Chapter 3 #2
He was still there — one hip propped casually against the edge of my desk, arms folded loosely across his chest.
I lifted my gaze.
“Roman.”
His presence didn’t feel threatening. But it did feel analytical.
He studied people the way investigators studied crime scenes.
We weren’t friends. Not truly.
We shared professional respect. Occasional nods in the hallway. Brief conversations in the gym when training overlapped.
“Good morning.” “Switch sparring partners?” “Rotate sectors.”
That was the extent of our relationship.
Until now.
Now we were assigned as partners on the most dangerous operation either of us had ever drawn.
“Do you know anything about him?” Roman asked quietly, tipping his head slightly toward the wall where Ruslan’s image had just disappeared.
He didn’t say the name. He didn’t need to.
I knew exactly who he meant.
I hesitated. The question wasn’t simple. It wasn’t professional curiosity.
I thought about the wedding ring still hanging on a thin chain beneath my shirt.
Technically—
Legally—
We were still married.
No divorce had ever been finalized. No judge had signed papers.
Four years ago, I had tried.
I had submitted a petition through legal channels.
The document had disappeared somewhere between clerks and couriers.
Lost. Delayed. Or deliberately intercepted.
Ruslan’s influence had reached far enough to stall even that.
My fingers unconsciously brushed against the chain under my collar.
I forced my hand back down.
“I know what’s in the file,” I answered. “Nothing more.”
Ronan studied my face for a long moment.
Then he shrugged slightly.
“My older brother worked undercover for the Bureau about six years ago,” he said.
I straightened. “Here?”
“Yeah.”
“Inside the Thompson family.”
The name hit like static through my spine.
Harris Thompson’s family. My former fiancé.
The world was too small.
Or maybe the criminal networks were simply interconnected.
Roman continued.
“He posed as a driver. Got close enough to overhear meetings. Delivered packages. Observed their logistics.”
“Did he get anything usable?”
“Some.”
Roman shifted his weight. “Names. Transportation routes. Financial movement patterns. A few offshore accounts tied to shell corporations.”
He exhaled. “But not enough to fully indict the Thompsons or tie them cleanly to the other four families they collaborate with.”
He glanced at me.
“Still — it gave us structure and context.”
He tapped lightly on my desk.
“And context matters when you’re dealing with someone like Baranov.”
I nodded slowly.
If the Thompsons and Ruslan’s network intersected — even partially — then my past and my present investigations might overlap more than I expected.
“Does your brother still have those files?” I asked
Roman’s mouth curved into something that resembled pride. “He keeps everything.”
“Good.”
“He’s got notes too. Observations that never made it into official reports.”
Roman tilted his head. “Got plans tomorrow evening?”
I raised an eyebrow slightly.
“Why?”
“Come by my place around seven.”
His tone remained casual. “I’ll cook,” he added.
The statement surprised me more than the invitation.
“You cook?”
He smirked. “My brother taught me. Said intelligence officers need to survive long stakeouts without relying on takeout.”
He shrugged.
“We can go over what he remembers. Unfiltered version. Sometimes the unofficial details are the most useful.”
I considered it.
Access to insider insight about the Thompson family could reveal patterns.
Patterns could expose overlaps.
Overlaps could expose vulnerabilities.
And vulnerabilities were what we needed to exploit when building a case against someone like Ruslan.
I glanced again at the blank screen.
Then back at Roman.
“Tomorrow works.”
“Good.”
He pushed off the desk smoothly.
“Call me at five to confirm the address.”
“Got it.”
He walked toward the door with that same relaxed confidence.
Agents passing him in the hallway nodded as he left.
I remained seated for a moment longer.
The room had emptied quietly around me.
The buzz of fluorescent lights filled the silence.
I exhaled slowly.
The Bureau had spent decades attempting — and failing — to dismantle major syndicates operating in the shadows.
Untouchable.
That word followed men like Ruslan. Protected them. Shielded them.
But I wasn’t approaching this case as an outsider trying to penetrate an empire.
I was approaching it as someone who had already lived inside it.
I understood his psychology. His network. His weaknesses. His ego. His patterns.
And most importantly— I understood how he reacted when he believed he controlled someone.
He had underestimated me once.
He would not get that opportunity again.
I stood up from the chair, adjusted my blazer, and gathered my briefing folder.
Four years ago, he married me and shattered my life.
Now I’m an FBI agent assigned to bring him down — and I will. With every breath, every choice, every ounce of strength I have.
This isn’t just a case. It’s personal.