Chapter 28 Matei
MATEI
The Port of Los Angeles stretches out before us. Miles and miles of huge boats, large shipping containers stacked on top of one another, and cranes towering overhead. It's industrial and feels unwelcoming, but as my Rolls-Royce turns onto the access road leading to the event, everything shifts.
Banners flutter in the evening breeze. White tents glow from within, strung with lights that turn the setting sun into something of an event. A massive stage sits at the base of a huge ship; it's one of those cargo vessels that looks like it could carry half the world's goods.
"Wow," Jordan says beside me. "It's huge."
I help her out of the car. The emerald dress clings to her body, the slit revealing her leg with every step. She's gorgeous, and she's all mine.
The crowd is dense. Two, maybe three hundred people walk around in expensive suits and cocktail dresses. Waiters cut through with champagne flutes balanced on silver trays. Music comes from somewhere ahead of us, a smooth jazz-type beat.
But it's not the party that catches my attention.
It's the security.
They're not regular hired muscle. These aren't the bored ex-cops or wannabe tough guys you see at most events. These men move like soldiers. They're wearing tactical gear, with automatic weapons slung across their chests and earpieces in their left ears. They look too professional, military even.
A few of them walk past us, and I catch fragments of conversation.
Russian.
My jaw tightens.
I lean close to Adrian, who's walking just behind us with six of our men.
"Fii atent," I say in Romanian. "Paza e ruseasc?."
Adrian's eyes sharpen. He doesn't respond, but the set of his shoulders changes. He's locked in now on those Russians.
Jordan glances at me, picking up on the shift. I squeeze her hand gently and give her a wink, reassuring her without words.
We approach the ramp leading up to the ship's deck. The metal clangs beneath our shoes, the sound lost in the noise of the crowd. As we climb, my mind churns.
Why would Russians be running security here?
Sure, they are selling Siberian Ice to the Bulgarians.
That's business. But guarding a corporate event?
Protecting the company that imports it? That doesn't track.
If they're just suppliers, they get paid whether the product makes it through customs or ends up at the bottom of the ocean. They shouldn't care this much.
Unless they're more involved than I thought.
Unless this isn't just about drugs.
The thought gnaws at me as we step onto the huge deck. It's been made up to look like a ballroom with more banners and more lights. There's a bar set up near the bow, and guests cluster around it.
A waiter approaches with a tray of champagne. I take a glass and hand it to Jordan, then I grab another for myself. The man turns to Adrian, who waves it off without looking. It makes me happy.
I take a sip, letting the bubbles hit my tongue.
Adrian's focus reminds me of something I've been trying not to think about, our progress here.
I've been hesitant to move fast, not because of her, though Adrian will say otherwise, but because since we got to LA, things have been too easy.
We've taken over three nightclubs. Seized shipments worth millions. Moved into territories the Bulgarians supposedly controlled. And what's the blowback? It's nonexistent.
We got, what, a few dead enforcers. A couple of threats that went nowhere.
It doesn't make sense.
The Bulgarians should be retaliating. Hard. Anyone else would. Instead, they're quiet. Almost passive.
Like they're playing a different game entirely.
I scan the crowd again, cataloging the faces. Wealthy businessmen. Politicians, maybe. People who don't belong anywhere near drug operations or organized crime. Yet here they are, celebrating a ship christening for STURK Enterprises, a company I'm now certain is a front of some kind.
But a front for what?
Is Siberian Ice really why the Bulgarians are here? Is it as simple as getting as many people hooked, taking as much money as they can, and moving on? Is it really why they're working with the Russians?
Or is the drug just a cover?
The thought makes my stomach twist.
"You okay?"
Jordan's voice pulls me back. She's looking up at me, her brow furrowed in concern.
I force a smile, reaching up to touch her cheek. "Yes. Just thinking."
"About what?"
"Work."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Of course you are. Even at work, you think about work."
I lean down and kiss her, feeling the softness of her lips. When I pull back, her eyes are bright, teasing.
"You promised me a good time," she says.
"Did I?"
"You did. And so far, all I've gotten is you brooding."
I laugh. "Fine. No more brooding."
"Good," she says and takes a sip of her champagne. "Actually, I was thinking about something, too," she continues, her voice turning cautious.
I look down at her. "What about?"
"I was thinking maybe I could go home," she says, refusing to meet my eyes. "Just for a day or two."
The word home ignites an uncomfortable tension in my body immediately, and the air between us turns cold.
"You want to leave?" I ask, my voice dropping an octave.
"What? No. I mean yes, but it's not like that at all. I'm just worried about Lindsey. It's been too long without hearing from her."
I stare at her, my jaw tightening. "You have nothing to worry about. I had my accountant send her a letter saying she doesn't have to pay rent anymore. She's probably just out celebrating."
Jordan shakes her head, frustration creeping into her expression. "No, Matei. Look, you don't know her. Free rent just means more money for her to spend on stupid shit. Like those blue vials."
"I'll send men to check on her tomorrow," I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. "It's not something you have to worry about."
"You're not listening to me. I am worried, and I want to be the one to check on her," she snaps, her eyes flashing. "I can't even go see my best friend?"
"Staying with me is safer. Which means it's the only option," I say, stepping slightly closer, my possessiveness flaring. "It's safer."
"Or maybe it's just what you want," she counters, stepping back. She sets her champagne glass down on a passing waiter's tray. "This is ridiculous. I need some space."
She turns and walks away, her emerald dress sweeping against the deck.
My hand clenches into a fist, fighting the urge to grab her arm and pull her back to my side. But I force myself to stay planted. I let her walk toward the edge of the terrace to cool off.
My eyes never leave her.
I watch her lean against the railing, the ocean breeze playing with her dark hair.
