Chapter Two
Leonid
Have eyes on the back of your head.
It’s one of the rules we live by. One of the first rules my father beat into me young enough that I still remember the metallic taste of blood in my mouth and the freezing snow beneath my knees while he taught it.
Complacency gets men buried, carelessness gets empires destroyed, and stupidity?
Stupidity gets your head delivered on a golden platter to your enemies.
My gaze narrows on the figure standing a few inches away from the railing and dutifully observing our movements on the Mona. The second I spot the intruder, I know the drop is compromised.
And the idiots on deck still haven’t figured out that there’s a witness standing twenty feet from illegal merchandise worth enough to start a war.
Mikhail argues in hushed tones with Artem near the storage hatch while another man scans the wrong side of the marina. I roll my eyes. Fucking new recruit.
The three of them are too slow, with no one seeing what I notice from the upper deck.
Leaning forward, I rest one hand against the cold railing, my gaze fixed on the narrow strip of dock below. As if on cue, the figure drags its feet forward, cautiously approaching the Mona, and a sudden flash of light from the marina makes my job easier.
My jaw clenches when I realize…
It’s a girl.
She crouches, half-hidden beside the piling near Slip C-17, trying very hard to make herself invisible. But I spot the unmistakable tension that radiates off her body.
Even from this distance, I see the stiffness in her shoulders, the shallow rise and fall of her breathing, the way her fingers clutch a tablet against her chest like it might somehow protect her from what she knows she’s walked into tonight.
I tap my phone, and the screen wakes with a dim light, not bright enough to draw attention.
After a few swipes through the folders, I finally find the one I’m looking for. I click on it, and different documents with images attached pop up in a vertical display.
I carefully sift through the profiles of Miami marina workers. Then I stop, my thumb hovering over the profile that matches the hiding girl.
“Interesting...”
Definitely not security, law enforcement, or a rival cartel. Just an ordinary working citizen.
Elena Clark: yacht charter manager, Miami Marina.
I slip the phone back into my pocket, turning my attention back to the manager.
The marina wind tears through her hair, strands flying wildly across her face as she glances toward the men on the yacht. She looks ready to bolt, yet she hasn’t moved.
Fear does that sometimes, rooting its prey in place, paralyzing it, silencing every logical thought that could save it.
My jaw tightens slightly as I study her, tracing her body through her baggy knitted sweater that slips off one shoulder, to the glimpse of bare legs underneath khaki shorts, and the sneakers unsuited for running, if she finally decides to.
She’s completely out of place here, which means she’s either very unlucky or very dangerous.
She’s seen too much and, where I come from, witnesses are a liability.
The shipment matters too much. One leak or one stupid oversight will unravel months of planning, and we don’t want that happening with this much at stake.
Mikhail and Artem move across the deck, supervising the cargo transfer while I sort through my next course of action.
My first instinct is cold and efficient. There’s only ever one thing to do with people like Miss Clark, and that doesn’t include allowing them see the next dawn. She can’t walk away from this dock, at least not until I uncover what she’s really doing here.
She might be an average employee, but her timely visit here could be an attempt at surveillance. It’s up to me to figure out what her motives are.
The possibility of a spy settles into my thoughts.
For months before the execution of this operation on the Mona, we received word about the police sniffing around, poking and prodding for the tiniest bit of information, any significant detail that would be sufficient to drag us into custody.
They’ve got nothing. But they aren’t the only ones pushing for our downfall.
Vasili and his men keep close watch on our dealings, like guard dogs foaming at the mouth, as he waits for the perfect opportunity to strike. Now, here comes a young woman stumbling onto a sensitive drop at nearly midnight. She could be one of his minions.
The marina lights flicker across her again, and my gaze lowers before I can stop it.
I didn’t notice it before, but her soft curves are unashamedly accentuated by the perfect fit of the shorts, and I catch the faint rosy hue on her cheeks as she raises her head, taking another long look at the Mona.
She’s young. Jesus.
Young enough that I notice it immediately, and dislike that I notice it at all.
She’s twenty-one, maybe twenty-two at most. I didn’t bother to crosscheck that detail on her profile, but it doesn’t change the fact she’s clearly two decades younger than me.
