Chapter 24
Liev
Something doesn’t fit.
The thought sits at the back of my mind as I move through the morning, quiet and persistent, like a splinter I can’t quite reach.
It’s not one thing; it’s everything. The timing, the people, the way Hinto has inserted himself into Miami like he never left.
He told Kazimir it was a “vacation” after successfully setting up shop in Savannah.
And the attacks.
They should be resolved by now.
They aren’t.
Viktor meets me outside the office building I recently purchased. The place will be my headquarters. His expression is already tight, and he doesn’t waste time with greetings. “We’re still missing two.”
I stop. “Explain.”
“Four men hit you and Ryder,” he says, voice clipped. “We accounted for two. One dead, one in police custody and questioned later. The other two disappeared; we haven’t been able to find them.”
“Disappeared” usually means one thing in my world. Based on the fact that we found one of the attackers with a bullet hole in his head, I can guess that we won’t be finding these two.
“Nothing from our contacts?” I press.
Viktor shakes his head. “Everyone’s quiet. Alfredo and the other cartels aren’t on systems like Backscatter.”
Unsurprising. As Kaz pointed out, high-level crime syndicates aren’t stupid enough to get involved with amateurs. But someone has no problem sending dispensable men after my wife and I. Why not just use professionals who wouldn’t miss their target?
I look past him, out toward the city, toward the direction of the water and the endless movement of goods and people that should feel predictable by now.
It doesn’t.
“Keep digging,” I say. “Keep an eye on how the gangs and bigger groups are moving. Even watch our so-called allies down here.”
“Even Moreno?”
“Even him,” I reply flatly. “Something isn’t adding up, and I don’t like coincidences.”
Viktor nods. I study him for a moment, then add, “Stay close to Ryder today.”
His brow furrows slightly. “You think they’d still go after her with her father back in town?”
“Until I know what’s happening, I don’t want her unguarded.”
He accepts that without argument. “Understood.”
I move past him without another word. Vivienne is already waiting.
She stands near the entrance, dressed differently today, but still sharp and intentional. It is less theatrical than last week, the day before Hinto arrived in Miami. She looks like any other businesswoman, though her jacket is loose enough that she’s likely carrying.
She falls into step beside me as we head toward the cars. “You look like you didn’t sleep,” she notes.
“I slept.”
She hums softly, then says, “Where are we going?”
“Docks,” I say. “Phase two.”
That earns a faint smile.
* * *
The first port smells like salt, fuel, and money. It’s smaller than the pier I secured earlier in the month, but strategically placed. Less attention, more flexibility. The kind of place that can move things quietly if the right people are in charge.
Right now, the wrong people are.
The port manager greets us with a smile that doesn’t quite hide the distrust in his eyes. He knows who I am and why I’m here.
He just hasn’t decided how cooperative he wants to be.
We sit across from each other in a cramped office that overlooks the water. It smells like seagull shit and fish guts. Vivienne leans against the wall, silent and observing everything.
“I’ve heard you’re expanding,” the manager says, fingers steepled.
“I am,” I reply.
“And you’re looking to streamline operations.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
He smiles. “This port runs smoothly already.”
I let the silence stretch. Then I slide a folder across the desk.
Inside: numbers, shipments, discrepancies. Evidence of side deals, missing inventory, bribes taken from the wrong people.
His smile fades. “You’ve been busy,” he mutters.
“I don’t tolerate inefficiency,” I say calmly. “Or disloyalty.”
His eyes flick up to mine. “You’re asking me to choose sides.” He means us, or the police—who bribe him occasionally to tip them off.
“I’m telling you that you already did.”
He looks down at the folder again, then back at me. “And if I refuse?”
I don’t answer immediately. I don’t need to.
After a moment, he exhales sharply and leans back in his chair. “What are your terms?”
We negotiate quickly after that. Bribes are paid and accounts are adjusted. Instead of irregular payments in irregular amounts, he and his small staff will get set payments biweekly. Disguised as a true payroll, now that they’re part of Demsky Corp.
By the time we leave, this port belongs to me.
One of many.
* * *
The second dock is easier. Word travels fast.
Captains who might have resisted yesterday are suddenly more agreeable today. Deals are made with fewer words and more understanding. Money moves and routes are confirmed.
By the time the sun dips lower, phase two is nearly complete.
Miami is starting to feel like mine, despite Hinto’s words. But the unease hasn’t left.
Vivienne notices.
“You don’t look satisfied,” she says as we walk along the edge of the last dock, the water stretching out in front of us. A mate in orange waders—working on one of the charter boats nearby—watches us warily, flicking a cigarette away.
“I’m not.”
“Because of Moreno?”
“Because of everything,” I reply.
She studies me for a moment, then tilts her head slightly. “You’re thinking about structure.”
“Yes.” I now have almost forty men and women working directly for me as accountants, enforcers, and Brigadiers. Viktor, I can trust. But I haven’t found a right-hand man yet, someone who I can trust to run things if I find myself in a coma or six feet underground.
She smiles faintly. “You’re not subtle.”
I ignore that. “I need a right hand.”
“Of course you do.” We walk in silence for a few steps before she continues. “So, what are you looking for?”
“Competence,” I say immediately. “Loyalty. Intelligence. Someone who doesn’t panic under pressure.” I try to think about what I provided to Kazimir in Savannah, how we balanced one another out for decades. He was brutal leadership, and I set rules and followed through.
Vivienne nods slowly. “Someone who can operate independently.”
“Yes.”
“Someone who sees patterns before they become problems.”
