Page 23 of Sexted By a Stranger

Luca

I stared at the Manhattan map sprawled across the table, red markers scattered densely across the port district like drops of blood.

"What about the Direwolf Bratva?" I asked.

"Forty men, all elite. Combined with the Marcheses and Malkovich's crews, Connor's scraped together a hundred and sixty." Lennox added, his voice grim. "Boss, Connor's betting everything on this. He wants to rip out our Manhattan roots in one night. His hatred for you runs deep."

"Hates me?" I let out a cold laugh. "The more he hates, the sloppier he gets."

I picked up the nondescript black encrypted communicator from the table. After a brief crackle of static, a deliberately lowered voice came through—fearful and fawning.

"Boss? You called for me?"

"Antonio," my voice was perfectly level, betraying nothing. "I have a 'gift' that needs to accidentally find its way to our Irish friends' ears."

A nervous gulp came through the speaker. "Y-yes, sir. What do you need?"

"Tell them," I slowed my words, making sure each one was crystal clear, "we intercepted their full operational plan.

We know about the two-front assault. At 1:30 AM, our main force will be holed up at Golden Crown Casino—the port will be our weak spot.

Remember, this is intel you risked your life to steal. "

Dead silence. Only Antonio's heavy, suppressed breathing came through the communicator. After several seconds, he practically whimpered his assurance, "Understood, boss. I'll handle it perfectly. Please, my wife and kids—"

"Handle it right, and they stay safe." I cut him off coldly and severed the connection.

"Bait's in the water." I tossed the communicator back onto the table, scanning my two most trusted lieutenants. "Ragnar."

"Boss." Ragnar immediately straightened his spine.

"Take Alpha team and set up an ambush around Bluebird Textile Mills.

The Marcheses and Direwolf Bratva are both stationed there.

Antonio's intel will draw their main force to hit the casino, but Direwolf will keep reserves behind.

" My finger stabbed the map at Bluebird's location.

"The moment their main force moves, hit them hard. I want that place wiped clean."

"Copy that."

"Lennox." My gaze shifted to him. "You're on Pier Three warehouse. Malkovich's crew will be concentrated there—they think we're caught off guard. Once we confirm the casino assault has launched, move in immediately."

"Consider it done, Boss. They won't know what hit them."

"After you clear the rear positions, both teams converge and pin them in a crossfire." I continued the briefing.

"Finally," my eyes fell on the Lower East Side fight club, "as for Connor's rat hole, I'll personally lead a team to 'visit.' Tonight, I'm playing his game—but by my rules."

With the deployment complete, Ragnar silently began his final equipment check. Lennox rapidly typed on his tablet, coordinating personnel and confirming comm channels and extraction routes.

I closed my eyes, and Sheila's image immediately surfaced, unbidden—what was she doing right now? Probably already asleep, curled up in that wide, soft bed, maybe clutching a pillow, her long hair spread across the pillowcase.

"Boss," Lennox's voice cut through the silence. He handed me the tablet. "Convoy's ready, all operatives online, encrypted comms confirmed. Antonio's making his move—the fish is biting."

On screen, Antonio was moving quickly toward Connor's emergency safe house.

The last trace of warmth in my eyes was replaced by cold killing intent.

"Move out."

Dawn Manhattan—neon still flickered, but there was something eerily dead about the silence. The convoy finally stopped in the back alley behind the shabby-signed Red Knuckle Fight Club.

I gave the signal. The battering ram slammed into the heavy fire door—a thunderous crash, and the lock exploded.

"Go! Go! Go!"

Deafening explosions echoed through the narrow corridor, bullets ricocheting off metal pipes and concrete walls with sharp, screaming whines.

"Left corridor clear."

"Bar area suppressed."

"The VIP section has a fire point."

We cut through Red Knuckle's heart like a red-hot blade.

Ragnar's cold voice crackled through my earpiece: "Boss, 'Blue Bird' is cleaned out. All Direwolf Bratva eliminated, seized a large cache of weapons and cash, and the building was destroyed."

Then Lennox: "Pier Three warehouse secured."

"Converge on the Golden Crown," I ordered.

"Roger." both responded in unison.

Both flanks were severed. Now it was Connor's turn.

The team pushed forward like a juggernaut, reaching the heavily guarded door marked "Manager's Office" at the very back. I stepped aside and kicked the severely damaged door panel open with one brutal strike.

