Chapter 15
Liev
The conference room is larger than it needs to be for this meeting, but they’ve insisted on it, which means they understand how important a financial figure I can be in Miami.
I sit at the end of the long table while a lawyer in an expensive suit slides another set of documents across the surface.
My bodyguard, Viktor, stands near the door with his hands folded in front of him, watching everything with the same patient stillness he always carries.
He’s no Nika, but I trust him. He came with me from Savannah and arrived this week with his family.
The company I’m acquiring is small enough to avoid attention but large enough to be useful.
It comes with three modest cargo ships and a modest dock lease along the Miami River, which makes it the perfect seed to grow.
Legal shipping routes will give us paperwork, legitimate cargo manifests, and access to ports that would otherwise require years of negotiation.
The banker continues speaking about regulatory compliance and asset transfers while I sign my name where the paper tabs mark the lines.
I halfway listen, my attention shifting instead to the rhythm of the building around us.
Banks have their own kind of heartbeat: the quiet shuffle of money moving through systems and people moving through hallways.
Something about that rhythm feels slightly off.
I glance toward Viktor.
He has already noticed.
His posture tightens almost imperceptibly as his eyes flick toward the hallway outside the conference room.
Like most banks, one wall is entirely glass—looking out onto the reception area where people mill around or wait in line for tellers.
The lawyer keeps talking, unaware of the shift in the air, and the banker begins explaining the final wire transfer that will secure the acquisition.
A sound echoes faintly through the corridor, but it’s not loud enough for the banker to notice.
It is loud enough for Viktor and me though.
His hand moves slowly toward the inside of his jacket.
“Finish the paperwork,” I say quietly.
The banker pauses, confused by the interruption, but I continue signing with steady hands. Panic spreads quickly in rooms like this, and I have no intention of letting it start before I know what we are dealing with.
The second sound comes sharper.
Metal against metal.
Viktor moves first.
He pulls his weapon free just as the conference room door bursts open. We don’t see them coming because they’ve entered through the back near the private staff rooms.
Two men rush in with guns raised. They’re dressed like contractors and maintenance workers, but the way they move makes their intentions obvious. The banker shouts and dives beneath the table while the lawyer freezes in his chair.
Gunfire shatters the quiet of the room.
Viktor fires twice in quick succession, forcing the first attacker to stagger backward into the doorway. The second man fires and bullets spray across the table, shredding paperwork and sending splinters of wood into the air.
I overturn my chair and drop low behind the heavy table as the room erupts.
The sound is deafening inside the enclosed space. Glass shatters somewhere behind me while the banker whimpers under the table like a trapped animal.
Viktor curses in Russian as he empties another round toward the doorway.
One of the attackers falls.
The other, the second man who seems to handle himself better, disappears back into the hallway.
For a moment, there’s nothing but ringing silence and drifting paper fragments.
Then I feel a sharp burning pain along my side.
I look down and see the tear in my jacket where a bullet grazed across my ribs. Blood darkens the fabric, but the wound is shallow. It feels like a knife was dragged across my skin.
“Shef,” Viktor says, already moving toward me.
“Ya v poryadke.” I’m fine. I press a hand to the wound and feel the hot, slow seep of blood.
The hallway outside bustles with rapid footsteps as bank security finally reacts to the gunfire. Somewhere deep in the building, alarms begin to scream.
I push myself to my feet and adjust the front of my jacket, ignoring the sting in my side. The lawyer, still glued to his chair, stares at me with wide, horrified eyes while the banker remains curled beneath the table.
“Your acquisition is complete,” I tell the banker calmly.
He nods frantically, his face pale. We don’t address the shredded paperwork. If it wasn’t obvious at the start of this meeting that I have power, it is now. People want me dead; that means good business, oddly enough.
Viktor glances toward the hallway where the wounded attacker escaped.
“They knew where you would be.”
I step over the shattered remains of the conference room door and look down the corridor where the man disappeared.
Someone is testing me.
Whoever it is, just made a very expensive mistake.
* * *
The alarms are still blaring when the first of my men arrive. Every-day patrons, small businessmen and family men have been shuffled to the smaller conference rooms and are being held there for now. I can hear a child crying from the front of the bank.
My men move through the building with quiet efficiency, weapons concealed but ready, spreading through the lobby and corridors as if they work here.
Within seconds, the entrances are sealed and security guards are redirected.
Anyone foolish enough to wander near the conference floor is quietly escorted away.
Viktor speaks into his phone in rapid Russian while I lean against the conference table and press a folded handkerchief against my ribs. The wound stings every time I breathe, but it’s shallow, and the bleeding is already slowing.
One of the younger bankers peers cautiously into the room.
“Is…is it over?”
“For you,” I say.
He disappears again immediately.
More of my men arrive, their footsteps echoing through the hallways as they sweep the building for anyone who might still be inside.
The attack was fast and sloppy, which tells me something about the people behind it.
Professionals would have finished the job or disappeared cleanly, but they left behind a body.
This interruption was meant to send a message.
The conference room door opens again twenty minutes later, and this time it’s not another gunman.
Ryder walks in.
