"The tip came from Naples?" I ask.
Jelena nods, pushing a tablet across the table toward me. "One of ours. She flagged a Romanian shipment scheduled to leave in forty-eight hours."
I scan the information. Shipping container. Manifest lists textiles. We all know what's really inside.
Women. Girls. Cargo that breathes and bleeds and deserves better than being smuggled like contraband.
"Intercept point?" I ask.
"Naples port, before it reaches the ship." Katarina's voice cuts through the room like a blade. She sits with military posture, dark hair pulled back, expression carved from stone. "We have a four-hour window after it clears the warehouse, before it's loaded. That's when it's most vulnerable."
"And then?" I look at each of them in turn. Jelena with her careful planning. Katarina with her tactical precision. Maia hunched over her laptop, fingers flying across keys, already ten steps ahead in the digital landscape. Valeria taking notes in shorthand only she can read.
"Reroute through Marseille," Jelena says. "Documentation already prepared. From there, straight to Chicago. Should arrive within seventy-two hours of intercept."
I pull up my calendar on my phone. Stare at the blocks of time already committed. Gallery opening tomorrow night. Charity gala the night after. Some society luncheon because the mayor's wife will be there and Maksim needs me to make connections.
The Severyns need me visible. Need me performing the role I was bought to play.
But this operation needs me more.
"I can't be here for arrival," I say, and the words taste like failure coating my tongue. "Not unless we can push the timeline. Delay the intercept by three days."
Katarina shakes her head. "Window closes. They move the shipment, we lose them. It's now or not at all."
Silence settles over the table, heavy with implications.
Jelena's gaze finds mine. Holds. There's concern in her expression, carefully masked but present. "Victoria. Maybe it's time to remember where your priorities lie."
The words land like an accusation wrapped in worry.
"My loyalty," I say quietly, keeping my voice level even as anger sparks beneath the surface, "belongs to this work. To these women. To Eryan Nis." I let the name hang in the air between us. "The Severyns are a means to an end. Nothing more."
Jelena doesn't look convinced, but she nods. Lets it go for now.
"We proceed without you on arrival," Katarina says, ever practical. "Valeria handles intake. Maia coordinates safehouses. You join when you can."
It's not ideal. I hate being absent for critical moments, hate delegating when I should be present. But it's the best we can manage given the constraints of my gilded cage.
"Do it," I say. "Naples intercept in forty-eight hours. Keep me updated on every step."
Maia looks up from her laptop, pushing wire-rimmed glasses up her nose. "Encryption protocol stays the same? Or do we upgrade given recent proximity to certain organizations?"
She doesn't say the Severyn Bratva. Doesn't need to.
"Upgrade," I say without hesitation. "Burner phones for field communication. No exceptions."
Nods all around.
We spend another twenty minutes finalizing details. Contingency plans. Backup contacts. The meticulous choreography of an operation that can't afford to fail because lives depend on its success.
When we're done, Katarina leans back in her chair, studying with sharp eyes.
"When are we training again?" she asks. "You've been absent. Getting soft."
I almost laugh. Soft is the last thing I am, though my body does miss the brutal sessions, the way Katarina pushes me until muscles scream and lungs burn and I remember what I'm capable of when pushed.
"Soon," I promise. "Let me get through this week. Then you can put my ass back in fighting shape."
