Page 6

It turned out that Kuzma was right, not that I doubted his competence in the job anyway.

The man had worked with me for decades, and he had never failed to deliver on any assignment.

He was the one who told me about Ayla’s plans to visit the art gallery.

How he worked his magic was still a mystery to me, but all that mattered was the efficiency of his results.

And Kuzma was a man of incredible results.

The gallery meet-up went smoother than I thought.

The first real conversation I had with the O’Hara kid turned out to be very fascinating.

She wasn’t just a mysterious rider with a pretty face; she had brains, too.

And the way she described that painting made me think for a moment that she could relate to it in more ways than one.

It was almost as if she were describing her life—her situation.

Her voice had trailed off at some point when she started talking about the depiction of the artist’s work.

The look in her striking hazel-brown eyes, the way her voice dropped to a low whisper when she spoke, all hinted at something deeper.

Something personal. Like she was explaining from experience.

I couldn’t bring myself to look away from her; I was drawn back every time.

The sweet scent of her perfume, the calmness in her tone, or the slight parting of her cherry lips would somehow catch my attention again.

It was fascinating how this young girl managed to pull me to her like steel to a fucking magnet.

She didn’t wear too much makeup. Hell, she didn’t wear any makeup at all, if I was being honest. Yet, she still stood out as the most beautiful and most attractive woman in the gallery that day. Her reddish-chestnut hair fell loosely over her shoulders like a crimson river.

Balanced a pair of fancy black boots with high heels, she stood before me, taller than most girls her age. Her black, obscenely short skirt exposed her toned legs, and her see-through mesh top over a very unsubtle lacy bra kept me distracted almost half the time.

Watching her make sense of the painting made me smile: a small, almost imperceptible grin at the corner of my lips. The best part of our meeting was that she had no idea who I was, no clue who she was talking to.

Good. I liked that.

It was better to keep her in the dark, oblivious to the danger I posed. I wanted her to feel the pull first, to walk willingly into the storm on her own two feet. It was cleaner that way.

I sat in my dimly lit study, the scent of cigar and whiskey wafting through the air as a thread of smoke swirled around me.

A mess of photographs lay on the table—a new batch of surveillance photos Kuzma had sent over.

I leaned back in my chair, reviewing the photos before me, images of Ayla at her university, in cafés, and even at her sister’s bridal fittings.

Nothing intrusive, just enough to track patterns.

These images captured Ayla in her most natural state—unaware that she was being photographed. She didn’t pose for the camera, yet in every photo, she looked as beautiful as ever. Her smile was radiant—sunny and bright. But even in those ones where she wasn’t smiling, she still looked stunning.

“…word in the streets is that the Irish are making quiet moves. They slipped two of their boys onto 82 nd —our territory,” Kuzma’s thick voice cut through my thoughts. “We both know Ronan O’Hara never moves without purpose. The bastard’s poking the bear again.”

None of that was my concern at the moment. My gaze was fixed on the photos scattered over my table.

Kuzma sensed my distraction and asked, “Are you still there, Boss?”

“Aside from his foot soldiers trespassing, has he made any other moves?” I questioned, my eyes pinned on the photo in my hand.

“Not that I’m aware of,” he answered. “But if we let this slide, next time, it won’t be just foot soldiers.”

“Stand down, Kuzma,” I said, my voice low and even. “Let them think we’re asleep. Then we remind them whose turf they’re trespassing on.”

He hesitated. “Copy that, Boss.”

I didn’t care much about his moves and foot soldiers. But one thing was clear as day: Ronan O’Hara was testing the waters, and if he didn’t tread carefully, he’d drown.

Later that evening, at a fundraiser held at a high-end steakhouse in downtown Chicago rented for the night, I sat in a corner booth, half shrouded in shadows.

The “charity” fundraiser was nothing but a cover for what it truly was: a gathering of Bratva elites doing dirty business, trading favors and blood money behind closed doors.

The air was filled with the soft hum of conversations, the occasional clinking of glasses, and jazz music from a live trio that gave it the feel of old money. Waiters in black vests moved through the crowd like shadows, refilling glasses and taking orders.

Clad in a black suit, I sat back in my booth, nursing a glass of Laphroaig.

Around me, a low murmur of coded deals and subtly veiled threats buzzed, disguised as small talk.

My sharp eyes shifted across the faces of these men—these snakes, these greedy assholes who’d so easily turn their backs on anyone so long as it benefited them.

Bored out of my mind, I glanced at my watch, wondering when this meeting would end. It was starting to feel more torture than business—just suits talking in circles, puffing cigars and egos, pretending their petty turf wars were strategy.

“Sergei Tarasov,” a deep, familiar voice called out, their footsteps approaching me.

