Haven’t been able to face the space he’ll never occupy again.
Sergei reads my hesitation. His hand finds mine, fingers lacing through mine with surprising gentleness for a man who kills for a living.
“You don’t have to do this today.”
“Yes, I do.” I squeeze his hand once, then release it. Armor back in place. “Matthew thinks I’m too soft to fight for what’s mine. Time to prove him wrong.”
We exit the car, and the morning sun hits like a spotlight. Sergei adjusts his jacket—the movement deliberately casual, but I catch the flash of his shoulder holster. He’s armed. Heavily, if I know him at all.
The lobby is all marble and brass, echoing with the footsteps of employees who built careers on my father’s vision. Theyrecognize me immediately. Some offer sympathetic smiles. Others look away, unwilling to pick sides in the coming war.
Smart.
The elevator ride to the fifty-seventh floor—where the boardroom occupies the entire western wing—feels endless. Sergei stands behind me, close enough that I feel his presence like a physical touch. His reflection in the polished doors shows that predator stillness I’ve learned to recognize. The calm before violence.
“Remember,” he murmurs, “they make the first move. We respond with appropriate force.”
“Appropriate force meaning?”
“Whatever keeps you breathing and them regretting their choices.”
The elevator dings. Doors slide open to reveal the executive floor—all dark wood and understated wealth. And standing directly in front of the boardroom entrance are three men in suits that scream “hired muscle trying to blend in.”
Too bulky through the shoulders. Awkward stance. Eyes that track movement like predators, not pencil pushers.
The tallest one—buzz cut, jaw like granite—steps forward. “Miss Davenport. I’m afraid the board meeting is closed to non-voting members.”
“I’m majority shareholder.” I keep my voice level. Professional. “I have every right to attend.”
“Mr. Ashford has expressed concerns about your—” Buzz Cut glances at Sergei, “—choice of companions. For everyone’s safety, we’re asking you to reschedule.”
“Asking.” Sergei’s voice could cut glass. “Interesting word choice when you’re physically blocking the entrance.”
Buzz Cut’s attention shifts. Recognition flickers across his face—fear disguised as professionalism. “Mr. Orlov. Your reputation precedes you.”
“Does it?” Sergei slides his hands into his pockets, relaxed and terrifying. “Then you know what happens to people who stand between me and my objectives.”
“We’re just doing our job?—”
“Your job is corporate security, not assault.” I step forward, forcing Buzz Cut to either move or put hands on me. “You have five seconds to step aside before I have you arrested for unlawful detainment.”
The other two muscle their way forward, forming a wall. One is shorter, stockier, with the kind of broken nose that comes from street fights, not boxing gyms. The third looks younger—maybe thirty—nervous energy radiating off him in waves.
“Mr. Ashford gave clear instructions,” Broken Nose says. “No one enters without his approval.”
“Mr. Ashford doesn’t own this company.” My hand moves toward my phone. “But I can have NYPD here in three minutes to explain property law and shareholder rights. Your choice.”
Buzz Cut’s jaw tightens. His hand twitches toward something under his jacket—not a gun, probably a radio—and that’s when Sergei moves.
One second he’s beside me, the next, he’s invaded Buzz Cut’s space, hand locked around the man’s wrist before he can complete the motion. The movement is so fast, so fluid, that the other two barely process it before Sergei has Buzz Cut’s arm twisted behind his back, face pressed against the wall.
“Hands where I can see them,” Sergei says conversationally to the others. “Or I dislocate his shoulder and move on to yours.”
Broken Nose reaches for his jacket. Stupid.
Sergei’s leg sweeps out, catching Broken Nose’s ankle. He goes down hard, skull bouncing off the marble with a sickening crack. He’s not unconscious, but just dazed enough not to try to get up.
The younger one freezes, hands raised. “We don’t want trouble?—”
