Irina meets my gaze briefly as Ivy reaches her, a small, respectful nod passing between us. Her attention returns to my daughter, her eyes growing fond as Ivy launches into her story, her voice rising as she relays every detail just as important the second time. I catch fragments as I walk away. Daisy, the treats, how she followed her, how she knew.
I let the sound of it fade behind me as I move down the hall toward my office, the rhythm of routine easing back into place with each step. There’s structure to my life for a reason. Without it, things slip, and I don’t allow that.
I close the office door behind me, and the house fades as the quiet deepens, giving way to a stillness that belongs only to this room. Dark wood, clean lines, and glass overlook the water without exposing anything in return, every detail intentional.
I move to the bar, pour a drink of aged whiskey, and let the glass rest in my hand before taking a sip. The burn is immediate,cutting through the lingering presence of the day, sharpening my focus where it needs to be.
My attention moves to the secure line at the edge of the desk, set apart from everything else, encrypted and limited to a single purpose. It doesn’t ring, and nothing comes through it unless it’s meant for me directly.
I pick it up and dial. It connects on the second ring.
“I’m here.”
Roman’s voice comes through the line, calm and direct, with an authority that doesn’t need to be reinforced. My older brother.Pakhanof the Agapov Bratva. The man who decides outcomes before anyone else even sees the problem.
I lower myself into the chair, leaning back slightly, my fingers resting along the armrest. “I need you to look at something.”
A brief pause follows, his attention sharpening on his end. “Go on.”
“One of our Atlantic routes out of Savannah,” I say, my gaze moving to the window as I pull the details into place. “Container manifests aren’t lining up with port logs. Small discrepancies at first. Now they’re repeating.”
“You think it’s internal?” Roman questions.
“I don’t deal in coincidences,” I answer. “Someone’s moving product through our line without clearance, or something is being redirected before it hits final record.”
The silence that follows is short, as Roman considers this.
“You shut it down?” he asks.
“I’m about to,” I say, lifting the glass then setting it back down untouched. “I don’t want attention drawn to it. If it escalates, it pulls in people we don’t want looking too closely at our operations.”
“Good,” he says immediately. “Cut it clean, isolate the problem, and deal with it before anyone else has a chance to notice.”
“That’s the plan.”
There’s a faint change in the line, not static, just the sound of him moving on the other end, already aligning things on his side without saying it.
“I’ll have someone cross-check from here,” he adds. “If it’s internal, it won’t stay hidden for long.”
“I don’t intend to give it time,” I reply.
“I know.”
That’s enough said on it.
There’s a brief pause, and then Roman continues, his tone unchanged, but the direction of the conversation is turning. “The Italians are pushing again.”
My fingers tighten against the armrest, the only outward sign I give. “Where?”
“East Coast access points. Testing boundaries they don’t have permission to test,” he says. “Ports, movement, quiet inquiries where they shouldn’t be asking questions.”
“They’re looking for a way in.”
“They’re looking for a weakness,” Roman corrects.
My attention moves to the darkening water beyond the glass, my mind already working through the implications. “And what did you give them?”
“I made an example,” he answers calmly.
