Chapter Five - Felix
Pavel is already waiting when I arrive at the lounge, seated in the back corner where the leather chairs are oldest and the soundproofing is best.
A bottle of whiskey sits between two glasses on the low table, expensive enough that most people wouldn’t recognize the label. Security stands outside the door—two men I’ve known for years, loyal enough to die before they let someone listen in.
My cousin doesn’t look up immediately when I enter. He’s reading something on his phone, his expression carved from stone in a way that reminds me we share more than blood. We share the same training, the same understanding that sentiment is a liability in this world.
I settle into the chair across from him and pour two fingers of whiskey without asking if he wants it. Pavel sets his phone down and picks up the glass, studying me over the rim.
“You look tired,” he says.
“It’s been a rough week.”
“It’s only Tuesday.”
I don’t respond to that. Instead, I take a slow sip and wait for him to get to the point.
Pavel doesn’t waste time on small talk unless he’s extracting information, and tonight he has the look of a man who’s already decided what needs to happen.
He leans back, rolling the glass between his palms. “Diana Clarke.”
Her name in his mouth makes my jaw tighten involuntarily. I keep my expression neutral, giving him nothing.
“What about her?”
“Sartore contacted me this afternoon.” Pavel’s tone is flat, matter-of-fact.
“She’s been digging into Ethan Clarke’s archived files.
Accessed encrypted drives over the weekend, decrypted donor routing maps, pulled up shell corporation filings.
She knows about Rudenko Strategic Consulting, which means she knows about the senators. ”
The information isn’t new—I’ve been monitoring her activity for days—but hearing it confirmed through Sartore channels sharpens the threat. If Lorenzo’s people are tracking her movements closely enough to alert Pavel, then she’s already escalated from minor concern to active liability.
“She’s conducting transparency audits,” I say carefully. “That’s her job.”
Pavel’s mouth curves slightly, something between amusement and disbelief. “Her job is campaign finance compliance. What she’s doing now is reconstructing her brother’s investigation into organized crime money laundering. That’s not professional curiosity, Felix. She’s got a vendetta.”
He’s right, and we both know it. Diana isn’t just asking uncomfortable questions at donor galas anymore. She’s building a case that connects maritime logistics to political funding, tracing money through the same networks Ethan Clarke spent months mapping before Sartore intervened.
“What does Lorenzo want?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Same thing he wanted eighteen months ago. Clean removal before exposure spreads.” Pavel sets his glass down with deliberate precision.
“She’s a civilian with access to information that implicates both our families in federal crimes.
If she goes public, senators lose immunity, shipments get flagged, operations shut down across three states. You understand the stakes.”
I do. The calculus is simple: one woman’s life weighed against millions in revenue, multiple political protections, and the fragile truce between Rudenko and Sartore interests that’s held for nearly two years. Operationally, strategically, the decision should be immediate.
“Lorenzo suggested discrediting her publicly,” Pavel continues when I don’t respond.
“Leak something that makes her look unstable. Obsessed conspiracy theorist grieving her dead brother, desperate to assign blame where there isn’t any.
Alternative option is removal. Stage another accident, close the file permanently. ”
The thought of Diana hurt—or worse—sends something cold and sharp through my chest. I force the reaction down, burying it beneath layers of control I’ve spent decades perfecting.
“That’s an overreaction,” I say.
Pavel’s eyes narrow slightly. “How is containment an overreaction, when she’s actively reconstructing evidence?”
“Killing a marketing executive whose journalist brother died in suspicious circumstances draws exactly the kind of attention we’re trying to avoid.
” I lean forward, framing this as tactical assessment rather than hesitation.
“Her brother’s accident already raised questions.
Federal investigators closed the case, but journalists remember.
If Diana Clarke dies now—vehicular crash, sudden illness, random mugging—it becomes a pattern.
Patterns trigger investigations we can’t control. ”
“Then discredit her.”
“That only works if she goes public immediately. She hasn’t contacted journalists, hasn’t filed anything with federal prosecutors, hasn’t made noise beyond pulling donor compliance reports.”
Pavel studies me with the kind of patience that comes from years of reading men under pressure. “You’re arguing for surveillance.”
“I’m arguing for strategic containment. We keep monitoring her movements, track her contacts, intercept any attempt to publish. If she escalates, we respond. Preemptive elimination creates more problems than it solves.”
“If she’s already escalated and we just don’t know it?”
The question is valid. Diana could have backup files stored somewhere we haven’t found, contacts we haven’t identified, contingency plans designed to trigger if something happens to her.
Killing her without knowing the full scope of what she’s prepared could release exactly the kind of exposure we’re trying to prevent.
That’s not why I’m hesitating.
Pavel takes another slow sip of whiskey, his gaze never leaving mine. “You’ve grown sentimental.”
