Chapter 17
Anton
The apartment looks like RadioShack exploded, and no one bothered with cleanup. Cables snake across the floor in tangled nests, routers stacked on pizza boxes blink like dying Christmas lights, and a drone with one missing propeller hangs from the ceiling fan like a bat that gave up on life.
Boris kicks aside a pile of empty Red Bull cans to clear a path to the couch.
“Don’t touch anything,” he warns, as if I have the slightest desire to get tetanus from his soldering iron collection.
I lower myself into a chair that may or may not have been rescued from a dumpster.
“How you survive in here, I’ll never understand.”
He grins, plopping down in front of six monitors. “Genius immunity.”
More like cockroach immunity.
On-screen, the feed from the watch comes alive—audio first. Mary’s voice. Nervous, careful, pitched just high enough that I know she’s trying to sound professional.
“…of course, Mrs. Calder, if you’d like me to walk you through the savings options, we can—yes, absolutely.”
Her rhythm’s steadier than the last time. Less stammer, more flow. She’s getting used to playing banker again. Still, I can hear the nerves—the tiny pause before she says a client’s name, the sharp little inhale she doesn’t think anyone notices.
I do.
Boris slurps something from a cup that I pray isn’t three-day-old ramen.
“She’s not bad.”
Not bad. He makes it sound like she’s auditioning for community theater. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, tuning everything else out.
Mary finishes her spiel, papers shuffle, and then… quiet. For a long second, only the static of the room.
Then her whisper, low, shaky but determined: “I’m going to try it now.”
My chest goes tight.
My fingers curl into fists against my thighs. The job is to use her, to get what I need out of that bank. That’s all. Clean, simple. But I’m listening to her whisper like she’s walking into enemy fire, and for the first time in years, I feel something close to nerves.
Not for me.
For her.
I glance at Boris. He’s focused on his screens, chewing loudly on some mystery snack. Oblivious.
I force my jaw to unclench. She can handle this. She has to. But the thought slides through me like a blade: if anyone lays a hand on her, if anyone makes her pay for being tied to me, I will burn this city down to make it right.
“She’ll be fine,” Boris says quietly, fingers still flying across his keyboard. “Audio is crystal clear. We’ll hear everything.”
But that’s not the point. The point is that if something goes wrong, if Caleb sees her planting the device, if he decides she knows too much, I’m two miles away, sitting in a chair that smells like desperation, completely useless.
The realization hits me with unexpected force: I don’t want her in danger. Not for the mission, not for intel, not for anything.
I want her safe.
And that’s a problem. Because men like me don’t get to want things like that.
Three soft knocks echo through the speakers. Professional. Polite.
“Come in,” Caleb’s voice.
The audio shifts—footsteps on carpet, the soft click of a door closing. My entire body goes rigid. She’s in his office now. Alone with him.
“Mary, thank you for coming. Please, sit.”
“Of course, Mr. Whitfield. How can I help you?”
Her voice is steady, but I catch the slight tremor underneath. She’s scared. Good. Fear keeps you alive.
Boris leans forward, adjusting the audio levels. We can hear everything—the creak of chairs, the rustle of papers, even Caleb’s breathing.
“I wanted to discuss your future here at Brightside,” Caleb says. “Your performance has been… noteworthy.”
What the hell does that mean? I force myself to stay still, but every muscle in my body is coiled tight.
“I appreciate that, sir. I’ve been trying to—”
“You’ve been asking a lot of questions lately. About accounts. About procedures.”
Silence. My heart pounds against my ribs.
Then Mary’s voice, carefully measured: “I just want to do my job well.”
“Of course you do.” There’s something in Caleb’s tone… patronizing, predatory. “That’s exactly why I think you’d be perfect for a special project I have in mind.”
More silence. Then the soft scrape of something being moved across a desk.
“These files need reviewing,” Caleb continues. “Very sensitive material. I need someone I can trust.”
Boris and I exchange a look. This isn’t small talk. This isn’t recruitment either.
This is a test.
“I’d be honored to help,” Mary says, and I can hear her moving, shifting in her chair, probably reaching for the files.
That’s when she does it. The soft magnetic click is barely audible through the speakers, but I catch it. Boris grins and gives me a thumbs-up.
She planted the device.
My chest loosens slightly. She did it. The woman who was shaking in my kitchen three days ago just successfully bugged a Bratva money launderer’s office.
“There’s something else,” Caleb says, his voice taking on a different quality. Warmer. More personal. “The Starlight Gala is this Friday. It’s an important networking event—potential clients, investors. I could use a… companion for the evening.”
Suka. My blood turns to ice.
“I— What?” Mary’s voice goes up an octave.
“As my guest. Nothing improper, of course. Just business. You’d represent the bank beautifully.”
The silence stretches on for what feels like hours. I’m gripping the chair arms so hard I might leave fingerprints in the plastic.
Finally, Mary speaks: “That sounds… wonderful. I’d love to attend.”
“Excellent. I’ll have my assistant send you the details.”
More sounds of movement, chairs scraping, footsteps.
“Thank you again, Mr. Whitfield. I won’t let you down.”
“I’m counting on it, Mary.”
The door closes. The audio shifts back to the general bank noise.
Boris is practically bouncing in his chair. “Device is active. Clear signal. And she just got herself invited to whatever the hell that gala is.”
But I’m not celebrating. Because Mary just agreed to walk into a room full of predators wearing a dress that will make her a target.
And I’m going to have to watch from the shadows while Caleb puts his hands on her.
The audio crackles as movement settles in Caleb’s office. Then the distinctive beep of a phone being dialed.
Boris and I freeze.
“It’s done,” Caleb’s voice, clearer now through the bug Mary planted. “She agreed to the gala.”
A pause. Someone’s talking on the other end, but we can’t make out the words.
“Let’s make sure this time no one saves her,” Caleb continues. “Three attempts, three failures. Whoever’s been interfering won’t see it coming.”
They know someone’s protecting her.
They know I’m out there.
“Friday night then,” Caleb says. “The Bellagio. If her… guardian shows up, we’ll be ready.”
The line goes dead.
The office falls silent except for the hum of Caleb’s computer and the distant sound of the bank lobby.
Boris stares at his screens. “Anton…”
“I know.”
“They’re using her as bait.”
“I know.”
“The gala isn’t about networking. It’s a trap.”
I stand up so fast the chair nearly topples backward. “I fucking know, Boris.”
But knowing doesn’t change anything. Because Mary just walked into Caleb’s web, and now she’s the honey they’re going to use to catch me.
And the worst part?
I’m going to walk right into it.
I pull out my phone, already texting Lev.
Emergency pickup. Now. Bring the case.
“What are you doing?” Boris asks.
“Teaching her how not to die.” I grab my jacket, checking my Glock out of habit. “They want to corner her? Fine. But she’s not going down without taking someone with her.”
Boris raises an eyebrow. “You’re talking about arming a civilian.”
“I’m talking about evening the odds.” My jaw clenches. “She’s already in this. Might as well give her a fighting chance.”
The truth sits heavier than I want to admit. I can’t stand the thought of her helpless in that room while predators circle. If they’re going to use her to get to me, she deserves better than being defenseless.
“Text Dima,” I say, heading for the door. “Tell him to prep the range. Mary’s getting a crash course.”
Boris nods, already reaching for his phone. “Copy that. We’ll make sure she comes home in one piece.” He pauses, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Something cold settles in my chest. Because I realize I’m not just protecting her anymore. I’m keeping her. And my men have already decided she’s worth keeping, too.
And that’s a big problem.