Vicente still drags at me like gravity. I’m free of him—extracted, debriefed, reassigned—and I still can’t look away. Something sick in me needs to prove I can face him and walk away whole. Prove he didn’t break me. Prove I’m not still the man who let himself be used because he thought it was the price of the mission.
Tatiana glances back at me. Her expression is calculated, watchful. She knew exactly who was in that booth.
You’re not that person anymore.
You’re Cal.
The shift is deliberate. Professional. Cal’s confidence settles into my posture—shoulders loose, jaw easy, smile ready. The rest of it gets buried.
Tatiana reaches the booth first. “Misha.” She leans down, presses cheeks with Volkov, then straightens and gestures toward me. “This is Cal Logan.”
Volkov stands to shake my hand. Shorter than expected—compact build, steady grip, eyes that have outlived more powerful men than him. He holds the handshake a beat longer than necessary.
“Cal.” He weighs the name. “Tatiana says you’re interesting. I don’t meet many interesting people anymore.”
“That’s because you’re spending Saturday nights in nightclubs, Mikhail.” My grin comes easy. “Interesting people are in boardrooms. Or in jail.”
A real laugh. “I like him,” he says to Tatiana. “Sit. Please.”
I slide into the booth. Neither Vicente nor Arturo has spoken. Both of them are watching me.
“As I was saying,” Volkov continues, settling back in, “since Amador relocated his operations, the old routes through Mexico have gone quiet. But the capital behind those routes didn’t disappear. It’s sitting. Waiting.” He drops his voice beneath the bass. “What I need is someone who can build new channels without drawing attention.”
“Federal attention,” I say, keeping it light.
“Any attention.” Volkov leans forward. “Quiet money, quiet relationships. Someone already connected on both sides of the border who knows how to keep their mouth shut.”
He’s fishing. Testing. I give him just enough.
“I ran logistics for five years through routes most people didn’t know existed. When things changed hands, I went freelance. Miami, mostly. But the Southwest is where the real money moves.”
Volkov’s eyes cut to Vicente. “Cal Logan.” He says the full name slowly, recognition settling in. “You’re the one who ran logistics for Amador’s operation.”
“Guilty.” I don’t flinch.
“Small world.” Volkov looks between us. “And you two just happen to be in the same nightclub tonight?”
Vicente speaks for the first time. “LA is a small town when you run in certain circles.” His voice is warm, unhurried. His eyes do a slow sweep from my face down to the open collar, the fitted shirt, the expensive jeans. His eyebrow lifts—amused, knowing, like he’s cataloging the differences between this version of me and the one he used to undress. “I was wondering when we’d cross paths again.”
My skin prickles under the scrutiny. Too familiar. Too much like the way he used to look at me before he’d decide exactly how the night would go.
“I outgrew Mexico,” Vicente continues, addressing Volkov but watching me. “Cal went his way. I went mine.”
“You got out by the skin of your teeth, from what I heard.” Volkov raises his glass. “Would’ve been in a Mexican federal prison if you’d stayed another week. But not before you and Arturo dealt with the man who sold you out.”
A shadow crosses Vicente’s face. “Some debts require personal attention.”
“And now look at you.” Volkov gestures between Vicente and Arturo. “With Arturo’s international network, you’ve upgraded. Half the Pacific Rim, if the rumors are right.”
Arturo’s watching me with those pale eyes that miss nothing. “Rumors are usually wrong. But not always.”
Intel. Real, operational intel, landing in my lap while the man who owned me for five years sits across the booth. I file every word.
“Cal was always good at reading a room,” Vicente says. His gaze drops to my glass—the whiskey Tatiana ordered that I haven’t touched. “At least your taste in drinks hasn’t changed.”
He knows my preferences, my habits. Every detail from five years as his property.
Volkov’s phone buzzes. He checks it, stands. “Forgive me—I see someone I need to speak with.” He clasps my hand again, grip lingering. “Cal. I think we should talk again. Properly. Without the music.”
