Alexei
The phone remains in my hand long after Maggie’s last message.
Maggie: I’m startin’ to think your house might be dangerous for me.
A slow grin threatens the corner of my mouth before I force it away.
Dangerous.
If Maggie understood even half of what exists beneath the surface of my life, she would stop calling this place dangerous for the reasons she imagines.
I lean back in the leather chair behind my desk and stare through the wall of windows lining the east side of the office.
Morning sunlight glows across the river beyond the port.
Cargo cranes tower over the water like steel skeletons.
Ships move slowly through the channel while forklifts weave between shipping containers below.
It’s loud and mechanical even from twenty floors above the docks.
Black Tide Logistics overlooks Savannah’s shipping district, a concrete, steel, and glass complex designed for function rather than comfort. Everything inside serves a purpose, with no warmth and no wasted movement. The complete opposite of Maggie Hayes.
A muscle in my jaw ticks at the thought.
Reports remain spread across the desk untouched: three delayed shipments, two missing manifests, a route conflict outside Jacksonville. Roman has called twice this morning because the Italians are continuing to press farther south through our territory.
Every one of those problems deserves my full attention.
Instead, I continue thinking about Maggie in my bed last night, her silky hair spread across my pillow while her fingers traced slow patterns against my chest. I think about the heat still lingering beneath the sheets after she slipped out this morning and how the house felt quieter after she left.
That realization weighs on me. I don’t build routines around people, especially women.
A knock sounds against the open office door.
Luka steps inside, carrying a tablet beneath one arm, his dark suit immaculate.
His light brown hair is neatly combed back from his face.
Years of handling problems firsthand gave him the solid athletic build of a man more comfortable in a fight than behind a desk.
His dark eyes move straight to me, already tense enough to erase whatever remained of my distraction.
I place the phone face down on the desk.
“What is it?”
“The Tampa shipment finally cleared customs,” he says.
“Three hours late.”
“Yes,” he confirms.
I rise from the chair, straightening the cuffs of my shirt while crossing toward the windows. Luka continues speaking behind me.
“Port authority also flagged another container connected to DeLuca Imports.”
I slowly turn back toward him. “What was inside?”
“Nothing illegal.”
“Then why flag it?” I question.
Luka exhales once through his nose before stepping further into the office. “The serial numbers on the manifest didn’t match the original filing.”
My jaw clenches.
Enzo DeLuca has spent the last six months smiling across negotiation tables while trying to carve pieces from our territory one shipping lane at a time. Small, quiet moves. Enough irritation to provoke attention without crossing far enough to justify open retaliation.
Roman already wants blood.
“What else?” I ask.
Luka places the tablet onto the desk between us. A shipping map fills the screen. Cargo routes. Warehouse locations. Transfer points running through Savannah, Jacksonville, and Miami. One red line cuts directly through our territory.
“Three independent trucking companies connected to Enzo began using secondary routes this week,” Luka says while tapping the screen. “No permits. No authorization.”
“They’re still testing boundaries.”
“Yes.”
I study the map for another moment before reaching for the coffee sitting near the edge of the desk. It’s already cold. I drink it anyway.
“What about the warehouse outside Brunswick?”
“Still quiet.”
“Too quiet?” I ask
“That’s my concern,” Luka replies.
Mine as well.
Luka’s eyes dart toward my phone. It’s a small but noticeable mistake.
“What?” I ask.
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“You’re distracted today.”
“I’m busy.”
“Yes,” he says.
That single word holds too much meaning. I narrow my eyes. Luka has worked beside me for twelve years. He knows when to stop talking. Most days.
“Say whatever ridiculous thought is in your head,” I tell him.
“You invited Maggie back tonight.”
It isn’t phrased like a question.
I keep my attention on the shipping map glowing across the tablet screen. “And?”
Luka folds his arms across his chest, one dark eyebrow lifting slightly. “The staff noticed.”
“The staff should focus on their jobs.”
“They are.” A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Very enthusiastically.”
I look up slowly. Luka remains unmoved beneath the stare. Annoying bastard.
“Sasha also noticed,” he adds.
Of course she did. Sasha notices everything.
“She informed me this morning that Ivy spent breakfast explaining why Winston is now head of household security.”
Despite myself, I laugh.