Inside was chaos. Documents scattered across the floor, expensive cigars trampled to bits, the liquor cabinet glass shattered, amber liquid pooling and spreading.

No one there. Just a blown-out hole leading to the filthy back alley, night wind howling through.

"Fuck!" one of my men cursed behind me.

I walked to the edge of the hole and looked down. In the dim yellow glow from a streetlight at the far end of the alley, I could make out several drops of dark red blood on the wet, grimy pavement—intermittent spots trailing off into the darkness deeper in the alley.

"He's wounded." I crouched down, rubbing the sticky blood between my fingers. "Can't have gone far. Lock down all exits within a five-block radius, pull all surveillance footage from the area."

"Yes, sir."

Everyone immediately scattered, racing toward various exits.

"Boss, the casino's surrounded," Ragnar's voice came through.

"Clean them out," I said, standing and surveying this room reeking of defeat and panic.

"Boss, no sign of Connor anywhere."

My heart tightened.

A snake had slipped away.

The convoy rolled back to the estate as the horizon began to show a pale crab-shell blue.

I stripped off my blood-stained jacket and handed it to Wilson, the butler who was already waiting on the front porch.

The main hall was brightly lit. I deliberately softened my footsteps going upstairs—the bedroom door was slightly ajar.

Under the warm yellow light, Sheila lay curled on her side, long hair spilling across the pillow, a soft cushion clutched in her arms, breath steady and even. Pure as an innocent child who knew nothing of the world.

Seeing her sleeping peacefully, the violence and anxiety churning in my chest from Connor's escape slowly settled.

I quietly closed the door and stepped back out.

She was safe.

Morning light woke me with a sharp stab.

My head pounded. All night, my dreams had been filled with Connor's sneering face alternating with images of Sheila.

After handling several urgent reports, I instinctively walked toward the garden—Sheila's favorite place.

Sure enough.

Sheila sat at a white wicker round table, wearing a white linen dress, a china coffee pot and two cups set before her.

Morning light outlined the soft curves of her profile, but she wasn't as relaxed as usual—her back was somewhat rigid.

Hearing my footsteps, she looked up.

Her amber eyes were clear, but something like barely perceptible undercurrents seemed to lurk in their depths.

"Morning, Luca." She handed me a cup of coffee.

"Morning." I sat across from her.

The floral scent was rather intense; something heavy settled in my chest.

I took a sip of coffee, trying to focus my attention on this peaceful scene before me.

However, the shadow of Connor's escape coiled around me like a venomous snake.

I stared absently at the dark brown swirl in my coffee cup. This whirlpool seemed ready to drag Sheila in too—the bloody reality that came with my identity, the reality Sheila would have to face once she knew the truth.

"Been tired lately?" she asked, her gaze falling on the undisguisable fatigue and gloom between my brows, her tone showing just the right amount of concern. "You look like you have a lot on your mind."

My heartbeat skipped.

Did she know something?

I remembered that night a few days ago, the way she'd hesitated and stammered.

Maybe…

No. Too dangerous.

At least… at least wait until Connor's whereabouts were locked down.

"There are some tricky matters," I answered vaguely, casting my gaze toward the lawn glowing green in the sunlight. "An old business rival who won't stay in line."

"That rival must be very powerful." Sheila laughed softly, but her gaze never left my face. "Making you look like you've been coming back from a battlefield lately."

My heart lurched. I tried to force a reassuring smile, but my mouth felt impossibly stiff.

"That's right, those sly dogs do use rather intense methods." I faked casualness.

"Intense…"

She repeated those words, but somehow her tone carried a bitter edge. "Pretty intense, coming home every day smelling like gunpowder."

"Sheila…" My voice was tense. I was about to reassure her when she suddenly spoke:

"Luca, I don't know why, but I always feel like you're very far from me, so far it's like you're in another world. I…"

She stopped mid-sentence, finally just lowering her head, unconsciously stirring the coffee in her cup with a small silver spoon. Her long lashes cast shadows, hiding the expression in her eyes.

"I'm going back to my studio," she said quietly, her tone unreadable.

Just as she turned to leave, a corner of her dress got caught in the wicker chair's weave. She frowned slightly, then tugged gently to free the tangled fabric.

They briefly twisted together, rubbing with a soft rustling sound, before finally separating.

She didn't look back, walking toward the path that led to her studio.

In the morning light, her figure gradually blurred, as if she might vanish at any moment.