Page 24

Leo releases a slow breath. “Did your man disturb anything?”

“He was careful.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“A chair may have been moved.” I meet his gaze. “Nothing was taken.”

Leo’s mouth flattens with disapproval, but he doesn’t remind me that entering the apartment was illegal. He believes I spent those years in Seattle working for an importer, like the rest of my family. He knows nothing about the Bratva or that I became one of its assassins. To him, this is the first line I’ve crossed.

“You may have frightened whoever those women were,” he says.

“Then they’ll be more cautious than Connor was.”

We leave the vineyard and approach the open loading doors of the production building. Stainless-steel fermentation tanks rise beneath rows of white lights, while employees guide the morning’s fruit toward the sorting equipment. Pumps, conveyor belts, and voices fill the vast space with the familiar noise of harvest.

Leo steps through the doorway ahead of me. I’m crossing the threshold when the power fails.

The sorting equipment stops, the overhead lights disappear, and the last mechanical whine fades into darkness. A curse comes from somewhere near the crush pad, followed by the scrape of a bin across concrete. Red emergency lights activate along the walls, bathing the tanks, pipes, and startled employees in a dim glow.

My hand moves beneath my jacket before I realize what I’m doing. I close my fingers around the grip of the handgun at the back of my waistband and draw it as I turn, keeping the barrel aimed at the floor.

I’ve carried a weapon every day since I was seventeen. Leaving the Bratva gave me a different life, but it didn’t persuade me that danger had ceased to exist. I may negotiate contracts now rather than eliminate men, but I still enter rooms knowing where every exit leads. I can still hear a lie in the slightest change of breath, and I sense violence before anyone else sees it coming.

I left the Bratva, but the Bratva never left me.

“Stay where you are,” I tell the employees nearest the sorting line. “Don’t move until the emergency lights show you a clear path.”

They obey while I study the dark production floor. Two doors lead outside, with another opening into the barrel-storage wing. The employees belong here. Their confusion appears genuine, and none is using the outage to move toward the offices or restricted areas.

Darkness often serves as a distraction. Under ordinary circumstances, I would assume the outage was an electrical problem, but after what Connor uncovered, I consider the possibility of an attack. People look toward the failed lights while the real threat approaches from somewhere else.

The generator engages, and the building fills with sound as the climate system restarts. Main lights brighten above the production floor, followed by the monitors beside the fermentation tanks and part of the sorting line. Employees blink against the glare, but no one panics. Months of required emergency drills have taught them where to stand and which equipment to leave alone until a supervisor authorizes its use.

I return the gun to its holster beneath my jacket. Leo watches me without comment. He has known for years that I carry it, even if he has never understood why. Then he turns his attention back to the workers.

“Mateo, account for everyone in the eastern crews,” he orders. “Carla, check the crush team and report any injuries to me.”

I remove my phone and call Drew. He answers on the first ring.

“We lost power in the barrel wing and part of production,” I say as I walk toward the loading doors. “Close both gates until we know why.”

“Cameras are still active through the battery system,” Drew replies, his voice calm over the commotion. “I’ll secure the estate.”

“Check the residences, stable, equipment barns, fuel storage, servers, tasting pavilion, and every road onto the property. I want confirmation that no one entered a restricted building during the outage.”

“I’m on my way.”

Drew ends the call without wasting time on questions he can answer himself. It’s another reason I trust him with the estate’s security and my family’s lives.

Leo joins me outside, where harvest work continues beneath a sky turning pale gold above the foothills. The failed power has affected only part of the winery, yet the timing and location are too precise to dismiss.

“Keep the crews working,” I tell him. “No one leaves until Drew clears the estate, and every worker needs to be accounted for.”

Leo studies my face. “You think this was intentional.”

“I think we’re going to find out.”

Drew arrives within three minutes, crossing the production yard with two members of his security team behind him. At six feet two, he has the broad build of a man accustomed to placing himself between danger and everyone else. His brown hair is clipped close, and an earpiece curves behind one ear above the collar of his black vineyard polo.