She moves quickly, her expression sharp and focused as she takes in the scene in a single sweep of her eyes. The tight jeans and tank top she wears do something strange to me, sending a swooping feeling through my gut. I can’t look away from her, even as I suppress the anger that she’s here.
Two of my men follow behind her, but she barely seems aware of them as she crosses the room toward me.
“How bad?” she asks Viktor.
Her voice carries the tone of someone who expects an answer, not permission to speak.
“Graze,” Viktor replies, glancing at me. I can see it in his face; he’s questioning me about her authority to ask questions. I don’t respond to it, curious to see where this leads. “Nothing serious.”
Her gaze snaps to me. It’s easy to see my anger mirrored in her eyes.
“Take the jacket off.”
I straighten slightly, already annoyed.
“I’m fine.”
She ignores that entirely and turns toward the men stationed near the doorway.
“Lock down the back exits if you haven’t already,” she orders. “If anyone tries to leave without clearance, stop them.”
They obey immediately.
Watching them respond to her so naturally sends a small, unexpected ripple of surprise through me. These men have followed me for years, yet they accept her command without hesitation.
Ryder stops in front of me before I can protest again and wraps her small, strong hands into the lapels of my jacket. Her dark eyes meet mine with a challenge as she yanks the jacket first over my shoulders, then down my back. It falls to the floor.
My heartbeat picks up. I can’t stop the mental image of Ryder continuing, stripping my shirt next, whipping my belt off with that intense stare and demanding attitude. It makes my blood boil, a rush of it seeping from the wound.
Her fingers carefully press against the damp fabric. “You call this fine?” she mutters.
“It’s a scratch.”
She carefully tests the depth of it, slipping her hand beneath my shirt. The contact is careful but confident. She moves like she has already decided what needs to be done. The adrenaline running through my veins screams at me to throw her on the table and take her.
It takes everything in me not to give in and ride out the rush of the last half-hour with Ryder moaning beneath me. I’d probably pass out from blood loss before getting the chance to make her scream my name.
“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
“I’ve had worse.”
She exhales slowly through her nose, clearly fighting the urge to argue.
“You’re impossible.”
“You’re overreacting.”
Her head tilts slightly as she studies my face.
“Someone tried to kill you in the middle of a bank,” she says flatly. “I think I’m reacting appropriately. It’s been eight days.”
I open my mouth to reply, but the words stall when I notice the way she has already begun organizing the chaos around us. She gestures toward one of the guards near the hallway.
“Get the building’s security footage from the last hour,” she says. “I want every camera angle.”
Another man receives instructions to check the parking garage. A third man is sent to question the employees to find out who may have seen the attackers arrive through the back.
The operation unfolds around her like she has done this a hundred times. I know she hasn’t; Hinto was content to keep her in the background, in the shadows, but Ryder takes control of the situation as if it’s second nature.
For a moment, I simply watch her.
Ryder’s right; it’s only been eight days since she was attacked, six since I found her in the nightclub by the beach. The thread that connects us is stronger than ever. Someone wants both of us dead; that’s obvious.
She is calm, decisive, and completely unafraid to take control of the situation. The bankers stare at her with stunned expressions while my men move with quiet efficiency under her direction. The lawyer is already organizing the paperwork to see what has to be reprinted and re-signed.
It occurs to me, not for the first time, that this marriage might actually work.
Not as something romantic, the little voice in my head warns. As a business. Nothing more.
Ryder moves away from me, and the feeling of loss as she does surprises me. I take a step forward, almost following her before I stop myself. My men don’t need to see me, leader of the Bratva, street kid who has killed dozens, dragging after his powerful wife as if I’m weak.
But it’s tempting.
“You need stitches,” she says.
“No.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “You’re being stubborn.”
“I don’t have time for stitches, and it’s not that bad.”
The irritation between us sparks quickly as we stand in the middle of a room that still smells faintly of gunpowder. She strides back toward me.
“You could at least pretend to care about your own safety,” she snaps.
“And you could stop pretending you care.”
The words leave my mouth sharper than I intended. For a brief moment, something flickers across her face.
Hurt.
It disappears just as fast, replaced by the cool composure she wears when she’s trying not to show emotion.
“Fine,” she says quietly.
She turns toward the banker, who is cautiously shuffling through the paperwork.
“Are the acquisition documents finalized?”
The man blinks rapidly, clearly overwhelmed.
“Yes—yes, of course.”
I reach for the papers, but Ryder stops me with a firm hand against my wrist.
“You’re bleeding,” she says under her breath. “Let me do it.”
“I can sign my own documents.”
“Liev.”
My name carries a warning this time.
For several seconds we stare at each other, neither willing to give ground.
Finally, I sigh and step back.
The banker visibly relaxes as Ryder takes the pen from the table.
“This is my wife,” I tell them evenly. “And my business partner. She’ll sign on my behalf.”
Ryder hesitates for only a second before placing her signature on the final page.
The deal is done.
She hands the pen back to the banker and glances at me again, her expression softer now that the immediate danger has passed.
“You should let someone look at that,” she says quietly.
I nod once, though suspicion lingers in the back of my mind.
Ryder Moreno is many things, and I haven’t decided if kindness is one of them.