Jordan is being naive if she thinks that going "home" is safe for her. With her cam shows, the potential threat of the Bulgarians retaliating, and God knows what else, she can't just relax in that place without there being at least five armed guards outside.
But if I'm being honest, even that isn't the real issue.
What is the issue, then? Seeing her friend shouldn't be a problem. She clearly already chose me by coming with me tonight.
Before I can think any longer, some creep comes up to her out on the deck.
He's older, maybe fifty, with slicked-back hair and a suit that's trying too hard. He leans in way too close, placing his hand on the railing right next to hers, caging her in.
My vision tunnels. The irritation from our argument vanishes, replaced entirely by pure, lethal rage.
I walk over to them, shoving the man aside hard enough that he stumbles.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I growl.
He blinks, startled, his mouth opening to protest.
"She's with me," I say, my voice low and deadly. "If I see you near her again, I'll throw you off this fucking ship."
The man pales, his hands coming up in surrender. "I didn't. Sorry, I didn't know."
"Now you do. Leave."
He scrambles away, disappearing.
I turn to Jordan. "Did he touch you?"
"No," she says, wrapping her arms around herself, her cheeks flushed with a mix of adrenaline and lingering anger. "You didn't have to do that. I was handling it."
"You were cornered against a railing," I say, my voice firm.
Her eyes flash as she looks up at me. "I still am."
The words hang between us. She isn't talking about the older man anymore. She's talking about me. About the house. About the fact that I don't want her to leave.
I step closer, dropping my voice so only she can hear. "I protect what is mine. Whether you like it or not."
She holds my gaze, her chin tipped up in defiance. It's a look I haven't seen since I first stormed into her apartment. She's angry, and the tension between us is so thick it's practically suffocating.
I can't take it. I'm about to tell her maybe I overreacted when a voice crackles through the overhead speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, if you could please gather at the bow, the christening ceremony is about to begin."
Jordan exhales a sharp breath, breaking eye contact. "Let's go," she says and walks past me.
We make our way to the front of the ship, where the crowd is already gathering. An oversized champagne bottle hangs from a rigging pole, tied with a thick rope. It's absurd and almost comical.
A short man steps onto a small platform near the bow. He's balding, with wire-rimmed glasses and a fancy suit. The CEO of STURK Enterprises.
He clears his throat, and the crowd quiets.
"Thank you all for being here tonight," he begins, his voice tinny through the speakers. "This vessel represents more than just commerce. It represents opportunity. Connection. A bridge between nations and economies."
I tune him out, scanning the crowd instead, but my mind is entirely focused on the woman standing rigidly beside me.
The CEO finishes his speech and gestures to a blonde woman in a short black dress. She steps forward with a pair of oversized scissors and cuts the cord. The bottle swings down, smashing into the side of the ship with a loud crash.
The crowd erupts into applause.
Jordan looks up at me, her expression unimpressed. "Is that it? We drove all the way out here for someone to smash a bottle?"
"Apparently."
She turns to face me, her arms crossed. "Okay. Well, I'm not really up for socializing anymore."
"Look, I know we both need to get out of here and talk, but Adrian pulled intel for this, so I gave him the lead and told him to set up a meeting with the CEO."
Her eyebrows lift in mock surprise. "Wow. Relinquishing power. I didn't know you were capable of letting someone else off the leash."
I look at her.
"Sometimes being a good leader is letting others shine. In our family, giving more responsibility is a sign of trust. It's how we show love."
"Not with words?" she asks.
"No. Our father never said he loved us. He just gave us more to handle. That's how we knew."
She falls quiet for a moment. The anger in her eyes shifts, as if she looks right through the armor I wear for the rest of the world.
"And how do you show it?" she asks, her voice soft. "By words or by keeping people locked up?"
The question catches me off guard. It stings, actually.
"Jordan, I…"
"Sorry to interrupt."
Adrian's voice cuts through the tension, and I turn to see him approaching, flanked by our men.
"What is it?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
"Meeting is set," Adrian says, looking between me and Jordan, clearly sensing something. "Early next week. I told their management team we're interested in moving a few hundred million in product from the EU to America. They took the bait."
I force my attention back to business, giving him a nod. "Good job, brother."
"Thanks," he says. "We can go whenever you're ready."
"I'm ready," Jordan says and starts moving.
I turn to Adrian. "We'll meet back at the house."
We walk back to the car together. I keep my hand on her lower back, and she keeps her distance. The driver opens Jordan's door, and she slides in without a word or reaching for my hand. I walk around to my side and get in. The doors shut, sealing us in the stillness.
The car pulls away from the port. The lights of the party fade behind us, leaving only the dark interior of the Rolls-Royce.
We don't speak. Jordan stares out her window, her arms crossed, pressing herself against the door.
I stare at her profile in the passing streetlights. I want to pull her across the seat. I want to argue with her until she screams, and then kiss her until she forgets why she was mad. The urge to dominate the space between us is almost unbearable.
I reach across the console and place my hand on her thigh.
She flinches slightly, but she doesn't push me away. She just takes a shallow breath and keeps looking out the window. The stubborn, beautiful frustration of her drives me insane.
The road winds through the industrial area, dark and empty. Streetlights cast yellowish light onto the asphalt. I glance back through the rear window and see headlights.
At first, I assume it's Adrian's SUV following, but then the engine roars, a high-pitched, aggressive whine that doesn't belong to a heavy security vehicle. The headlights are blinding now, filling the cabin with harsh white light.
That isn't Adrian.
My blood goes ice cold.
I grab Jordan by the back of the neck and shove her down into the seat. "Get down!" I say and draw my gun from my side holster.
"Go!" I shout to the driver. "Get us the fuck out of here!"