15. Alexei #2
Rain lashes harder against the tall windows while Enzo adjusts the collar of his suit and starts toward the doorway leading back into the restaurant. Just before reaching it, he glances over his shoulder at me.
“She seems kind,” he says smoothly. “It would be unfortunate if Savannah stopped feeling safe to her.”
Viktor lunges first. Luka catches his arm immediately, but this time, I move before reason can interfere. I cross the distance between us in two strides and drag the knife across Enzo’s cheek fast enough that even his men react a second too late.
He gasps sharply, stumbling back while blood streaks down the side of his cheek.
Every gun in the room rises again.
Viktor already has his pistol aimed at one man’s throat while Luka steps sideways near me pointing his gun at another man. The restaurant staff scatters somewhere beyond the closed doors.
One of Enzo’s men steps forward.
“Stop,” Enzo snaps.
The room freezes.
Blood drips steadily between his fingers while one of his men quickly shoves a folded white napkin into his hand. Enzo presses it against the cut, breathing harder now, genuine surprise finally breaking through the polished composure he carried into this meeting.
I step closer slowly so he can hear every word clearly.
“That scar will remind you who the fuck you’re dealing with,” I say quietly. “And it’ll remind you not to step into my world again.”
The room remains locked in violent silence for another long minute before Enzo finally gives a faint nod, not submissive or apologetic, but acknowledging exactly who stands in front of him.
Interesting.
He looks to his men. “We’re leaving.”
No one moves immediately. No one trusts the room enough for that yet.
Finally, Enzo backs toward the doorway while his men reposition around him, their weapons lowering inch by inch. Viktor watches them with open hatred while Luka remains beside me.
Broken crystal litters the hardwood floor beside overturned chairs while thunder rattles the windows hard enough to vibrate the glass. The smell of whiskey and blood hangs thick in the air now, tangled together beneath the fading tension of violence.
Luka exhales first. “That could have gone worse.”
I continue staring at the closed door long after Enzo disappears beyond it. They have been watching Maggie far longer than I realized.
I turn toward Viktor. “Double every rotation around the shelter.”
His expression hardens. “Already done.”
“Not enough.” I shove a hand through my hair and move toward the sideboard beneath the dim wall sconces, forcing my breathing back into rhythm again.
“I want plainclothes security at every entrance. Rotating vehicles around Maggie’s routes through Savannah.
Teresa Hayes receives extra coverage immediately, too. ”
Luka begins typing notes into his tablet. “I’ll coordinate additional teams.”
“No visible bodyguards,” I continue. “Maggie frightens easily when she believes people are being endangered because of her. The shelter can’t look militarized. Volunteers keep coming and going. Adoptions continue. No one panics the staff.”
“Understood.”
I drag a hand across my jaw while staring at the blood-stained napkin Enzo left behind on the table.
For the first time since Clara died, the same brutal fury rides beneath my skin because power creates influence, fear creates obedience, and money builds walls around the people you love, yet none of it guarantees their safety.
Roman’s mansion sits hidden behind wrought-iron gates and centuries-old live oaks draped in Spanish moss, the property tucked far enough from the riverfront traffic that the city noise fades to little more than a distant hum.
Water glistens across the black stone driveway while armed men stand beneath the covered entrance watching every vehicle approaching the estate with the same disciplined vigilance that has surrounded my brother for most of his adult life.
The moment I step inside, cool air and the faint scent of cedar, whiskey, and expensive tobacco fill the entry hall. Low instrumental music moves quietly through the house while warm amber light spills across the dark wood floors.
Roman sits near the windows overlooking the river, one ankle crossed over his knee, a glass of bourbon resting loosely in his hand. He doesn’t rise when I enter. He watches me approach with those steel-gray eyes that miss nothing.
“You look angry.”
I drag a hand across the back of my neck while crossing toward the sitting area. “I nearly killed Enzo.”
Roman studies my face before gesturing toward the decanter beside him. “Then pour a drink before you explain.”
I do. The bourbon burns warmly down my throat while I stare into the amber liquid, forcing the fury beneath my skin back under control before I start speaking again.
Roman waits. He’s always understood silence better than most men understand conversation.
