Chapter 28 Makari
Makari
By the second morning, everything is finally where it needs to be.
The estate is locked down with the precision of a military outpost, every gate monitored, every entry point reinforced, every rotation doubled. My men move like a single organism, each one aware of what’s coming. Even the air feels taut; like the wilderness itself is holding its breath.
I stand on the overlook above the main compound, reviewing the last of the maps Jesse compiled overnight.
The pattern has solidified: the rival syndicate isn’t simply probing my defenses; they’re building the outline of an incursion, carving a path that snakes between ridges and switchbacks where visibility is nearly nonexistent.
They’re clever, patient, and brutal enough to have killed two of my men without hesitation.
But they made a mistake.
They touched what’s mine.
Jesse approaches quietly, the gravel crunching under his boots. He doesn’t speak until he’s beside me. “Dima’s at the helipad.”
I glance up. “He’s leaving now?”
“He insisted. Said he wants to reach Boston before it gets dark.”
A faint, humorless smile tugs at my mouth. That man treats long-distance travel like a personal insult, but for Andrea, he’ll do anything without argument.
We walk down toward the helipad together.
Dima is loading the last of his gear into the helicopter. Rifles, ammunition, a spare communication pack, and an absurdly long-handled shovel strapped to the outside of his go-bag. He sees us approaching and gives a solemn nod, the kind he reserves for matters he considers sacred.
“You’re sure about this property?” I ask him.
“Yes. Clean. Secure.” He tugs at the strap of his bag. “The boy likes trains, yes? There is a model set in the rec room. Will keep him busy.”
“I’m pretty sure Roxanne’s nephew is too old for trains.” I state without inflection.
“The family talks too much. I will cope.” Dima stoically says.
Jesse coughs to hide a laugh.
I fold my arms. “Your job is Andrea.”
“Da,” Dima says. “If anyone comes near her, I’ll use this.” He taps the shovel proudly.
“A shovel? I told you to take an extra gun.” Aside from the six he already has on him.
“I am taking a few,” he says, offended. “But shovel is quieter. Cleaner. Less paperwork.”
“Take the gun.”
“Shovel,” he answers, as if that ends the discussion.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Take both.”
He considers this with all the seriousness of a man evaluating a treaty. Then he nods. “Both,” he agrees, satisfied.
The rotors begin to spin as he climbs aboard. Before he shuts the door, he leans out. “Boss.”
“Yes?”
His expression softens, rare and unguarded. “She will be safe.” He doesn’t need to say who.
The helicopter lifts, kicking up dust and pine needles before rising above the trees, shrinking into the sky.
I trust Dima with my life, but trusting him with Andrea feels like something far more perilous.
Something I don’t have the right word for yet.
It feels strange not having him here with me; uneasy.
Jesse exhales beside me. “That’s one piece off the board.”
“And the rest?” I ask.
He looks toward the tree line where my men have already assembled. “Ready when you are.”
I nod once, then turn toward the compound. There’s one thing I need to do before we leave. It’s something I’ve been putting off since dawn, because the closer it gets, the harder it becomes to keep any sense of discipline.
Roxy is waiting at the cottage.
The walk there feels longer than every mile I’ve hiked through these woods.
The sun is low enough to cast warm streaks across the river, tinting the surface with gold.
The air smells of cedar and last night’s rain, a reminder that this land absorbs everything—blood, loss, hope, all of it disappearing between roots and moss.
When I reach the porch steps, she opens the door before I can knock, as if she’s been listening for my footsteps.
The sight of her hits me harder than the helicopter leaving. She’s dressed simply. Jeans and a soft sweater, but her eyes give away everything she’s trying to hold together. Fear. Anger. And something else. Something she doesn’t want me to see.
“You’re heading out now,” she says, voice tight.
“Yes.”
Her gaze sweeps over the tactical gear. The vest, knives, and the rifle strapped across my back before she returns to my face. She already knows what this mission is. She knows how it ends if I have anything to say about it.
