I nod, tears pricking at my eyes. The pregnancy hormones make the emotion swell until it feels overwhelming, but there’s a quiet hope underneath it now.
Later that afternoon, I find Alexey in his office. He looks up the moment I enter, brown eyes immediately softening with concern and that fierce protectiveness that still takes my breath away.
I cross the room and climb into his lap without asking, curling against his chest. His arms come around me instantly,one hand settling over my belly in that now-familiar protective gesture.
“I’m still scared sometimes,” I admit quietly. “Of this world. Of repeating the past. Of not being enough for you or for our baby.”
He presses a kiss to my hair, his voice low and steady. “You are more than enough. And you don’t have to be unafraid. You just have to let me stand beside you when the fear comes. We’ll face it together.”
I close my eyes and breathe him in. The clean scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body, the quiet strength that has become my anchor.
The war with Fadir may be ending.
But the real battle, learning to trust this life, this man, this future, is only beginning.
For the first time, I think I might be ready to fight for it.
Chapter 22 - Alexey
The warehouse is empty.
I stand in the middle of the vast concrete floor, the echo of my footsteps the only sound breaking the heavy silence. High overhead, industrial lights cast harsh pools of white across the space where pallets should have been stacked high. Instead, there is nothing but faint tire marks and a few scattered straps. The air still carries the faint scent of diesel and cardboard, remnants of what is a valuable shipment.
Tobacco products. Pallets of high-dollar electronics. Specialty liquor cases worth a small fortune on the secondary market. All of it is gone.
The truck, one of our own semis, has been left unattended for less than twenty minutes at a rest stop on the interstate in the early morning hours. The driver has stepped away to use the facilities and grab coffee. When he returns, the rig is gone. Professional job. Clean. No witnesses willing to talk.
Fadir.
I can feel it in my bones. This is his last stand, and a desperate, sloppy ambush using the few loyal men he has left. He thinks he can still land a meaningful blow, steal something valuable enough to slow us down and give him breathing room. He thinks he can make himself look strong again.
A low, dangerous smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth.
Let him believe he’s won. For a few critical hours, I will feed him exactly what he wants to hear.
I pull out my phone and make the first call.
“Andrei. The shipment is hit. Let the usual channels know we’re investigating, but make it look like we’re rattled. Leak justenough false intel to make Fadir think he got away clean. I want him to celebrate tonight.”
“Understood. False trail already prepared. We’ll have eyes on his remaining safe houses within the hour.” Andrei’s voice comes back crisp.
I end the call and stand there a moment longer, staring at the empty space where thousands in product was sitting just hours ago. The financial loss stings, not because we can’t absorb it, but because it is unnecessary. Wasteful. A childish grab by a man who is already drowning.
But the smirk remains.
Because now I have him exactly where I want him.
I let him believe he has won for the rest of the day.
While Fadir and his few remaining loyalists no doubt toast their “victory” in whatever hole they are hiding in, my team moves with surgical precision. We feed him carefully crafted false reports suggesting internal chaos on our end, with drivers panicking, routes being rerouted, and whispers of weakness spreading through our network. He takes the bait. His people start moving product they think is safe, trying to flip it quickly for cash.
That’s when we strike.
First, the accounts. Every remaining liquid asset Fadir still controls is frozen through layers of backdoor access we have maintained for months, not all at once. That would be too obvious.
One by one, in a cascading wave that makes it look like his own people are turning on him. Suppliers who have been wavering receive anonymous proof of Fadir’s desperation and disloyalty.
Two of his last loyal capos are flipped, with irrefutable evidence that he skimmed from their cuts. The others are quietly removed from the game, but not killed, but neutralized. Their influence is stripped, and their names are dragged through the mud in every circle that once feared them.
