Fuck.
I don’t answer. Not yet.
Because the truth is, I don’t trust myself around her. Not when every second in her orbit reminds me how badly this could go. She’s still angry. Still sharp. Still looking at me like I took something from her.
Which—fine. Maybe I did.
She thinks this is about control. And maybe that’s the lie I tell myself too. But then she calls ithomeand everything tilts. Like she’s playing a game I don’t know the rules to.
What the hell is she doing to me?
I tell myself this is about Zephyra. About leverage. About The Order. That’s bullshit. The truth is messier. Dangerous. If I let myself cross that line, I don’t know if I’ll stop. Not with her living in my space. Not with her under my skin.
Not when I still haven’t even kissed her. And it’s becoming a very specific kind of torture.
Maverick clears his throat, dragging me back. “One more thing.” He slides another set of documents across the table. “We ran her prints internationally.”
I straighten. “And?”
“She’s Russian. Connected to a Bratva cell that went dark about five years ago. No confirmed name. Operating under an alias in Paris before she disappeared.” His eyes sharpen. “If she’s working with Rinaldi, this isn’t just about territory. It’s about dismantling us.”
“Russian,” I mutter, already pacing.
My father’s voice surfaces uninvited—warnings about loyalty, about games, and about men who smile while cutting your throat.
There’s a thread here I haven’t pulled yet. A reason they’re bold enough to step back into our territory.
I stop and look at Maverick. “If Rinaldi wants war…” A slow smile curls at my mouth. “…then war’s what he gets.” I grab my jacket. “Violet stays secure. Lock down every external angle. If this was meant to weaken us, they’ll be watching our response.” I pause at the door. “And Mav?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want her found.”
His grin is sharp. “You want her destroyed.”
“I want her delivered."
“Consider it done.”
As I step into the hall, I finally text Violet back.
Me:Soon.
The scent hits me the second I step into the penthouse—rich, earthy, and unmistakably homemade. It takes a second to register, and then it clicks.
Barszcz.
Jesus Christ. Of all the things I expected to come home to, a Polish comfort-food night was not on the list.
I loosen my tie, irritation still clinging to me like sweat. Two weeks of chasing ghosts. Of dealing with Rinaldi’s bullshit. Of trying—and failing—not to think about Violet more than necessary.
And then I see her.
She’s at the kitchen island, sleeves pushed up, and stirring a massive pot like she owns the place. Grinning. Actually fuckinggrinning. Boris stands beside her, arms crossed, and nodding like a proud father watching his kid nail their first recipe.
“Ah, Boss,” Boris says, spotting me. “You are just in time. Your woman has made dinner.”
Violet spins, already rolling her eyes. “I amnothis woman.”
