I take the cup, feeling the heat seep into my palms. I drink. It's perfect.
I watch him over the rim.
His hands rest on the counter, fingers slightly spread, grounding himself against the stone. These are the hands that stopped Viktor Sorokin before the blade could clear the table. The hands that locked my door from the outside. The hands that could dismantle a human neck with less effort than it takes to brew coffee.
If I had any doubts about his loyalty, I wouldn't be able to close my eyes in this building.
But I don't have doubts anymore.
"You didn't sleep," I state.
"No."
"You should have. We could've taken turns."
A fleeting expression flashes across his face—a tightening around his eyes.
"You required rest," he replies.
He's not arguing. Maksim doesn't argue; he simply states facts as he sees them and waits for the world to conform.
You required rest.
As if my needs are an objective truth he feels entitled to manage. As if he has been observing me closely enough to know when I'm running on empty before I even admit it to myself.
I should feel suspicious about that level of scrutiny. I should be annoyed.
Instead, I finish my espresso and set the cup exactly where he expects it.
"Get ready," I say. "We're going to the Estate."
Maksim nods once and heads toward the guest bathroom to change. I watch him go, my eyes tracking him involuntarily, drawn to him like a tongue probing a chipped tooth.
He moves silently, not for show, but as if gravity doesn't affect him in the same way it does other men.
My phone sits on the dining table, its screen pulsing under my thumb.
Alexei. Three messages.
I read them in order, and the strange calm I woke up with begins to decay.
The first message is a list. Viktor talked. Alexei applied pressure, and Viktor broke. I see names I didn't expect—men who have sat at my table, drunk my vodka, and sworn loyalty while waiting for a better offer from the Italians.
The second message hits harder.
It confirms that our logistics coordinator—the unseen backbone of our distribution network—was picked up by federal agents an hour ago. That's not bad luck; that's a fed lead. Someone handedhim over to apply pressure from the outside while the inside crumbles.
Then I open the third message.
I go still.
Shipment compromised. Route 4. Total loss.
Route 4. The warehouse district. The observation point on Halsted.
The place I was supposed to be last night.
I canceled the inspection because the penthouse felt too quiet, and I didn't want to leave the perimeter. I stayed here, locked in this glass cage with Maksim guarding the door.
