The security reports blur on my screen.
I've read the same paragraph four times and I still couldn't tell you what it says. Something about perimeter sensors, motion detection upgrades, threat assessment protocols. Important things. Things that could mean the difference between life and death if Sergei makes his move.
But my mind isn't on Sergei.
It's on the greenhouse. On the way Bianca looked at me in the golden afternoon light, dirt smudged on her cheek, her dark hair escaping its braid. On the way her hand felt under mine—warm and calloused now, roughened by work, trembling slightly even though her voice stayed steady.
On the way she didn't pull away.
I push back from my desk and stand, pacing to the window. The grounds are dark, the guards moving in their careful rotations, everything exactly as it should be. Secure. Controlled.
I am not controlled. I am anything but controlled.
I've faced down enemies who wanted me dead. I've survived an ambush that killed my parents, crawled through their blood, played dead while their murderers walked away laughing. I've built walls around myself so thick that nothing could penetrate them—not grief, not loneliness, not the desperate wanting that I buried along with everything else from my former life.
And one accidental touch from Bianca has undone me more thoroughly than any bullet ever could.
My phone buzzes. Alexei.
"Talk to me," I say, grateful for the distraction.
"I've completed the assessment on Howard Crane's ranch." Alexei's voice is clipped, professional. "It's worse than we thought."
"How much worse?"
"He's holding at least eight women on the property. Maybe more—our surveillance couldn't get a complete count. The conditions are..." He pauses. "Brutal. He's not just keeping them. He's breaking them."
I think about Bianca on that stage, bathed in white light, her chin raised in defiance even as her world collapsed around her. She could have ended up somewhere like Crane's ranch. Could have been one of those women, broken and hollowed out, if I hadn't been there.
The thought makes my jaw clench.
"Security?"
"A dozen men, give or take. Well-armed but not well-trained. The property is isolated—nearest neighbor is ten miles away. Local law enforcement is either corrupt or oblivious." I hear papers shuffling on his end. "The weak point is the northern perimeter. A drainage ditch runs under the fence line—big enough for a small team to access without triggering the main sensors."
"Extraction time?"
"Fifteen minutes from breach to exit, if everything goes smoothly. Thirty if there are complications."
I close my eyes, running the variables through my mind. A small team, surgical strike, in and out before anyone knows what happened. It's risky—Crane has connections, and an attackon his property could draw attention we don't need. But the plan is solid. The weaknesses are exploitable. It could work.
"What do you want me to do with this information?" Alexei asks. The same question he asked before, when I first requested the intelligence.
I think about Bianca in the greenhouse, her hands in the dirt, asking about the other women from the auction.Is there anything I can do?The way she pushed past her own terror to think about someone else's suffering.
She asked. And I want to be the kind of man who can answer yes.
"Assemble a team," I say. "Six men—our best. I want the operation planned by tomorrow night, execution within forty-eight hours."
Silence on the line. Then: "You're serious."
"Did I stutter?"
"No, but—" Alexei chooses his words carefully. "This isn't our fight. We don’t know if Crane is really connected to Sergei or the Morozovs. If we hit his operation and word gets out, it could complicate things. Draw attention at a time when we need to be invisible."
"Then make sure word doesn't get out."
"Misha—"