I lower myself into the leather chair opposite him and recount the meeting from the beginning. The shipping routes. Enzo’s comments about pressure. Maggie’s name entering the conversation. The knife against his throat.
Roman listens without interruption, though I notice the subtle tightening near his jaw the moment I repeat Enzo’s warning about Savannah no longer feeling safe for Maggie. That reaction tells me Roman already understands the danger escalating around her.
When I finish speaking, Roman drains the last of the bourbon from his glass. “They identified an emotional vulnerability,” he says.
“I’m aware.”
“No.” His gaze remains fixed on mine. “You understand the words. That’s different.”
I lean back in the chair, irritation already rising again. “You think I lost control.”
“I think you reacted exactly how a man reacts when someone threatens a woman he cares about.” Roman refills his glass. “That’s not the same thing.”
Maggie’s face flashes through my mind. She doesn’t belong anywhere near this world. And yet somehow every road now leads directly to her.
Roman watches me quietly before continuing. “Once enemies identify leverage, logic changes. Men stop choosing efficient outcomes because emotional leverage creates unpredictability.”
“Maggie has security.”
“So did Clara.”
The words slice through me like a blade between my ribs.
Roman doesn’t soften the statement. Neither of us believes truth becomes easier when wrapped carefully. Clara died because we underestimated how personal the attack against us truly was. We treated it like business when emotion sat underneath it the entire time. I won’t repeat that mistake.
“I won’t lose them,” I say quietly. “Not Ivy or Maggie.”
Roman’s eyes stay locked on mine, impossible to interpret. “You may not get to decide that entirely.”
Rage burns through me again, tangled this time with the ugly fear of failing. Roman notices the reaction.
We grew up learning how to read danger before words were ever spoken aloud. My brother has spent decades observing weakness inside men before they recognize it inside themselves.
“She matters to you,” he says.
It’s not a question.
I look away for a moment instead of answering immediately, my eyes moving across the study while I consider lying. Not to him. To myself. But there’s no point.
“She matters to Ivy,” I reply finally.
Roman’s brow lifts slightly. “That’s not what I said.”
Annoyance pulls harder through my chest. “Blyat.” I drag a hand across my jaw before looking back at him. “I’m not discussing my personal life with you.”
“You dragged a man across a table and nearly slit his throat because he mentioned her.” Roman’s voice remains calm enough to make the observation worse somehow. “I believe your personal life introduced itself without assistance.”
I finish the bourbon in one swallow before pouring another finger into the glass, buying myself time before responding. “I spent four years rebuilding control after Clara died.”
“And now?”
Now Maggie Hayes slides through my thoughts at inconvenient hours. Now Ivy laughs more often. Now my house no longer feels hollow every time I walk through the front door.
Now another man used her name as leverage against me and nearly died for it.
Roman exhales quietly before setting his bourbon glass aside. “You think protecting people means creating walls around them,” he says. “Clara believed protection meant allowing people freedom even when it frightened you.”
The mention of Clara twists sharply through my chest. “She also hid an entire life from me.”
Roman’s expression hardens at that. “Yes. She did.”
The room falls quiet again. I feel the old guilt resurfacing with enough force to make breathing uncomfortable. I loved her completely and still failed to see what stood directly in front of me. That truth never really leaves.
“You think Maggie would run if she understood what this truly is,” Roman says after a moment.
“She should.”
“But will she?”
I picture Maggie standing between frightened volunteers and danger without even thinking twice. Picture her instinctively moving toward trouble instead of away from it because protecting others matters more to her than protecting herself.
No. She probably won’t run.
Roman reaches toward the low table beside him and slides a thick manila envelope across the polished wood. “I received surveillance reports an hour ago.”
I take the envelope immediately. Inside are photographs.
Enzo DeLuca exiting a black sedan near a private airfield outside Savannah two nights earlier. Another photo shows him seated beneath covered patio lighting at an upscale restaurant near Hilton Head.
He’s not alone. An older woman sits across from him.
Dark hair, elegantly streaked with silver, frames a face sharpened by age, restraint, and power that never needs announcing, even in grainy surveillance images.
Her posture remains flawless. Tailored black coat.
Gloved hands folded lightly atop the table.
I study the photographs carefully.
“I don’t recognize her.” My attention snaps back to him.