I lean back in the leather chair behind my desk and stare through the wall of windows lining the east side of the office. Morning sunlight glows across the river beyond the port. Cargo cranes tower over the water like steel skeletons. Ships move slowly through the channel while forklifts weave between shipping containers below. It’s loud and mechanical even from twenty floors above the docks.
Black Tide Logistics overlooks Savannah’s shipping district, a concrete, steel, and glass complex designed for function rather than comfort. Everything inside serves a purpose, with no warmth and no wasted movement. The complete opposite of Maggie Hayes.
A muscle in my jaw ticks at the thought.
Reports remain spread across the desk untouched: three delayed shipments, two missing manifests, a route conflict outside Jacksonville. Roman has called twice this morning because the Italians are continuing to press farther south through our territory.
Every one of those problems deserves my full attention. Instead, I continue thinking about Maggie in my bed last night, her silky hair spread across my pillow while her fingers traced slow patterns against my chest. I think about the heat still lingering beneath the sheets after she slipped out this morning and how the house felt quieter after she left.
That realization weighs on me. I don’t build routines around people, especially women.
A knock sounds against the open office door. Luka steps inside, carrying a tablet beneath one arm, his dark suit immaculate. His light brown hair is neatly combed back from his face. Years of handling problems firsthand gave him the solid athletic build of a man more comfortable in a fight than behind a desk. His dark eyes move straight to me, already tense enough to erase whatever remained of my distraction.
I place the phone face down on the desk.
“What is it?”
“The Tampa shipment finally cleared customs,” he says.
“Three hours late.”
“Yes,” he confirms.
I rise from the chair, straightening the cuffs of my shirt while crossing toward the windows. Luka continues speaking behind me.
“Port authority also flagged another container connected to DeLuca Imports.”
I slowly turn back toward him. “What was inside?”
“Nothing illegal.”
“Then why flag it?” I question.
Luka exhales once through his nose before stepping further into the office. “The serial numbers on the manifest didn’t match the original filing.”
My jaw clenches.
Enzo DeLuca has spent the last six months smiling across negotiation tables while trying to carve pieces from our territory one shipping lane at a time. Small, quiet moves. Enough irritation to provoke attention without crossing far enough to justify open retaliation.
Roman already wants blood.
“What else?” I ask.
Luka places the tablet onto the desk between us. A shipping map fills the screen. Cargo routes. Warehouse locations. Transferpoints running through Savannah, Jacksonville, and Miami. One red line cuts directly through our territory.
“Three independent trucking companies connected to Enzo began using secondary routes this week,” Luka says while tapping the screen. “No permits. No authorization.”
“They’re still testing boundaries.”
“Yes.”
I study the map for another moment before reaching for the coffee sitting near the edge of the desk. It’s already cold. I drink it anyway.
“What about the warehouse outside Brunswick?”
“Still quiet.”
“Too quiet?” I ask