The accusation lands quietly, almost conversational, but it carries weight. Sentiment in our world is weakness. Attachment creates leverage that can be exploited. Men who care about things outside power and survival don’t last long.
“I’m being practical,” I say evenly.
“You’re being protective.” Pavel’s tone sharpens slightly. “Which is interesting, considering you met her once at a donor gala and had coffee in Brooklyn this morning.”
Shit. So he knows about the café. Either his people are tracking me, or Sartore’s watchers reported back. Either way, the surveillance net is tighter than I anticipated.
“I needed to assess the threat personally.”
“What did you assess?”
That she’s intelligent, defiant, and dangerously curious. That she holds eye contact without flinching even when she’s frightened. That the memory of her waist beneath my hands has disrupted my focus for three days straight.
“She’s competent,” I say instead. “Which makes her a calculated risk, but not an immediate threat.”
Pavel leans back, his expression unreadable. “Lorenzo gave you forty-eight hours to contain her. That deadline passed this morning. He’s expecting action.”
“Then tell him I’m handling it.”
“How?”
“Surveillance. Interception if necessary.” I meet Pavel’s gaze directly, letting the steel show. “No one touches her without my approval.”
The statement shifts something in the room. Pavel’s expression doesn’t change, but his stillness suggests he’s recalibrating his assessment of the situation.
“No one touches her,” he repeats slowly. “That’s an interesting line to draw.”
“It’s a strategic one.”
“Is it?” Pavel’s mouth curves slightly, something cold beneath the amusement. “From where I’m sitting, it looks personal. Personal decisions get people killed, Felix. You know that better than anyone.”
I do know that. I’ve watched men compromise operations because they couldn’t separate attachment from strategy.
I’ve eliminated threats others hesitated over because sentiment clouded their judgment.
I’ve built my reputation on precision, control, and the ability to make hard decisions without flinching.
The thought of Diana hurt—of her silenced the way her brother was—creates a resistance I can’t rationalize away.
“She’s my responsibility,” I say finally. “I’ll handle her my way. If she becomes a genuine threat, I’ll deal with it. Until then, Lorenzo and his people stay back.”
Pavel watches me for another long moment, then nods once. “I’ll relay that. Understand that if she publishes, if she makes contact with federal investigators, if she does anything that jeopardizes operations, this protection ends. You won’t get another chance to contain her quietly.”
“Understood.”
He stands, buttoning his suit jacket with practiced efficiency. “Don’t let this become a problem, Felix. We can’t afford complications right now.”
“It won’t.”
***
By 10:00 p.m., I’m parked across from Diana’s building in an unmarked black SUV. Engine off. Lights off. The street is quiet, a few pedestrians moving past without noticing the vehicle blending into the row of parked cars.
I tell myself this is operational necessity. Risk assessment. Confirming she’s home, monitoring her patterns, ensuring no one else is moving on her without coordination.
The justification is thin, but I hold on to it anyway.
Her apartment window glows softly on the third floor, curtains partially drawn. I can’t see much from this angle—just the vague outline of furniture, shadows moving occasionally as she shifts between rooms.
Movement catches my peripheral vision. Half a block down, another car idles with its engine running. There’s two men inside, visible through the windshield in profile. They’re watching the same building I am.
Sartore’s watchers.
My jaw tightens. Lorenzo said he’d give me time to handle this, but clearly he’s keeping his own surveillance active. The men in that car aren’t there to observe—they’re positioned for intervention if Diana makes the wrong move.
Or if I fail to contain her quickly enough.
The bedroom light turns on, brighter than the living room glow. Through the gap in the curtains, I catch her silhouette moving across the space. She’s changed out of the jeans and sweater from this morning, wearing something looser now—a shirt that hangs past her hips.
She reaches up to pull it over her head, the motion lifting the fabric slowly, and for a brief second her body is visible in silhouette. The curve of her waist, the soft swell of her breasts, the generous shape of her hips and thighs backlit against the warm bedroom light.
The image is brief, but it slams into me with enough force that my breath catches.
She steps away from the window and pulls the curtains closed fully, disappearing from view.
I sit in the dark vehicle, pulse elevated, hands gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary. Desire floods through me—sharp, possessive, completely inappropriate given the circumstances.
I don’t like how deeply it affects me. How the thought of those Sartore watchers seeing what I just saw makes my jaw clench with irrational territoriality.
She’s not mine. She’s a liability I’m managing. A civilian who stumbled into dangerous territory and needs containment before she destroys herself and multiple operations in the process.
The rationalization feels hollow when I’m still staring at her darkened window, replaying the curve of her body in my mind.
I start the engine and pull away from the curb, forcing distance between myself and the building.
The Sartore car doesn’t follow. They stay parked, watching her window the same way I was.
I drive back to my office and spend the next two hours reviewing surveillance reports, trying to focus on risk assessment instead of the memory of her silhouette.
It doesn’t work.