"Talk to me," I say.
"Sergei landed in Los Angeles two hours ago. He went straight to the Morozov compound and hasn't left since." Alexei's voice is clipped, efficient. "But his men have been busy. They've got people asking questions all over the city—who's the Kashkin who bought the Benedetti girl, where did he take her, what's the security situation."
"They're gathering intelligence."
"Looks like it. I've identified at least four Morozov soldiers running reconnaissance. Two in San Francisco, twoworking contacts in the criminal network. They're not being subtle about it."
Not subtle. That's intentional. Sergei wants me to know he's coming. He wants me to sweat.
"What's the timeline?"
"Hard to say. Could be days, could be weeks. He's methodical—he'll want to know exactly what he's up against before he makes a move." A pause. "But he will make a move. This isn't the kind of insult he lets go."
No. It isn't. I humiliated him in front of sixty witnesses, stole the woman he'd been promised, disrupted an arrangement that had been months in the making. Men like Sergei don't forgive. They don't forget. They take what they want, and they destroy anyone who gets in their way.
"I want eyes on every Morozov movement," I say. "Sergei, his lieutenants, anyone connected to the family. If they book a flight, if they buy gas, if they take a piss—I want to know about it."
"Already on it."
"And increase security at the estate. I want the perimeter patrols doubled, new cameras on the north and east walls, and a safe room prepared in the basement. Full lockdown protocol."
"Understood." Alexei hesitates. "There's one more thing."
"What?"
"Carmine Benedetti has been trying to reach you. He's called four times in the last hour."
Carmine. The man who sold his own daughter. The thought of speaking to him makes my jaw tighten.
"What does he want?"
"Didn't say. But he sounds nervous."
Nervous. Good. He should be nervous. He's caught between the Kashkins and the Morozovs, and neither of us have any reason to protect him.
"I'll call him back," I say. "Send me everything you have on Sergei's movements. And Alexei—"
"Yes?"
"The other women at the auction. The ones who were sold after Bianca. I need to know what happened to them."
Silence on the line. I can feel Alexei's surprise, even through the phone.
"That's... not really our concern," he says carefully.
"It is now. Find out where they went, who bought them, what condition they're in. Start with the one called Mirella."
"May I ask why?"
Because Bianca asked. Because she sat on my floor with tears streaming down her face and still thought about someone other than herself. Because if her father is responsible for those women's suffering, she'll want to know if anything can be done.
"No," I say. "Just do it."
"Understood."
I end the call and sit in the silence, turning my phone over in my hands. The weight of it feels heavier than it should—all those lives reduced to data points, intelligence reports, threat assessments.
This is what I do. This is what I've always done. Gather information, analyze threats, neutralize enemies. It's clean, logical, devoid of sentiment. The work of a machine, not a man.
