A knock sounds at the door. “Come in.”
Bogdan enters, a manila folder in his hands. “A little info on the car, but nothing valuable.”
He sets the folder on my desk, and I flip through it: a few pictures from the CCTV footage at the intersection.
“Plates were stolen, of course. And footage at the intersection looped for twelve minutes. Professional job.”
I close the folder. “They won’t miss twice. She’s in their sights, and they’re not going to stop until she’s neutralized.”
“You’re right about that. You want to put her on full lockdown? The penthouse is the safest place for her, and I can make sure she doesn’t leave.”
I picture her seated at her desk—the line of her shoulders, the way she bites her lower lip when she’s trying to focus. Part of me wants to send Bogdan out, call her in, and make her beg for it, like I know she would. I push those thoughts aside before I act on them.
“Take her to the penthouse. Keep her there until I say otherwise.”
“She’ll argue.”
“I’ll win.”
“Understood.” Bogdan leaves.
I rise from my desk and stand at the window. The sun is beginning to dip, casting the towers of downtown in a golden glow. My reflection stares back, almost unfamiliar. On the desk behind me lays the folder that will determine the future of my empire.
No doubt Ruth is in panic mode, calling her father, who’ll call a cousin, who’ll call a dock supervisor. Something will slow down somewhere. They’ll test how serious I am. They’ll learn I’m not bluffing.
Half the Bratva men in the city will feel the shift, too. You don’t talk to an O’Donnell like that without consequences.
City lights flicker against theglass.
I turn my attention back to the report, turning a page and scanning. I’m not finished with it yet, but I can see, without a doubt, that it’s just what I wanted, just what I need, to put my plans in motion.
And I’m ready.
CHAPTER 12
GABBY
The car glides through downtown, city lights smearing against the tinted glass. I’m wedged in the back seat, wishing I were anywhere else.
Bogdan’s behind the wheel, stoic as ever. His posture is perfect—military-straight, with hands at ten and two, eyes scanning traffic with robotic calm. He hasn’t said a single word since we left the office.
I glance at the back of his head, noticing a small scar beneath his hairline.
“So,” I say, “do you get paid extra to look that serious, or is it a personal preference?”
He flicks his eyes up to the rearview mirror. It’s nighttime, so he doesn’t have his sunglasses on, for once. His eyes are a watery shade of blue. Kind of nice, really.
“Seriousness works better for the job. And so does silence.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s being a little wry. “Good to know.”
He doesn’t reply. Just takes a turn with surgical precision, the glow of the city flicking across his chiseled face.
I watch the skyline slide past. My thoughts are totally scrambled, half of them replaying the car that nearly hit me this morning, the other half wondering what waits ahead.
I press my palms to my knees, trying to anchor myself. “It’s just temporary,” I whisper under my breath.
Bogdan glances up. “Something on your mind?”