“Yes.”
“Someone who isn’t afraid to challenge you when you’re wrong.”
I stop walking. Vivienne takes another step before realizing, then turns back to face me.
There’s a knowing look in her eyes.
“You’ve already found that person,” she says quietly.
I don’t answer.
Because I know exactly who she means.
Ryder.
Every trait. Every requirement. She fits them all.
“She’s not an option,” I say finally.
Vivienne raises a brow. “Why not? Because she’s a woman?”
“Because she’s my wife.”
“And?”
“And that complicates things.”
Her lips curve slightly. “Everything about her complicates things. But you can’t protect her, Liev, not really. They’re already after her. So why not give her the title?”
That’s not wrong. I look back out at the water, at the ships moving in the distance, at the empire I’m building piece by piece.
Something tells me that whether I choose her or not, Ryder Moreno is already at the center of everything. I’m terrified of losing her, even as it becomes clear that she’s the only one who can fill the empty space beside me.
* * *
The call comes just as my driver turns onto our street. It’s dark, well past sunset, and exhaustion settles into my bones.
I recognize the number before I answer.
Oleg.
“Yes.”
There’s no greeting on his end. “We have a problem.”
“Define it.”
“A shipment from Colombia. One of Kazimir’s priority runs.” A pause. “Customs flagged it.”
Cold irritation settles in my chest. After a day of what felt like wins, this is a blow.
“That’s not possible,” I say. “Those routes are clean.”
“They were,” Oleg replies. “Something changed. New oversight at the port authority. Randomized inspections.”
Nothing about this feels random.
“What’s the status?” I ask.
“It’s being held,” he says. “Not seized yet, but it’s only a matter of time before someone looks too closely.”
I close my eyes for a second, running through options. Gravel crunches under the tires; we swing around the corner of the drive, and the house comes into view. The first thing I see is a silhouette in one window.
Ryder.
The car pulls to a stop, but I don’t move. If they open the containers, we lose more than product. We lose credibility. We lose control.
“How long do we have?”
“Hours,” Oleg answers. “Maybe less.”
“Keep eyes on it,” I say. “No one touches anything until I say.”
I end the call before he can respond. For a moment, I just sit there, the weight of it settling.
This shipment isn’t just another run. It’s one Kazimir has been expecting, timed and placed with purpose. Losing it would ripple outward through Savannah and every connection we’ve built. Our contacts up north would question how reliable we are and whether we can truly move product.
This one inconvenience could bring the whole operation to its knees.
Either someone tipped them off, or someone is testing the edges of my control.
Neither option sits well.
Ryder is in the living room when I walk in, sprawled across one end of the couch with a laptop open on her thighs, another screen pulled up beside her. She doesn’t look up immediately, fingers moving quickly over the keys, attention locked on whatever she’s working through.
For a second, I just watch her.
Then I speak.
“We have a problem.”
That gets her attention.
Her eyes flick up to mine, sharp and alert. “That sounds promising.”
Any other night, I’d stalk over, grab her chin, and kiss the sarcasm out of her, but not tonight. “One of our shipments has been flagged by customs. Colombia run. Kazimir’s.”
She straightens slightly, the shift immediate. “Flagged how?”
“Random inspection,” I say. “New oversight. It’s being held.”
Her expression changes. Not panic or fear, but focus. I take a deep breath, feeling that familiar sensation I used to get when Kazimir and I worked through a problem—the certainty that we were close to a solution.
“Which port?”
I give her the details.
She moves before I finish, sliding the laptop fully into her lap, pulling up something new on the second screen. Her fingers fly over the keyboard, like she’s already ten steps ahead of the problem.
“What are you doing?” I ask, expecting a walk-through of her process.
“Fixing it,” she says simply.
I watch as lines of data populate her screen: shipping manifests, port logs, tracking routes. She moves through them like she built the system herself.
Maybe she could have. In another life, one where she wasn’t tied to crime.
“Your manifests are too clean,” she mutters, almost to herself. “That’s what flagged it. No variation, no human error. It looks fake.”
I don’t interrupt.
“Okay,” she continues, tapping a few keys. “We add discrepancies. Minor ones. Shift the cargo weight by a few kilos, adjust the timestamps so it looks like it sat in transit longer than it did…”
Her head tilts slightly as she scans something. “And reroute the secondary documentation through a different port authority.”
“You can do that?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up. “I already am.”
A few more keystrokes.
“Done.”
I stare at her. “That’s it?”
She finally glances up, one brow lifting. “Give it ten minutes. The system will update, the flags will drop, and your shipment will look like every other boring, slightly messy import coming through.”
Silence settles between us. I check my phone. Nothing yet, but I trust what I just saw.
“How?” I ask.
Ryder shrugs lightly, like it’s nothing. “People build systems to catch patterns. I break patterns. It’s not complicated.”
It is. What she just did would take most of my people hours, if they could do it at all.
My phone buzzes. I look down.
Oleg.
It cleared.
Just two words.
I look back at Ryder. She’s already returned to her screen, like the problem never existed.
I’ve been building this operation piece by piece, securing ports, buying loyalty, and establishing control.
And she—she just saved a shipment with a few keystrokes.
Indispensable.
“Ryder,” I say.
She hums, not looking up.
I study her for a moment longer, then shake my head slightly. “Nothing,” I mutter.
But the thought doesn’t leave.
I need someone I can trust. And she just proved, again, that she might be the most valuable asset I have.
The question is whether she’ll ever let me treat her like anything more than that.