Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
M IKHAIL
My eyes are burning.
I’ve been staring at the same spread of logistics manifests for four hours, and the numbers are starting to blur into a mess of black ink.
A few days have passed since the sauna, and the house has felt like a pressure cooker.
Irina is avoiding me, and I’m spending every waking second trying to figure out why I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked when she finally dropped that towel.
I’m a fucking finished man.
I haven't slept. Every time I close my eyes, I feel her skin. I hear her begging. It’s making me a goddamn wreck.
I lean back, rubbing the bridge of my nose, when something on the screen catches my eye. It’s a small discrepancy in the security logs for Warehouse Seven.
Seven is a mid-sized hub near the North Docks.
We use it for steel and heavy machinery overflow.
But according to the internal manifest, the security codes were accessed forty-eight hours ago using a legacy string—a backdoor code that Artyom and I retired three years ago. There’s no work order. No signature.
My jaw tightens. I reach for the secure line and punch in Artyom’s number.
"Mikhail," Artyom answers on the second ring. He sounds as tired as I feel.
"Warehouse Seven," I say. I don’t bother with a greeting. "The log shows an override forty-eight hours ago. A legacy code. Did you authorize a shift?"
There’s a long silence. I can hear the sound of a pen tapping against a desk. "No," Artyom says, his voice flat. "Seven is supposed to be empty until the Italian shipment hits next week. Why?"
"Because someone is moving things," I growl. I stand up, the chair screeching against the floor. "Someone who still has the old guard’s bypass codes. They’re using the North Docks, Artyom. A district we haven't touched in years."
"Boris?"
"I have no fucking clue," I mutter. I think about my father’s face, the way he’s been looking at Artyom lately—like he’s waiting for him to trip. "I’m going to check it out."
"Careful. We have that dinner with the Petrovs and Vladimir tonight. Don't be late. And don't go in there looking for a reason to kill someone."
"I'm always looking for a reason," I say and hang up.
I check my watch. We’re supposed to leave for my father’s estate in two hours. I don’t trust leaving Irina here with just a handful of guards, not when even the air in the city is starting to feel like a setup. If someone is moving behind our backs, she’s safer with me.
I head toward the bedroom. I find her standing by the bed, staring at a silk dress. She’s in a thin, pale slip that barely reaches her mid-thigh, and the sight of her bare legs makes my pulse kick.
She looks up when I walk in. Her eyes narrow as she takes in my tactical jacket and the gun holstered at my hip.
"Change," I say. My voice is rough.
She arches an eyebrow. "I spent an hour picking this out. Unless your father’s dinner party is taking place in a trench, I’m wearing the dress."
I don’t argue. I step into her space, my shadow covering her. She smells like that scent of hers that’s been driving me insane. I grab her by the waist and pull her flush against me. I can feel the heat radiating off her skin through the thin silk of her slip.
"We’re making a stop first," I say, my voice dropping. I let my thumb graze the curve of her hip, right over that silver scar. I feel her hitch, her breath hitching against my chest. "Warehouse Seven. There’s a problem with the books, and I’m closing the ledger. You’re coming with me."
"I’m not your shadow," she snaps, but she doesn't pull away.
"You are whatever I say you are, dorogaya .” I growl. I tighten my grip on her waist, pulling her even closer until I can feel the damp heat between her legs pressing against my thigh. "Until I know what’s in that building, you stay where I can see you. Five minutes. Change and let’s get going."
She glares at me, her eyes flashing with that stubborn fire. She shoves my chest, but it’s weak. "You're a lunatic."
Ten minutes later, we’re in the Aston Martin. I’m weaving through traffic, my foot heavy on the gas. Irina is in the passenger seat, staring out the window, her jaw set. She’s wearing black leggings and a fitted jacket, and the way the fabric pulls over her thighs is a constant distraction.
"You're driving like someone is chasing us," she says.
"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.
The warehouse explodes. Two guys dive for cover behind a forklift, spraying the air with submachine gun fire. I shove Irina behind a steel pallet, my body acting as a shield for a split second before I roll to the left.
The noise is deafening—the thunder of my Sig and the rattle of their Uzis. I fire twice more, the bullets punching through the forklift’s thin metal. One man screams, clutching his shoulder, and my next round finds his chest. He slumps over the steering wheel.
"Mikhail, left!" Irina suddenly screams.
I spin. A fourth guy is charging out of the shipping office, a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. I don't have time to aim. I squeeze the trigger, and the bullet catches him in the throat. He stumbles, blood bubbling out of his neck as he hits the concrete.
The last guy realizes he’s alone. He turns to run for the side exit, but I’m faster. I fire a single shot, low. It shatters his kneecap, and he hits the floor, screaming.
I walk toward him, the barrel of my gun still hot. I grab the guy by his hair and jerk his head back. Blood is leaking from his mouth.
"Who gave the fucking order?" I hiss. I press the hot barrel of my gun against his forehead.
“We were just ordered… I don’t know?—”
I drop him.
I turn back to the women. They’re still on the floor, shaking. Irina is already there, kneeling next to a girl who looks about eighteen. She’s using a knife she found on the floor to cut the zip-ties. Her voice is low and steady, comforting them.
"You're safe," she says, her eyes locked on the girl’s. "I’ve got you. You're safe now."
I watch her for a long moment. She doesn't care about the blood on her shoes or the bodies on the floor. She’s focused on them. She looks up at me, and her blue eyes are full of a fury that matches mine.
"We need to get them out of here," she says.
"I’ll call Artyom," I say. I look at the man I just shot in the leg. "And then I’m going to find my father."
The silence of the warehouse is heavy now, filled with the scent of cordite and the quiet sobbing of the women. I look at Irina, and for the first time, I don't see the bride I bought. I see a partner.