“Come downstairs,” I answer quietly.
Her eyebrows lift. “No more avoidin’ this.”
“I’m not avoiding it.”
“From where I’m standin’, that’s exactly what you’re doin’.”
The southern edge in her voice thickens whenever emotion rises, and despite the situation, the sound works its way under my skin.
I lead her toward my office while two guards near the staircase straighten as we approach. One of them opens the office doorsbefore I reach them, and Maggie notices every detail of it. The silence. The instant obedience. The caution everyone carries around me.
Inside the office, I pour two glasses of bourbon before realizing Maggie looks close to throwing one directly at my head. I hand her the glass anyway.
“You promised me answers,” she says.
“I know.”
“Then start talkin’.”
I lean against the desk while deciding how much truth I can give her without terrifying her completely.
“Several weeks ago,” I begin, “I shut down shipping routes connected to my company.”
“Because of illegal activity?”
I nod once.
Her throat moves visibly. “Bratva activity.”
It’s not a question. I hold her eyes. “Yes.”
Maggie lowers herself into one of the chairs across from the desk. I can almost see her rearranging every assumption she made about me since the day we met.
“And now people are targetin’ me because of it?”
“I believe they’re using you as leverage against me.”
“Lord have mercy.” She rubs both hands over her face before looking back at me again, frustration and fear fighting in her eyes.
“The drawing Ivy made,” she murmurs.
Every muscle stiffens. “What about it?”
“That didn’t feel like business.” Emotion rises into her voice again.
I nod once because there’s no point lying now. “I agree.”
Fear flashes in her eyes before anger crushes it flat. “You agree? That’s all you’ve got?”
“Maggie—”
“No. You don’t get to keep doin’ that calm billionaire robot thing while my entire life falls apart around me.”
If only she understood the amount of restraint currently required not to lock every door in this house and refuse to let her leave again. I move closer instead.
“The drawing changes things,” I admit. “The routes could explain intimidation. Surveillance. Pressure. But that drawing was personal.”
“Meanin’?”
