Damn him.
Maybe he’s bluffing.
Maybe he isn’t.
The problem is that I’m not willing to gamble the people I love to find out.
A bitter laugh escapes me.
A week ago, escaping was all I could think about.
Now freedom is sitting right in front of me, and somehow I’m still here.
Still working.
Still stealing glances at my criminal husband.
Still wondering if he’s still looking at me.
The realization is unsettling enough to make me immediately bury myself in another spreadsheet.
Some questions are better left unanswered.
Chapter Eleven
Leonid
It’s one chirping little shit outside the window that wakes me up.
Groaning, I push off the covers and kick my legs off the bed.
My shoulders are tight, coiled with stress, and my eyes burn from lack of sleep. But the first thing they land on is her—my new wife, fully covered in a beige silk nightdress but somehow still glowing like a dreamy ray of sunshine nothing can hide, not even the heavy white comforter pulled all the way up to her chin.
Soft, luscious honey-blonde strands spread over the fluffy pillow, and the only view I get is a glimpse of her back rising and falling gently while she sleeps, completely oblivious to the world around her. I find it almost peaceful, watching her in her most vulnerable state. I could stay for a long time, just...watching.
But as quickly as the strange feeling comes, it dissipates, like steam escaping into thin air.
I grab the clothing closest to me—a black shirt and dress pants— roughly put them on over my half-naked body, and push myself off the bed. As I march out of the room, shutting the door behind me, I allow it to click shut softly, careful not to wake her.
The hallway is faintly lit and quiet, with none of the men in sight. By the time I get into the study, the morning light hasn’t even broken over the harbor.
I settle on the chair behind the mahogany desk, ignoring the creaking echo across the silence as I reach for my pen. Thedesk lamp illuminates shipping ledgers, routes, and customs manifests spread before me, and my mind begins moving.
The first thing I do is cross-reference data before noting the distinct patterns in the recent sabotages at the eastern docks. The signs are clear, and so are the patterns: Vasili’s getting sloppy, leaving a trail of predictable disruptions that he thinks are clever.
I scoff, irritated.
I hate to admit it, but there was a time when Vasili actually made me look twice at a map. Years ago, the man was a ghost in the shipping lanes. He understood the rhythm of the black market, knew exactly which customs officials to buy, and moved his cargo with a quiet, lethal efficiency that commanded enough respect to be labelled as a threat. I had plenty of nuisances, but Vasili was a legitimate menace on my ledger.
For a moment, I thought the bastard might actually force me to share the harbor.
But power does strange things to weak men. When handled poorly, it turns them into fools. Look at him. I glance through the ledger once more. He’s loud, more arrogant than he should be, and incredibly sloppy.
He leaves trails of breadcrumbs through my union workers and actually thinks he’s delivering a masterstroke by disrupting a few shifts.
He’s like a child throwing rocks inside a glass house, hoping no one will notice. Pathetic, really. He’s survived long enough that this is practically begging me to destroy him.
I reach for my phone, then dial a single digit.