I raised my head and there he was, Louie Baldwin. Bronx-born, a mid-level Capo with dreams bigger than his brains. He had that pesky little grin on his lips, and his arms were spread apart.

Louie laughed. “My old friend. Been too long, S.G.” He slid into the booth across from me like we were buddies.

We weren’t.

He was just an old business associate. Nothing more.

Louie Baldwin talked too much about power plays, numbers, and even about people who weren’t in the room.

That alone was reason enough why we would never be anything more than business associates.

That mouth of his had sunk more deals than it sealed.

Trusting a man like Louie Baldwin was like handing a loaded gun to a toddler. Big mistake.

However, despite his stupidity, the idiot was still a good businessman.

Not sure how. But he was a good ally when it came to profit margins.

That’s the only reason he still had my attention.

Sometimes. Louie talked a lot. Yes. But he wouldn’t be here, invading my private space, if he didn’t have a business proposal.

“Is it just me, or is this a snooze fest?” he asked, chuckling, eyes roaming the space. “Seriously, even with the music, it’s still as dull as ditchwater in here.”

I sipped my scotch. “Cut the crap, Louie. What do you want?”

He paused, brushing a thumb over his nose, chuckling. “I’m that predictable, huh?”

Silence.

“Fair enough.” He cleared his throat, arms on the table between us. “Listen, I got eyes on the Tech District. Just a couple of startups, you know, soft as sponge cake.” His shoulders shrugged, his tone laced with a hint of enthusiasm.

“Can you get to the point?” I said, dry and solemn.

He leaned in, locking eyes with me. “All we have to do is get a guy on the inside, start siphoning data—bleeding ‘em out. No one gets to know until we’ve moved the money.” He paused for a bit, then added, “I’m still workshopping the details, but believe me, S.G.

, when I have it all figured out, boom! Loads and loads of cash. ” He reclined into the backrest.

“What’s in it for me…hypothetically speaking?” I asked, sipping from my glass.

“Well, hypothetically speaking, front for laundering.” He shrugged his shoulders, his smile revealing a green stain on his teeth.

“And the data? Worth more than pills these days.” He leaned in again.

“I just need a little bit of favor from you…maybe a soldier—one of yours who knows his way ’round a server rack. ”

My eyes flickered to a waitress with chestnut-red hair styled in a bun on top of her head. And just like that, Louie’s voice began to fade into the background. His lips were moving as were his hands, but I couldn’t hear a word he was saying.

I knew the waitress wasn’t my Ayla, but she sure reminded me of her.

Within seconds, thoughts of that woman flooded my mind, and images of her beautiful smile flashed in my head.

The sound of her voice—soft, sweet, and sexy—the scent of her perfume, and the glint of defiance in her eyes had me gripping the edge of the table without meaning to.

Ayla had burned herself into my memory like a brand, and like a tattoo on my skin, I couldn’t get rid of her. I didn’t want to. Now, anyone with red hair would easily remind me of her, with or without my consent.

“S.G., you still with me?” Louie prodded.

I blinked, focus snapping back like a switchblade. “Send me the files when you’re finished. I’ll have someone look into it.” My tone was quiet but dismissive.

“That’s what I’m talking about, man. We’ll make a killing.”

Whatever spewed out of his mouth after that fell on deaf ears. As far as I was concerned, we were done here.

Later that evening, even after dinner and a warm shower, I still couldn’t find it in me to just sit back and relax.

Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think straight.

All because of one woman: Ayla. The O’Hara girl had slithered her way into my mind like a fucking snake.

Like poison, she moved through my system, and I could feel my defenses breaking with time.

The more I tried to push her out of my head, the more images of her flooded my mind.

At my desk in my study, I reviewed the photos of her that Kuzma had sent.

Not like some unhinged stalker. No. I’d just grown obsessed with having her image in my hand.

The girl was a puzzle, one that I’d yet to solve.

Born into power, surrounded by crime. Yet untouched by it. At this point, nothing was more intriguing than that. Ideally, daughters of men like Ronan O’Hara were always reckless, spoiled, and fuckin’ entitled. Not to mention rude, arrogant, lazy, and predictable.

Ayla wasn’t all of that. She was different—a fighter driven by ambition and passion for what she loved.

I rubbed my tired eyes and poured myself a glass of vodka.

This wasn’t part of the plan. Getting too attached to this girl was bad for business and worse for me as a person.

Watching and tailing her was supposed to be out of curiosity.

But now things were starting to get out of hand.

There was something deeper crawling beneath the surface. I could feel it.

She was never supposed to eat so deep into my heart, never supposed to glue to my mind. I knew myself, I knew what I was capable of, and if she continued to live rent-free in my head, I could break every rule just to keep her close.