“She matters to Ivy,” I reply finally.
Roman’s brow lifts slightly. “That’s not what I said.”
Annoyance pulls harder through my chest. “Blyat.” I drag a hand across my jaw before looking back at him. “I’m not discussing my personal life with you.”
“You dragged a man across a table and nearly slit his throat because he mentioned her.” Roman’s voice remains calm enough to make the observation worse somehow. “I believe your personal life introduced itself without assistance.”
I finish the bourbon in one swallow before pouring another finger into the glass, buying myself time before responding. “I spent four years rebuilding control after Clara died.”
“And now?”
Now Maggie Hayes slides through my thoughts at inconvenient hours. Now Ivy laughs more often. Now my house no longer feels hollow every time I walk through the front door.
Now another man used her name as leverage against me and nearly died for it.
Roman exhales quietly before setting his bourbon glass aside. “You think protecting people means creating walls around them,” he says. “Clara believed protection meant allowing people freedom even when it frightened you.”
The mention of Clara twists sharply through my chest. “She also hid an entire life from me.”
Roman’s expression hardens at that. “Yes. She did.”
The room falls quiet again. I feel the old guilt resurfacing with enough force to make breathing uncomfortable. I loved her completely and still failed to see what stood directly in front of me. That truth never really leaves.
“You think Maggie would run if she understood what this truly is,” Roman says after a moment.
“She should.”
“But will she?”
I picture Maggie standing between frightened volunteers and danger without even thinking twice. Picture her instinctively moving toward trouble instead of away from it because protecting others matters more to her than protecting herself.
No. She probably won’t run.
Roman reaches toward the low table beside him and slides a thick manila envelope across the polished wood. “I received surveillance reports an hour ago.”
I take the envelope immediately. Inside are photographs.
Enzo DeLuca exiting a black sedan near a private airfield outside Savannah two nights earlier. Another photo shows him seated beneath covered patio lighting at an upscale restaurant near Hilton Head.
He’s not alone. An older woman sits across from him. Dark hair, elegantly streaked with silver, frames a face sharpened by age, restraint, and power that never needs announcing, evenin grainy surveillance images. Her posture remains flawless. Tailored black coat. Gloved hands folded lightly atop the table.
I study the photographs carefully.
“I don’t recognize her.” My attention snaps back to him.
He leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping once against the armrest while he considers the implications.
“My men have been digging into Enzo’s communications since the issues with the routes started escalating. These photographs surfaced an hour ago through surveillance near the marina.”
I look back down at the woman again. Something about her keeps pulling at my attention in a way I can’t immediately explain, like instinct is recognizing a detail my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
“Who is she?”
“We don’t know yet.” Roman pauses briefly. “But Enzo answers to her.”
That alone tells me this goes deeper than shipping routes, because Enzo doesn’t strike me as a man who's easily answerable to anyone.
“He’s the visible operator,” Roman continues. “The routes. The ports. The movement. But there’s another layer beneath him.”
