t been there?—”
“But he was. And now Mason knows she’s pregnant.” Silas closes his laptop. “That changes things. Makes her an even bigger target.”
I pick up a pen from my desk, turning it over in my fingers. Mason Porter. A pawn in someone else’s game. But a dangerous pawn who’s already put his hands on my wife.
“We take him out,” I say. “Tonight. Make it look like an accident.”
“That might tip off whoever’s backing him. If the Kozlovs are using him as bait and he suddenly dies, they’ll know we’re onto them. They’ll change tactics.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should. Better to watch him. Let him lead us to whoever’s pulling his strings. Then we take them all out at once.”
The pen cracks in my hand. Just splits down the middle, ink leaking onto my palm. I look down at it, then at Silas. “He touched her. Left bruises on her skin. Scared her.”
“I know.”
“And you’re telling me to let him live.”
“I’m telling you to be smart. Use him to find the real threat. Then kill everyone involved.”
I drop the broken pen pieces onto my desk. The ink stains my skin, dark and viscous like blood. “How long?”
“Give it two weeks. See who he contacts, where he goes. If nothing develops, then we handle him permanently.”
Two weeks of Mason Porter breathing the same air as my wife.
I want to put a bullet in his head tonight, but Silas is right. If someone’s backing Mason, we need to know who and then eliminate the entire threat, not just the visible piece.
“Two weeks,” I say. “But if he comes near her again, I don’t care who’s backing him. He dies.”
“Understood.”
Silas starts gathering the files, but I stop him. “Wait. You said he keeps getting her new phone numbers. How?”
“We’re still working on that. But it has to be someone with access to our systems. Either hacking us or someone on the inside.”
“Find out which. And Silas?” I meet his eyes. “If it’s someone on the inside, bring them to me personally.”
“Will do.”
After he leaves, I sit at my desk and stare at the broken pen pieces. The ink has dried on my palm, sticky and dark.
I should go home. Check on Savannah. Make sure she’s eating, resting, and not spiraling into anxiety about what happened.
But first, I have another meeting.
Councilman Richard Torres arrives at one of my hotels at 8:00 PM sharp. He’s escorted to a private conference room by my men, looking nervous despite the expensive suit and practiced smile.
“Mr. Volkov.” He extends his hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
I don’t shake it. “Sit.”
He sits. Adjusts his tie and clears his throat. “I understand there’s been some delay with the permits for your Henderson property. I wanted to discuss?—”
“You’ve been holding up my permits for three months. Demanding more money each time we submit new paperwork. Why?”
