We were circling it carefully — like two people testing the stability of a bridge before crossing.
Trust in partnership wasn’t built by forcing trauma into conversation.
Roman stretched his arms above his head and cracked his neck.
Then his expression shifted. More serious.
“I’m thinking...”
He stood and stepped closer to me, lowering his voice instinctively — even though no one else was inside the apartment.
“Should we hit Solaris Club tonight?”
I raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Tonight?”
“Why wait?” He moved to the coffee table and pulled up a map of downtown Los Angeles on the laptop again.
“Solaris is one of the biggest neutral grounds for the underworld in Southern California.”
He pointed at a highlighted location. “High-end. Private membership. Heavy security. Surveillance blind spots — intentionally designed.”
“Half the major players rotate through there on Fridays.”
His eyes flicked toward me.
“We might catch something useful — overheard names, body language, meetings happening in real time.”
He tapped the screen lightly.
“Low risk.”
“High intel potential.”
He watched my reaction carefully.
This wasn’t reckless. It was strategic infiltration. Starting immediately. No delay.
I felt the familiar coil of adrenaline tighten in my chest.
Not fear.
Purpose.
He tilted his head.
“Are you in?”
I considered it for only a second.
We didn’t come to California to settle in quietly.
We came to collect evidence — to watch, record, and gather what we needed to bury Ruslan Baranov in court and send him to prison for life.
The sooner we inserted ourselves into relevant spaces, the better.
I straightened.
