Chapter Three - Felix
Oleg arrives at my office before eight on Monday morning, folder in hand and expression unreadable. I’m already three emails deep into damage control from a senator’s chief of staff who got sloppy with his mistress’s NDA, so I don’t look up immediately when he sets the file on my desk.
“Diana Clarke,” he says. “Full background.”
I finish typing the response—a single line reminding the chief of staff that discretion is a professional requirement, not a suggestion—then open the folder.
The report is thorough. Twenty-three years old, born in Hartford, graduated from NYU with a degree in communications and political science. Currently employed at Clarke she’s now following the same path with the same information.
The smart move is elimination. Quick, contained, attributed to something mundane. We can frame it as just another tragic accident in a family that’s already suffered one.
“I’m suggesting removal,” Lorenzo continues when I don’t respond immediately. “Before she has time to share what she’s found.”
“That’s premature.”
The words come out before I’ve fully decided to say them, and Lorenzo’s silence on the other end suggests he’s as surprised as I am.
“Premature,” he repeats slowly. “She has access to files that implicate both our organizations in federal crimes. How is containment premature?”
“Killing a civilian draws attention we don’t need.” I shift into operational justification, framing this as strategy rather than hesitation. “Her brother’s death already raised questions. A second fatal accident in the same family triggers investigations we can’t control.”
“Then discredit her. Make it look like conspiracy theory nonsense.”
“That works if she goes public immediately. If she’s smart—and her background suggests she is—she’ll build the case carefully before exposing it. Which gives us time to assess whether she’s actually a threat or just a grieving sister looking for answers.”
Lorenzo’s silence stretches long enough that I know he’s weighing my resistance against his own instincts.
Sartore operates with brutal efficiency; sentiment doesn’t factor in to their decisions.
The fact that I’m arguing for surveillance over elimination signals something he’ll interpret as weakness.
“Surveillance,” he says finally. “Forty-eight hours. If she makes contact with journalists, federal investigators, or anyone who could amplify her findings, we move. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
The call ends.
I set the phone down and stare at the folder on my desk, Diana Clarke’s profile photo clipped to the inside cover. It’s a professional headshot, probably from her firm’s website—dark hair pulled back, confident smile, eyes sharp and assessing.
I remember those eyes. The way they met mine in the hallway without flinching, awareness mixed with defiance, heat simmering beneath the surface when I stepped too close.
She should be a simple problem with a simple solution. But the memory of her waist beneath my hands, the soft weight of her body pressed briefly against mine, complicates the decision in ways I can’t afford.
I call Oleg back into the office.
“Surveillance,” I tell him. “I need full monitoring of her apartment, workplace, and all communications. I want real-time updates on every movement, every contact, every file she accesses.”
“Elimination?”
“Not yet.” I meet his gaze directly. “We contain her. Learn what she knows and who she’s planning to tell. Then we decide.”
Oleg nods once, professional enough not to question the delay, even though I can see the skepticism in his expression. He’s worked with me long enough to recognize when I’m deviating from protocol.
He leaves to coordinate the surveillance setup, and I’m alone again with the folder and the growing awareness that I’m making decisions based on variables I don’t fully understand.
***
By evening, the surveillance infrastructure is operational.
Oleg sends me a secure link to live camera feeds positioned outside Diana’s apartment building—street-level angles, building entrance, parking area.
The setup is discreet, routed through private security channels that won’t trace back to Rudenko operations.
I open the feed on my office monitor and tell myself this is operational necessity. Risk assessment. It’s standard containment protocol for a civilian who’s stumbled into classified territory.
The justification holds until I watch her pull into the parking lot at six forty, her Honda stopping in a spot near the building’s east entrance. She steps out carrying one of the banker’s boxes I recognize from surveillance reports on the storage unit visit, the cardboard balanced against her hip.
The camera angle catches her in profile; black hair falling loose past her shoulders, jeans fitted enough to show the curve of her thighs and the generous swell of her hips. She’s dressed casually tonight, none of the polished confidence from the gala, but the way she moves is the same.
She pauses under a streetlight near the entrance, shifting the box to her other arm, and tilts her head back slightly to scan the building’s upper windows. The motion exposes the line of her throat, delicate and vulnerable in a way that makes my pulse quicken despite myself.
She has no idea she’s being watched. No awareness that cameras are tracking her movements, that men in secured offices are cataloging her routines, that her life is being assessed for threat potential and disposal logistics.
The innocence of it—the oblivious confidence she carries—tightens something uncomfortable in my chest.
I replay the footage. Watch her pause again, the box heavy enough that she adjusts her grip twice before heading inside.
The camera loses her once she enters the building, but I know from the floor plan Oleg provided that her apartment is on the third floor, northeast corner, two windows facing the street.
I zoom in on the timestamp—6:42 p.m. She’s been home from the storage unit for less than ten minutes.
I pull up the archived footage from Saturday night, scrolling backward until I find her returning home with all four boxes balanced precariously in her arms.
She makes two trips. The first load, she’s careful, efficient. The second, she’s visibly tired, shoulders sagging slightly under the weight. When she drops the last box inside her apartment door, she stands there for a moment with her hand braced against the frame, breathing hard.
I watch her push the door closed, disappear from view, and wonder what she found in those files that made her go back for more.
The technical alert Oleg forwarded earlier sits open in another window—metadata logs showing she accessed cloud storage multiple times over the weekend, decryption software actively used, file downloads concentrated around maritime logistics documentation and campaign finance routing maps.
She’s building the same case her brother started. She knows about Rudenko Strategic Consulting. She’s seen the shell corporations, the senator connections, the freight company overlaps.
Diana has probably already concluded that Ethan’s death wasn’t an accident, which means she knows she’s in danger.
The surveillance feed flickers as her apartment lights turn on, third floor northeast corner, exactly where the floor plan indicated.
I can’t see inside from this angle, but I imagine her spreading files across the living room floor the same way her brother used to work—methodical, obsessive, unwilling to stop until the pattern reveals itself.
I close the laptop and lean back in my chair, forcing myself to think clearly.
Diana Clarke is a liability. She has information that could dismantle months of carefully constructed protection around three senators and expose shipping routes that generate millions in revenue for both Rudenko and Sartore interests.
Lorenzo expects her contained or eliminated within forty-eight hours.
Pavel would argue for immediate removal, no hesitation.
Oleg has already queried twice whether I want a tactical team positioned for intervention.
The smart decision is obvious.
Except when I close my eyes, I see her in that hallway—dark eyes meeting mine without fear, breath catching when I stepped too close, the soft give of her waist beneath my hands.
I want to know what she tastes like. What sounds she makes when she’s overwhelmed. How that defiance translates when she’s pinned beneath me with nowhere to run.
I open my eyes and pull up Oleg’s number.
“Increase the monitoring,” I tell him. “I want twenty-four-hour coverage. If she leaves the apartment, I want to know where she goes. If she makes calls, I want transcripts. If she contacts anyone outside her immediate circle, I want names and background checks within the hour.”
“Understood. What do we do if she moves to publish?”
I hesitate, the pause stretching too long. “Then we intervene,” I say finally. “But not before.”
I end the call before he can ask follow-up questions I don’t have answers for.
The surveillance feed remains open on my screen, her apartment window glowing softly against the darkening skyline.
I tell myself this is containment. Strategic patience. Operational discipline.
The truth is simpler and more dangerous: I’m not ready to let her go.