“When will you be back?” she asks.
“When it’s finished.”
The words are simple, but the meaning isn’t. She hears it. She steps closer, closing the door behind her as if that might protect us from everything waiting outside.
“I hate this,” she says quietly. “I hate that you’re the one going out there.”
“You want me to send my men without me?”
“No,” she whispers. “That might be worse.”
I take her hand before she can pull away. Her fingers tremble, but she grips mine anyway, holding on as if she hasn’t been fighting every instinct to keep distance between us.
“You’re safe,” I tell her. “Andi is safe. Kat, Louise, the boy—they have Dima. No one is getting through him.”
“I know,” she says, but it doesn’t ease the fear lining her voice. “But you—”
She stops.
I step closer. “What?”
Roxanne exhales shakily, and when she finally meets my eyes, the question is there, unspoken but sharp enough to cut through armor.
Will you come back to me?
She doesn’t say the words. She doesn’t have to.
Her grip tightens on the front of my jacket, fingers curling into the fabric like she wants to anchor me in place. “Mak,” she says softly, “promise me.”
The world feels suddenly muted—the river, the wind, the voices of my men in the distance. All of it fades.
For a moment, I can’t speak. I’ve made hundreds of promises in my life—agreements, contracts, threats disguised as commitments. But none of them felt like this.
I reach up, sliding a hand behind her neck, pulling her forward. Her breath catches, and so does too. The kiss that follows is not methodical or strategic or carefully restrained.
It breaks something open.
Her mouth is warm, urgent, tasting of everything I’ve tried to keep from wanting.
She presses closer, fingers fisting in my jacket until she’s nearly shaking.
I pull her fully against me, and the sensation hits like impact—need, fear, fury, something scorching through every layer of discipline I’ve built over decades.
She pulls back only when breath forces us apart, her forehead still resting against mine. “I need you to come back,” she murmurs, voice ragged. “To me.”
The words slice straight through whatever remains of my restraint.
“I will,” I say, and it is the most honest promise I have ever spoken.
Her eyes close for a fraction of a second, relief and terror mixing in her expression. When she opens them again, there is something vulnerable there. It’s something she tries to hide, and fails.
I touch her cheek, sweeping my thumb along her skin. “Roxy.”
She looks up.
I do not know how to name what sits between us. It isn’t lust; it isn’t convenience. It’s something that makes the ground feel unsteady beneath my feet, something that has me locking down an empire with one hand while holding onto her with the other.
But if I name it out loud, she’ll run from it.
And maybe I will too.
So instead of speaking, I kiss her again—slower this time, deliberate, committing the feel of her to memory. Just in case.
When I pull back, she swallows hard. “Mak…”
I step away before I lose the willpower to leave at all. She follows me to the porch, watching as I descend the steps, the summer air warm enough to feel like a contradiction—the world soft and golden while I prepare for blood.
“Be careful,” she says.
“I always am.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I meet her gaze fully. “I know.”
I turn toward the waiting convoy at the end of the drive. Jesse is sitting on an ATV, and the men are assembled behind him in formation. They look at me the moment I approach.
A leader.
A weapon.
A man who dismantles threats without hesitation.
Beneath all of that, beneath every layer I’ve learned to wear, something new pulses in my chest, steady and frightening. A reason to come home.
When I swing onto the ATV, Roxy is still watching from the porch. Our eyes lock across the distance. I nod once. A silent, final goodbye. She lifts a hand to her mouth as if she’s afraid to let anything else slip free.
“Move out,” I order.
The engines roar to life.
And as the cottage falls behind us and the forest swallows the road ahead, one truth settles in with absolute certainty: This mission is no longer about territory or pride.
It’s about the life waiting for me in that small cottage on the river.
If this syndicate wants a war, if they want to test just how far I’ll go to protect what’s mine, I’ll show them.
Every last inch of wilderness will remember my name before I’m done.