A second knock interrupts us. Sasha walks into the office, carrying a slim black folder against her chest, and her dark hair pulled into a low braid, while sunlight reflects the thin frames of her glasses. Unlike Luka, she wastes no time.
“We found another overlap.”
I look up. “Explain.”
Without another word, she crosses toward the desk and opens the folder, spreading several photographs across the desk between us.
Street corners. Parked vehicles. Downtown Savannah.
Then I recognize the blue sign outside the shelter.
Second Chance Savannah. Every muscle in my body tightens as I reach for the nearest photograph.
Maggie stands outside the shelter laughing with a leash looped loosely through one hand while the wind moves the loose strands of hair across her face.
Another photograph shows her carrying bags of dog food through the parking lot, and another captures her outside her apartment building before I reach the last image of her standing beside her mother outside the diner.
My expression hardens into stone.
“When?”
“Over the last four days,” Sasha answers.
Ice moves slowly through my veins. Luka watches me carefully from across the desk.
“Source?” I prod.
“Unknown for now.”
“Find out.”
“We are trying,” she insists.
I study the photographs again, my focus moving from Maggie outside the shelter to the diner, then to her apartment building.
A cold feeling gathers in my chest as the pattern becomes impossible to ignore.
None of this is random. Someone has been watching her intentionally, carefully enough to build a routine.
Whether the Italians see Maggie as leverage against me or simply someone worth monitoring, the result is the same. She’s now a risk.
My thumb slides along the edge of a photograph before I force myself to place it back onto the desk.
“How exposed is she?”
Sasha exchanges a glance with Luka.
“Not publicly connected to you yet,” she says carefully. “But anyone watching the shelter could have seen Ivy there.”
A pulse begins hammering low in my neck before I force the thought aside just as quickly.
Every photograph centers on Maggie, from the diner to her apartment building to the shelter.
It looks like pressure tactics, more than anything else, meant to intimidate, observe, and remind someone they’re being watched.
I turn toward the windows again, resting one hand against my jaw while staring down at the river. Workers continue loading cargo below. Forklifts move between containers, and ship horns echo faintly through the harbor.
Everything outside continues as normal, as if nothing has changed. Yet someone has been watching the woman who spent last night in my bed, and a dark feeling moves beneath my skin at the realization.
No one touches what belongs to me.
The thought arrives too naturally, fast enough that my hand closes into a fist before I realize it.
“Does she know?” I ask.
“No,” Sasha answers.
“Keep it that way,” I instruct.
Luka studies me carefully. “You still want her at the house tonight?”
The question irritates me instantly. “Yes.”
“She could remain there until we identify who took the photographs,” Luka suggests.
“No.”
Maggie values freedom too much. The moment she feels trapped, she’ll push back. I know that and I’m not prepared to watch her walk away. The truth sinks in my stomach, irritating enough on its own without the more complicated part being true.
Sasha taps one finger lightly against another photograph. “This one concerns me the most.”
I look down. Maggie is kneeling beside Ivy outside the shelter while Winston sits in Maggie’s lap, and my daughter laughs hard enough that her head tips backward.
The image cuts deeper than it should because Ivy looks happy, open, and safe.
I’ve spent years protecting her from every ugly piece of my world.
Yet somehow Maggie walked into our lives with dog hair on her clothes, sarcasm in her mouth, and enough Southern charm to make my daughter smile more often.
I don’t know what to do with that.
“What are you thinking?” Luka asks quietly.
I keep my attention on the photograph. “Whoever took these underestimated how badly this could end for them.”
Neither of them speaks after that. Which is the right move. The rage moving through me sits too close to the surface already.
I gather the photographs into one stack. “Increase eyes around the shelter.”
Luka nods once. “Visible security?”
“No.”
Maggie notices everything. If armed men surround her workplace, she’ll ask questions I’m not prepared to answer.
“Discreet coverage only,” I continue. “Use rotating vehicles. No patterns.”
“And Maggie?” Sasha asks.
I stare at the photograph for another second before sliding it back into the folder.
“No one approaches her unless I give the order personally.”
Sasha nods. Luka remains silent. He knows me well enough to understand what this means. The line has moved, and Maggie is no longer outside my world, whether I intended that or not.
“One more thing,” I add.