She’s someone.
The question is—who?
My phone buzzes again. I ignore it. Pull into the warehouse district where we’re meeting. The building looms ahead, gray concrete and rust-stained metal. Angelo’s Ferrari is already there. Good. I need answers, and he’s been digging into the Turkish supply chain for weeks.
I kill the engine, swing off. My boots hit gravel with a satisfying crunch.
Inside, the warehouse is dim. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. Angelo leans against a stack of crates, phone in hand. He looks up when I enter.
“You’re early,” he says.
“Surprise, surprise.”
He pockets his phone, straightens. “I need you to stay away from Adriana.”
At the mention of his wife, I almost smile.
Forced marriage. Old flame. Woman too smart to play along quietly.
He gives orders and calls them options, then acts surprised when she goes silent.
I’ve been undoing some of that damage. He doesn’t know.
“Why would I?”
Angelo’s jaw tightens.
“Don’t fuck with me, Maks.” He steps closer, hands clenched at his sides. “Whatever you’re saying to her—stop.”
“I’m not saying anything she doesn’t want to hear.”
His face darkens. “She’s my wife.”
“Then act like her husband instead of her warden.”
The silence between us crackles. I watch him process it—the anger, the shame, the truth he doesn’t want to swallow.
Finally, he exhales. “You done playing marriage counselor?”
“For now.”
He runs a hand through his hair, looks away. “We got intel on the Turks.”
Good. Back tobusiness.
“Talk.”
***
Gold light. Velvet booths. The low, predatory hum of money moving hands.
“He is just an assholeallthe time!”
Adriana’s voice cuts through the noise like broken glass.
I don’t look at her right away. I watch the dealer rake in chips, the flick of his wrist precise, practiced. Control. Everyone here pretends they have it.
“Lower your voice.”
