Page 15

First the coat, thick wool, lined with a dusting of ash and dried rain.

I remove it carefully, fingers deft. Then the jacket, smooth and tailored, black fabric catching the light.

I loosen my tie. Unbutton the collar. Each movement is slow, deliberate—part of something older than routine.

The kind of ritual that turns chaos into calm.

By the time I slip into a clean black shirt, crisp cotton against my skin, I can feel the shift settling deep.

Armor off. Armor on.

A knock breaks the quiet.

“Come,” I say.

Dima enters, eyes sharp, posture tighter than usual. He doesn’t waste time.

“Ortega’s ports have gone dark,” he says. “No chatter from the clubs. No new movement on any of their known fronts. It’s like they’ve gone underground.”

I nod once, adjusting the cuff of my shirt. It’s exactly what I expected.

“They’re waiting,” I say.

“For you,” Dima adds. “For your move.”

They want to see how hard I’ll hit. Or if I’ll hesitate.

My silence is answer enough. Dima reads it, as he always does. I don’t need to tell him.

He nods. “I’ll gather the inner circle. Tonight.”

Then he’s gone.

I move to the bar, fingers curling around the familiar shape of a crystal decanter. Vodka. Clean. No ice. I pour a short glass, just enough to burn the edges off the moment, and swirl it once before taking a slow sip.

Then I sink into the leather chair beside the fire. I let myself think of her. Alina.

The name moves through me like smoke—soft, curling, impossible to ignore. I see her again: the wild fire in her eyes when she screamed at me, defiant to the last. The way she shook when the guards grabbed her—but she didn’t plead. Didn’t beg. She fought. Not well, not effectively, but she fought.

There’s steel in her. It surprised me.

She was meant to be a loose thread. Something to tug, to unravel Carter’s empire. I expected fear. I expected resistance.

I didn’t expect… her.

The way she squared her shoulders, even as her voice trembled. The fury in her eyes when she tried to bargain—like she thought I could be swayed. That I might be reasonable.

It amused me.

It aroused me.

She doesn’t belong in this world. She’s too soft. Too raw. Raised in silk and illusion. She’s the kind of girl who should’ve never stepped out of her father’s shadow.

And she belongs to me.

She doesn’t understand that yet. Not fully. She thinks she has leverage. That her willingness to sacrifice herself for her father still gives her power.

It doesn’t. She gave that up the second she stepped into my office.

The second she trembled—and didn’t run.

I sip again, let the vodka burn clean down my throat. The fire crackles low in the hearth, shadows dancing up the walls like ghosts waiting to be named.

Her breath still lingers in my memory. The scent of her skin, warm and nervous. The feel of her muscles tensing beneath my hands. The way she leaned in when she thought I wouldn’t notice.

She’s trying to hate me. Trying to convince herself this is all for him.

I felt her pulse. I know the difference between terror and tension.

She’s a problem now. Not just a pawn to move across a board—but something closer.

A temptation. A risk. A woman I can’t afford to be distracted by.

And yet—

She’s there. In my thoughts. In the quiet. In the places where even blood can’t reach.

I finish the drink in one long pull, the last of it carving a clean, searing path down my throat.

I set the glass down on the side table, the soft clink against wood final, almost ceremonial.

The vodka burns only for a second before it settles in my chest, a low, steady heat anchoring me in the moment.

I stand slowly, not because I’m tired, but because there’s purpose in every movement.

I smooth the front of my shirt, fingers brushing down the crisp black fabric.

I adjust my cuffs with deliberate precision, each button aligned perfectly, every fold neat.

There’s discipline in the ritual—ritual in the control.

This is how I prepare. This is how I contain the storm.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that hums just beneath the surface, like a held breath before a scream.

It’s not peace—it’s the air before a strike, the tension before glass shatters.

Even the flickering sconces seem to know it, casting pale yellow light that quivers along the stone walls.

I leave the study without a glance back.

The hallway stretches ahead of me, long and dim, carved in cold marble and shadow.

Each step I take sinks into the silence, swallowed by thick rugs and stone.

My reflection ghosts across the tall windows.

Outside, fog curls against the panes like smoke.

I move with intention, the estate watching me the way animals watch a predator—still, wary, waiting.

Downstairs, the shift is immediate.

The atrium hums with quiet activity. My men are already in position.

The long oak table is covered with maps, red ink scrawled in tight lines across key locations.

Printed photos. Coordinates. Surveillance shots of Ortega’s territory, his clubs, his known safehouses.

Every weapon is accounted for—laid out like offerings.

Pistols, rifles, blades. Silencers lined in perfect order.

Ammunition boxes stacked with care. Tools of precision. Instruments of war.

Dima stands at the head of the table, back straight, coat open but neat. He’s calm, but I see it in the tightness of his jaw. The barely there clench in his shoulders. He doesn’t rattle. That’s what makes his quiet tension ring loud.

War isn’t coming. It’s here.

I step onto the landing. I don’t speak.

My presence alone cuts through the noise. Backs straighten. Conversations die midsentence. Heads bow slightly in reflex. Even the sound of the wind outside seems to pause. I descend the stairs slowly, steadily, my gaze sweeping the room once. That’s all it takes.

Dima meets me near the foot of the stairs, a phone already in his hand, screen lit.

“The club’s quiet,” he says, voice low. “Security rotation hasn’t changed in two hours. Ortega’s nephew is confirmed inside. Back lounge. Usual time. No one new.”

I take the phone, scan the message. The photo confirms it. Miguel Ortega. Cocky. Spoiled. Arrogant in ways that make him sloppy.

“Good,” I say. I hand the phone back.

That’s all that needs to be said.

Dima doesn’t ask questions. He steps aside.