Alexei’s eyes harden. “Get my laptop.”
Within moments, we’re back in his office, the air thick with unspoken tension. Alexei pulls up the internal tracking system, a private network that pings the company phones of everyone who works for him.
“Every employee gets one,” he says absently, fingers flying over the keyboard. “They don’t know about the tracker.”
The map lights up, a web of red dots across the city. Alexei zooms in, filters out everyone but Sergei.
“There,” he says, pointing to the blinking dot. “That’s Sergei’s phone.”
Viktor leans closer. “That’s…wait. That’s Westchester.”
Alexei’s expression tightens. “Not just Westchester. Look.”
He magnifies the view, and the address appears on screen.
It’s Agent Turner’s residence.
For a second, none of us speaks. Then Viktor exhales a low curse.
“Son of a bitch.”
My blood runs hot. “Do you think he went there with her?”
Alexei nods once. “Seems our dear Sergei’s been busier than we thought.” He opens the location history. “He’s been there before. Repeatedly.”
Viktor paces. “He’s been meeting Turner.”
“Likely working with him,” Alexei corrects, voice clipped. “But for how long? What has he revealed?”
I can barely process the words. Mireille. Agent Turner. Sergei. The betrayal twists like a knife.
Alexei brings up another file, a list of recent stops in Sergei’s history. “He’s been to Martin Nowak’s estate, too. Several times.”
“Nowak?” Viktor mutters. “That Polish bastard who’s been trying to take over our docks?”
Alexei nods grimly. “The same. He’s been circling for years, trying to push into our territory. But he doesn’t have the power or the balls to take us on directly. Not without help.”
Viktor runs a hand through his hair. “And now he’s got it. Sergei’s got to be feeding him intel. Turner’s giving him access. They’ve been building something behind our backs.”
I stare at the map, the small blinking light that marks the Turner house. “And Mireille’s in the middle of it.”
Alexei closes the laptop with a decisive snap. “We don’t know what they’re planning. What if you meeting Mireille was a setup—”
“Stop! It wasn’t. But we don’t have time to debate this. I need to go now.”
“Of course, you do,” Alexei says. “But you’re not going alone.” He grabs his coat and nods to Viktor. “Get the car. We’ll deal with Sergei first and Turner if we have to.”
Viktor hesitates. “You think Mireille’s safe?”
I don’t answer—because I don’t know.
All I know is that if Sergei—or anyone—hurts her, there won’t be a corner of this city dark enough for them to hide.
The drive to Westchester is a blur of headlights and the rage simmering inside of me. I barely hear Alexei’s voice over the roar in my head.
Mireille.
Her name pulses through me like a heartbeat. Her laugh. Her blush. The way she bites her lip when she's nervous. The way she looked at me, like I was someone worth believing in.
