Chapter 12
DAMIEN
It’s been a good month. Not a perfect month, because perfection doesn’t exist in my world. But good, solid, and profitable. As close to perfect as I can ever hope to have.
The Vasilievs have also been quiet the past few weeks.
The faintest rumblings still come from their camp, but they’re more subdued than they’ve been in ages.
Meanwhile, my operations are running clean.
The loans are back on schedule, the docks are quiet, and the books are thicker than they’ve been in the last two quarters.
No one’s missed a pickup, and I haven’t seen a single red flag.
In the past, a month like this would have made me suspicious, but I’ve learned not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Sometimes, once in a while, everything functions smoothly, exactly as it should. And that’s given me room to breathe and to plan, so hopefully there will be more months like this.
More nights than not, I’ve found myself with Lyra.
Some nights I’ve been tangled in her sheets, other nights in mine, or I’ve just lain beside her long after I should’ve left.
One night became two. Two became five. Then a week.
Then I stopped counting. Not because I lost track, but because there was no point in keeping track anymore.
I haven’t touched another woman since the first time I touched her. I haven’t wanted to.
I wouldn’t call it love. I don’t believe in that kind of sentiment. It can lead to weakness. But it’s definitely some kind of slow-burning thing with no name that feels suspiciously like belonging. I don’t examine it too closely. I just let it in.
Across from me, Alek leans back in the leather chair that’s molded to his shape from years of use. He’s drinking my whiskey, as always, but not enough to make him talkative. He only drinks when he’s about to propose something I’ll either hate or admire.
“I think it’s time,” he says.
I don’t look up from the file on my desk. I’m already three pages ahead of him in this conversation. “Go on.”
“They’re getting lazy,” Alek continues, swirling the glass between two fingers. “Vasiliev’s not watching the ports anymore. Not closely, anyway. They’ve reassigned two of their lieutenants. He’s pulled most of his real muscle back to Brighton.”
I raise a brow. “Have you confirmed that?”
“Twice.” He nods. “I had Mikhail drive by the safehouse they were using in Brooklyn. It’s cold and empty. There’s been no movement there in at least four days, maybe more.”
That tracks with what I’ve seen on the financial end. Their shell companies haven’t shifted money since the last time we hit them. They’ve had no new laundering attempts or buy-ins at the union hall. It’s been unnervingly still over there.
I close the file and meet Alek’s eyes. “Why do you think they’ve gone so quiet all of a sudden?”
He shrugs casually. “Maybe they think we’re pacified. You’ve been quiet too.”
I nod once. “That was by design.”
“I know that, but they don’t.”
We sit in silence for a beat.
“Brighton’s his weak spot,” Alek adds. “We could hit him there. Get in quick and surgical, with no time for a counterattack. We can cut off his southern channel. Push him into Manhattan with no supply chain.”
It’s a solid strategy, and we’re on offense now. The more advantages we have, the better.
I stand and walk to the windows behind my desk. The skyline is gray today, washed in pre-storm light. It feels dangerous and foreboding.
“Put the plan together,” I say.
Alek nods behind me. “Should we use our usual crew?”
“No,” I answer firmly. “I want to see new blood. Use unmarked cars too, so there’s no trail.”
“Do you want a body count?”
“Only if it’s absolutely necessary,” I say, then pause. “But whatever you do, make sure it sends a message.”
He smiles, a grin as bright as Christmas morning.
I turn back toward him. “You have seventy-two hours. By Monday, they should be shitting their pants at just the thought of us.”
“You got it.”
He drains the last of his drink, then sets the glass down with a soft clink.
“I’ll text you when it’s ready,” he says. “Enjoy your night.”
I nod and watch him leave. The moment the door clicks shut, I exhale through my nose and glance at the time.
Lyra’s shift ends in ten minutes.
I don’t need to check, but I do anyway. It’s become a habit.
I open the company chat feed and scan the activity log.
She clocked in at eight this morning and hasn’t taken a single break longer than twelve minutes.
She solved two major bugs, completed one UI enhancement flagged by QA, and sent a Slack message to her team that actually made me laugh when I saw it earlier.
She’s smart in a quiet, sharp way. She doesn’t waste words. I like that about her.
I close the window and leave my office, nodding once to Andrea as I pass. She raises a brow at me but doesn’t ask where I’m going.
I take the private stairwell to the floor below. I could take the elevator, but I like the sound of my own footsteps echoing off steel and concrete. It helps clear my head, especially after a talk with Alek.
I step onto the tech floor, and the air shifts. People look up at me, flinching a little as if they’ve done something wrong. They always do this, and I know that’s my fault. I’ve never been easily accessible to any of them.
Most of them pretend not to react to me at all, even as they visibly shrink in my presence.
But Lyra looks up at me boldly.
She’s standing by her desk, already shutting down her monitors.
Her hair is half-up today, the rest falling in waves over her shoulders.
She’s wearing a slate-gray sweater tucked into black slacks that fit her like they were sculpted to her body.
She doesn’t smile at me, but something sparks in her eyes the second she sees me.
I stop at the edge of her desk. “Are you heading out, Miss Taylor?”
She nods. “My aunt asked me to have dinner with her tonight. If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be very late.”
“I remember.” I lower my voice. “You told me this morning. At a very inconvenient hour.”
She presses her lips together as if she’s trying not to laugh. Her eyes flick to the side. No one’s watching, but she still keeps her voice low.
“I didn’t hear you complaining.”
“I was trying to conserve oxygen.”
“You’re dramatic.”
I raise a brow. “You’re late.”
“Not yet.”
I reach out and brush a stray curl from her forehead. Just enough contact to make her inhale slightly. Enough to remind her what my hands feel like when we’re not being watched.
