He was stepping out of a black Maybach.
Charcoal suit tailored to perfection.
White shirt open at the collar.
Dark hair pushed back with controlled precision.
This is the man who sent me to prison — despite my innocence, despite the fact that I was pregnant. Anger surged through me as I clenched my fists, the urge for revenge burning inside me.
I wanted to wipe that smug look off his face — to make him feel even a fraction of the pain he caused.
He was a monster who deserved to be six feet under — a man who didn’t care that I carried his child while locked behind bars. He justified his cruelty with his sister’s brutal death, using it as an excuse for his inhumane revenge.
Vincent tapped the image with the remote.
“Agents.”
His tone shifted — sharper now.
“This is your target.”
He zoomed into the profile sidebar.
Sparse details. Aliases. Financial holdings. Travel records. Grainy surveillance stills from different countries.
A single line noting Greek citizenship.
No arrests. No convictions. No open indictments.
No paper trail long enough to hold him.
“Baranov,” Vincent continued, “is smart. Calculated. Slippery.”
He paused.
Then added:
“We’ve got cooperation from Hellenic authorities, but so far nothing sticks.”
He clicked to another image.
A blurred shot of him walking through a private airport terminal.
Another.
Standing beside foreign diplomats.
Another.
Shaking hands with businessmen whose names were red-flagged in classified files.
“He’s nicknamed the Greek Legend for a reason,” Vincent said.
“Untouchable.”
The word hung in the air.
Untouchable.
