"In this city, someone usually is."
"Seriously. Why no driver?" she asks, turning to look at me. "Even my father doesn't move without a detail."
I shift gears, the engine roaring as I pull into the industrial district. "Like I said, I don't trust strangers with my life. And I definitely don't trust them with yours."
"You think you're enough to protect me from everything?" she asks, a small, sassy smirk tugging at her mouth.
"Yes. As long as you're in this car, you're safe. I don't need a small army to do a man’s job."
She looks away, but I see her fingers relax in her lap. For a second, the hostility between us fades into something else—a heavy, silent tension that feels less like hate and more like a fuse burning down. I want to reach over, put my hand on her thigh, and feel her skin, but we’re pulling up to the warehouse.
Warehouse Seven is a rusted heap of corrugated metal at the end of a dead-end street. The main gate is open just a crack. The chain has been cut clean. No bolt cutters—this was done with a portable grinder. Professionals.
"Stay in the car," I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. My hand goes to my Sig.
"No," she says, already reaching for her door handle.
"Irina, fucking stay put. The gate is cut. If this is a trap, I need to clear the floor."
"And if you get shot, I’m just sitting here waiting for them to come for me?" she counters, her eyes wide. "I’m coming in. You wanted me where you could see me. Here I am."
She’s right. Leaving her in the car makes her a target. I reach into the glove box and pull out a smaller backup pistol—a Glock 19. I hand it to her.
"Stay two paces behind me," I say, my voice hard. "If I tell you to run, you don't look back. You just go. Understand?"
She takes the gun. Her hand is steady. "I understand."
We step out of the car. The wind is cold, whipping through the alley, carrying the smell of salt and rotten wood. I lead the way, every sense I have dialed into the dark space ahead. We slip through the side entrance.
Inside, the air is thick with the smell of old oil and dust. It’s quiet, but not the right kind of quiet. There’s a hum of voices coming from the shipping office at the far end of the bay.
"Hear that?" I whisper.
"Voices," she breathes. She’s right at my shoulder, her scent mixing with the grime of the warehouse.
We move through the shadows of the shipping crates. We get closer, and the voices turn into laughter. Rough, Slavic accents. Men who sound comfortable.
I reach the edge of a crate and look around the corner.
My stomach turns.
In the center of the bay, five men are standing around a dozen women. The women are on the floor, their hands zip-tied, their eyes wide with terror. I see the crates they’re being pushed toward. They’re marked for "Heavy Machinery," but they have air holes drilled into the sides.
Human trafficking.
Boris didn't just want our docks. He was already using them. He was moving flesh through our territory, and he was using my father’s legacy codes to hide the trail.
Fucking bastard.
Rage hits me like a physical blow. It’s a white-hot heat that burns away everything but the need to kill. I look at Irina. She’s white as a sheet, her hands shaking as she stares at the women.
"They're taking them," she whispers.
"Not today," I growl and step inside fully. "This is Morozov territory! Who dares enter here without express permission?” I roar.
The men spin around, but I’m already firing. The first round catches the leader, a thick guy with a scarred face right between the eyes. His head snaps back, a spray of red hitting the wall as he drops.
"Get down!" I yell at the women.