“Enjoy your evening,” I say.
She looks up at me. “You too.”
Then she walks off without another word. She doesn’t glance over her shoulder. She doesn’t need to. She already knows I’m watching her, and I will be until the elevator doors close.
Once she’s gone, I turn and head back upstairs.
I don’t like the quiet that waits for me in my office. I pour myself a drink to break it. I don’t sit back down. I just stand there, looking out at the skyline, and try not to think too hard about what’s happening to me.
I don’t get attached. That’s always been the rule.
Women are soft distractions. They’re good for an evening, sometimes even a week. I’ve had the best this city’s had to offer. Models and dancers and Rhodes Scholars. None of them stuck.
But Lyra has somehow snuck her way under my skin, and I get the impression that she has no intention of leaving any time soon. Not that I would want her to. I’ve been just as reluctant to leave her side as she’s been to go.
When I do finally leave the office, the night is already an inky black. There’s a biting chill that feels early for October. I try not to roll my eyes as I remember Lyra telling me to grab a coat this morning. I argued that it wasn’t cold enough yet. I’ll never hear the end of it now.
The town car waits where it always does, parked at the curb, black and polished, windows tinted well past the legal limit. Cops in this city know better than to pull me over. My driver, Anton, holds the door for me without speaking. He knows I don’t like chatter at the end of the day.
I slide into the backseat and nod once. He shuts the door and rounds the front. We pull away from the curb quickly, blending into the hectic New York traffic.
The city blurs past the windows, neon and shadow.
I check the screen on my phone, but there are no new messages from Lyra.
She’s probably still at dinner. I hope she’s laughing over a shared plate of pasta and telling her aunt some cleaned-up version of our relationship. Or whatever it is we’re doing.
Part of me wants to text her, to hear from her, but I don’t. I remind myself that we’re not established as anything, and it’s good for her to have her space. Instead, I lean back against the seat and close my eyes for a few seconds.
That’s all it takes for everything to go to shit. Gunfire rips through the silence, far too close to the car. And when I feel the car jerk sideways and hear Anton swear under his breath, I know it’s worse than I thought.
To my left and right are two black SUVs, both with masked shooters taking aim at my car. And as if that weren’t bad enough, another SUV pulls out in front of us, blocking us in. I sit up straighter.
Then the first round hits the side of the car. Hard.
The sound is deafening, a clatter of metal on metal, bullets ricocheting off the reinforced panels like hail against glass. The windows hold, but only just. I hear the pop of something in the undercarriage and know we’ve lost the front tire.
I reach under the seat and retrieve the gun I keep in the concealed holster there. Anton’s already pulled his own from the side panel.
“We can’t outrun them,” he says.
“No.”
“We hold?”
“For now.”
Another barrage. This time I see the muzzle flashes, brief orange sparks just beyond the front vehicle. Whoever’s out there isn’t being subtle. They want this to be loud. They want a message delivered.
I raise my voice. “Which direction’s the back alley?”
He glances at the rearview mirror. “Four o’clock. One car behind.”
I weigh it. We can’t stay here. Eventually, the safeguards will fail.
“Smoke and run,” I say. “On three.”
He nods without hesitation.
I count under my breath, then throw the rear door open and fire twice in the direction of the closest muzzle flash. Anton does the same from the driver’s side. It’s enough to startle them and we bolt at the opportunity.
Gunfire follows us, ripping through the air. I duck low and sprint beside Anton, both of us using the broken line of parked cars for cover. Someone shouts in Russian.
Another shot hits the bumper inches from my shoulder, too close. I turn and fire back blindly. We round the corner. The alley is narrow, half-lit by a failing streetlamp. Anton slows long enough to check the end.
Then he grunts. “I think we—shit—”
Sirens wail in the distance now, faint, but getting louder. That’s our cue. The Vasilievs don’t want cops any more than I do. They’ll scatter. I count five shooters. Maybe more.
A black SUV screeches around the far corner just as we reach the other end of the alley. But they don’t come after us. They just drift sideways, forming a blockade, then peel off into the night.
My breath is shallow, but steady. My heart’s thudding, but I’m used to that. I don’t scare easily. Not even when they’re clearly trying to kill me.
Anton stumbles to a stop beside me, and that’s when I see the dark stain blooming under his arm.
“Fuck,” I mutter, reaching out to catch him.
“I didn’t even feel it,” he says, voice tight.
Adrenaline will do that to someone. I push him down onto the curb and press my hand to the wound. It’s not pumping like an artery, but it’s not surface-level either.
“You’re lucky,” I say. “Another inch and we’d be having a different conversation.”
He tries to laugh, but it comes out strangled.
I pull my phone from my coat and dial Viktor.
“I need the table prepped,” I say. “Chest wound. Shallow. Bleeding moderately. ETA eight minutes.”
Viktor doesn’t waste time asking questions. “I’ll meet you at the rear entrance.”
I hang up and switch lines.
Alek answers on the first ring. “What’s going on?”
“They just tried to clip me,” I say. “Three SUVs. Definitely Vasilievs.”
There’s silence on the other end for a few seconds.
“Are you hurt?”
“Anton’s been hit, but I’m fine. I’m taking him to Viktor now.”
“I’ll find them,” he says without another word.
“I want you to kill them. Let’s move up the timeline.”
“I’ll give the order,” he says. “You still want Brighton?”
“I want Brighton,” I confirm. “And I want it leveled.”
“Copy that.”
I look down at Anton, who’s still conscious but paler now.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “You’re going to be fine.”
He nods once. I help him to his feet, slinging his arm over my shoulder, and flag down a cab.
We’re at Viktor’s in seven. Anton will live, but something inside me snaps. This won’t happen again.