"Cockroaches," I finish. "Small. Annoying. Easy to crush when the time comes."
Liam's gaze flicks to me. He knows about Kristen's situation. I see the question in his eyes: Is this business or personal?
Both. The answer is both, and I hate that I can't separate them anymore.
"What's our play?" Claudio asks.
I force my attention back to the spreadsheets. "We don't engage directly. Let them hemorrhage money trying to maintain their market share with substandard product. When their dealers start losing customers to overdoses, they'll come crawling back to quality suppliers."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we remind them why the Sartoris have controlled Chicago for three generations while Russian crews come and go like seasonal allergies."
Claudio nods, gathering his papers. "I'll have updated territory reports by Friday."
After he leaves, the silence stretches. Liam waits. He's good at that.
"The Baganovs," he finally says. "They're the ones holding Miss Thomas's debt."
Not a question. Statement of fact.
"Yes."
"Convenient that they're also our least significant threat."
I meet his eyes. "What are you implying?"
"Nothing, sir." The corner of his mouth twitches—as close to a smile as Liam gets. "Simply observing that eliminating them would solve multiple problems simultaneously."
"Pietro already authorized paying off her debt through shell companies."
"I'm aware. I'm also aware you haven't executed that plan yet."
My fingers stop tapping. He's right. I've had the authorization for days. The money's ready. One phone call, and Kristen's nightmare disappears.
So why haven't I made it?
Because paying off her debt means she's free. Free to leave the compound. Free to take Lily back to that shithole apartment.Free to walk away from me before I figure out what the fuck I'm even feeling.
The compound goes quiet after midnight. That's when I do my best thinking.
Tonight, the quiet betrays me.
Light spills from the living room.
I should walk past. Head to my office. Pour a whiskey and review the Marchetti files again until my eyes blur.
Instead, my feet carry me toward the doorway like they've got their own fucking agenda.
Kristen sits curled in the corner of the leather sectional, legs tucked beneath her, a thick hardcover balanced on her knees. She's wearing pajamas with tiny flowers on it. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders.
A notebook sits open on the cushion beside her, covered in handwriting.
She hasn't noticed me yet.
I lean against the doorframe and let myself look.
Her lips move slightly as she reads, forming silent words. Every few seconds, she reaches for the notebook and scribbles something without looking away from the page, muscle memory guiding her hand.