Far too young to be standing on my dock looking at things that could snuff out her life before she’s even gotten a chance to live it.
This would be the perfect opportunity to strike, catch her off guard, and have her kneeling before me before she’s even had a chance to blink. I should give the order now, but instead I keep watching her, observing things I shouldn’t care about.
Like how controlled she is in a situation that could get messy any minute now. Her fear isn’t hysterical, like some girls who’d be overreacting now, dialing numbers on their phones or dramatically screaming for help.
No, not this girl.
She stays put, undoubtedly terrified, but contained and quiet. And if I was in a complimentary mood, I’d think she was brave.
Her courage intrigues me, and I feel it stirring a strange desire to uncover where her strength comes from. But I can’t let her feel brave anymore. The time for action is now.
I feel my chest tighten, a curling annoyance taking root at my own distraction. Because that’s all she is—a distraction, a thorn under my shoe that needs to be pulled out and tossed into the sea.
I lift a finger, ready to signal Artem, but Miss Clark raises her head again. This time, it’s different. There’s a knowing, lingering pause as she stares right at the upper deck, where I’m standing. And it dawns on me...
She knows I’m here. She feels me watching.
Knowing that does something to me. It charges me, sends a bolt of adrenaline rushing through my veins.
Narrowing my gaze, I move forward, a few inches closer, until I’m directly positioned under the light. And I see the visible tremble of her lips as her eyes shift, landing directly on me.
The instant shock on her face hits me harder than I expected. A gust of wind blows between us, carrying waves of suspenseful silence. A spark starts within me, sharp and highly unwelcome—a spark of possessiveness that coils low in my gut, making it hard to ignore.
Killing her would be easy, but controlling her would be a smarter option.
Or maybe, I’m seeking out reasons to keep her around longer.
I drag a hand through my hair, knowing exactly what needs to be done.
“Artem.”
Artem’s head snaps up with immediate alertness. His icy blue eyes find mine in the dim light. I don’t make a move, but he waits silently. Then, two seconds later, I slightly tilt my head.
A light on the dock flickers and, through his mask, I catch the subtle clench of his jaw, right before his gaze spins to the ground below the railing.
In perfect synchrony, her neck twists toward Artem, and her eyes widen with the damning realization that her cover’s been blown.
Faster than either of us are able to anticipate, she runs.
As she bolts down the dock into the darkness, I finalize the decision that she’s coming with me, whether she wants to or not.
Artem doesn’t waste a second. He signals the others with one sharp gesture before disappearing down the staircase leading off the deck. His deep voice travels roughly through the night, barking orders in Russian.
Three of my men pull up their masks, following Mikhail, who’s already on the dock, their boots hammering against the metal steps before hitting the dock below.
I have to give it to her, she’s fast.
She sprints down the wooden marina walkway, her hair flying behind her as her sneakers pound against the damp wood. I hold down on my earpiece, tracking each sound and movement as they charge after her.
I watch from above as she cuts sharply around a moored yacht, nearly slipping when the dock shifts beneath her, and through the earpiece, I hear her faint but ragged breathing.
A boat horn groans somewhere out on the water, and it serves as a distraction, to our advantage, as it slows her down.
It’s no surprise that Mikhail gains on her first. He moves with an impossible speed and efficiency that reminds the others why he’s my top-ranked enforcer after Artem.
Focused, he closes the distance without wasting energy.
The girl glances back once.
Just once.
And that’s her undoing.
Her foot catches on a loose rope stretched near the edge of the dock, and she stumbles hard.
A loud cry travels through the earpiece as she crashes onto the wood. The tablet skids violently from her grasp and disappears beneath a nearby bench. But before she recovers, Mikhail grabs her arm.
“Hey, you—”
The rest of his words are cut off as she fights back, a wild spectacle, and much harder than he expects.
“Let me go!” She kicks backward, nearly catching him in the ribs. “Get your hands off me!”
The other men don’t hesitate. Bloodthirsty and voraciously hungry for more violence, they arrive at the scene, pull out their guns, and aim straight at her head. But Mikhail catches her wrist easily as I lift the radio to my lips.
“Lower your fucking guns, idiots,” he growls. “Leo wants her breathing.”