My pulse jumps. “Where?”
“Boat docks,” he replies. “We’re meeting someone.”
Of course we are.
He reaches for his jacket and gestures for me to stand. I do, automatically, slipping my shoes on without being told. He brings me everywhere now. Meetings. Dinners. Walkthroughs. Exchanges I pretend not to understand while absorbing everything.
I am an unwilling participant in all of this illegal shit.
He never leaves me behind anymore. Never sends me away. I’m always right there at his side, visible and silent, a reminder to everyone in the room of what he’s capable of taking and keeping.
He likes that.
As we head for the door, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Expensive clothes. Perfect hair. A woman who looks like she belongs beside him.
No one would guess I’m trapped.
No one would guess I’m terrified.
He places a hand at the small of my back, guiding me forward, and I force myself not to flinch.
Another meeting.
Another reminder.
Another step deeper into his world.
And somewhere inside me, beneath the fear and the nausea and the rage, a small, steady voice keeps whispering the same thing.
Watch.
Listen.
Remember.
Because if I’m going to get out of this, it’s going to start with knowing exactly how he operates.
Even when he thinks I’m just standing quietly at his side.
The boat docks are quiet in a way that feels wrong.
Warehouses loom on all sides, big concrete beasts with rusted doors and faded company names painted over again and again. The water laps softly against the pilings, the sound almost gentle, like it doesn’t know what happens here at night.
We were here yesterday.
And the day before that.
We’ve actually been at the same hotel for more than a week now, which is new. Alexei doesn’t stay anywhere this long unless something big is happening. Something that needs hands-on supervision. Something he doesn’t trust anyone else to manage.
That realization settles heavy in my chest.
I stay where I’m told, a few steps behind him, silent and still, my face calm even as my heart hammers. The smell of salt and oil and old metal clings to the air. Men move around us with purpose. Russians on one side. Cartel on the other.
The exchange is quick and efficient. Crates get opened just long enough to show what’s inside. Weapons. Money. Product I don’t want to identify too closely because I don’t need that kind of knowledge lodged in my brain.
I keep my eyes down. I don’t react. I don’t exist.
One of the cartel guys glances at me anyway. Then again, longer this time. His gaze is sharp, suspicious.
