A soft knock sounds on the door.
“Anja?” Alexey’s voice is low, careful. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah. Just an old...” I swallow hard and force my voice to sound steady. “It was nothing.”
There’s a pause on the other side of the door. I can almost see him standing there… tall, broad-shouldered, and that quiet patience radiating even through the wood. He doesn’t push. He never does.
“When you’re ready,” he says simply. “I’m here.”
His footsteps retreat down the hall.
I let out a long breath and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The city lights paint faint patterns across the plaster. The call is nothing new. Just another reminder that my past refuses to stay buried.
But for the first time, the fear feels smaller.
Because across the hall, Alexey is waiting. He’s not demanding answers or using my vulnerabilities against me. He’s simply… there. Steady. Protective. Choosing to give me space even when his instincts tell him to guard me more closely.
I close my eyes and rest one hand over my stomach.
Maybe the calls will never completely stop.
But maybe I don’t have to face them alone anymore.
And that small truth feels like the first real breath I’ve taken in years.
Chapter 8 - Alexey
The black SUV rolls slowly along the industrial access road, headlights off, engine a low hum that blends with the distant rumble of freight trains. Dusk has settled thick over the warehouse district, turning the chain-link fences and stacked shipping containers into jagged silhouettes against the fading orange sky.
This is low-stakes surveillance, nothing flashy. Just eyes on one of Fadir’s secondary courier routes to confirm the patterns Anja mentioned during last night’s strategy session.
I didn’t plan to bring her, but when she insisted over breakfast, chin lifted, and her eyes narrowed with that restless willpower I've come to appreciate, I relented. Keeping her sidelined too long risks turning cooperation into resentment. Better to let her feel useful.
She sits in the passenger seat, dressed in blue jeans and a black hoodie that swallows her frame, and her hair pulled into a practical ponytail. Her eyes scan the road ahead with focused intensity, the exhaustion from the past weeks still shadowing her face but no longer defining it.
She hasn’t spoken much since we left the penthouse, but the silence between us feels less like distrust and more like shared purpose now.
“Third van in twenty minutes,” I murmur, checking the tablet mounted on the dash that feeds live from the discreet camera we placed two nights ago. “Same route as yesterday. They’re sticking to the schedule even with the leaks hitting their suppliers.”
Anja leans forward slightly, elbows on her knees, gaze narrowing at the cracked asphalt ahead. The air inside the SUVcarries the faint scent of rain from earlier and of the leather seats. She doesn’t fidget. She watches.
Then she tilts her head.
“The timing’s off on the third one. The first two are exactly eighteen minutes apart. This one’s dragging by four. Look at the way it slowed at the last intersection. The driver is checking mirrors too often, and the license plate prefix has changed from the usual pattern. They’re rotating plates, but not randomly. It’s every third courier. Trying to break any tail that might settle into rhythm.”
I glance at her, then back at the road. My best men on Andrei’s team logged the vans but missed the subtle rotation. The pattern is clean once pointed out: a deliberate attempt to muddy surveillance without drawing attention.
Small. Clever. The kind of detail that comes from someone who lived inside the operation long enough to notice the mundane habits everyone else overlooks.
“Sharp eye,” I say, voice level and without inflection. No smile. No lingering look. Just honest acknowledgment. “That rotation explains why the last tip to his rivals didn’t stick as hard as it should have. We adjust the next leak to account for it, then make the suppliers question why their delivery windows keep shifting. It’ll amplify the unreliability.”
She nods once, a small flicker of satisfaction crossing her face before she banks it. No gloating. Just quiet pride in contributing. I file the observation away: she doesn’t need praise to fuel her. The work itself does.
We sit in silence for another forty minutes, watching two more vans pass.
Anja points out another subtle tell. The way the drivers avoid the same pothole cluster on the return leg suggests they’re carrying heavier loads outbound than back.
Useful. It confirms the route is still active for the product, not just decoys. When the last light fades, and the district settles into full darkness, I start the engine and pull away without headlights until we’re clear of the immediate area.
