15. Alexei #3
He leans back in his chair, his fingers tapping once against the armrest while he considers the implications.
“My men have been digging into Enzo’s communications since the issues with the routes started escalating. These photographs surfaced an hour ago through surveillance near the marina.”
I look back down at the woman again. Something about her keeps pulling at my attention in a way I can’t immediately explain, like instinct is recognizing a detail my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.
“Who is she?”
“We don’t know yet.” Roman pauses briefly. “But Enzo answers to her.”
That alone tells me this goes deeper than shipping routes, because Enzo doesn’t strike me as a man who's easily answerable to anyone.
“He’s the visible operator,” Roman continues. “The routes. The ports. The movement. But there’s another layer beneath him.”
I stare at the photographs again while unease prickles the back of my neck.
The woman’s face looks familiar somehow. Not recognizable, familiar. Like a memory sitting just outside reach.
“She’s older,” I murmur absently. “Late fifties. Early sixties maybe.”
Roman nods once.
“She’s connected enough that Enzo met her privately outside normal channels. That makes her important.”
Rain lashes harder against the windows while I continue flipping through the photographs. In one image, Enzo leans forward while he speaks to her. Respect sits in the angle of his posture.
Interesting.
“She doesn’t look like logistics,” I say quietly.
Roman’s mouth curves faintly without humor. “Neither did half the people who financed wars during the nineties.”
True. The most dangerous people rarely resemble what they actually are.
I look through the photographs again. “You think this started before the shipping routes.”
“I think the routes created opportunity.” Roman folds his hands loosely together. “Not motivation.”
The implications behind that statement change the shape of this problem entirely. If Roman is correct, then this stopped being only about routes and cargo the moment Enzo said Maggie’s name out loud. Personal enemies are dangerous enough. Men willing to weaponize people you care about are worse.
I rise from the chair and move toward the windows. “I increased security around the shelter,” I say without turning around. “Plainclothes only. Rotating coverage around Teresa’s diner. Additional vehicles near Maggie’s routes through the city.”
“Yes,” Roman says calmly. “Which means you’re already thinking emotionally instead of strategically.”
I lean against the edge of the desk. “Enzo made that difficult tonight.”
“And now he believes the pressure works.” Roman reaches for his bourbon again. “That problem gets corrected immediately.”
The muscle in my jaw ticks. “I already expanded security around the shelter.”
“Keep it controlled.” Roman takes another sip of bourbon. “Maggie already knows you have protection around her. The goal now is making sure no one else notices how much of it there actually is.”
“I understand the balance.”
Roman nods once. “Meanwhile, my people will keep digging into Enzo and whoever is standing behind him. If he pushes further, we stop responding defensively.”
“He crossed a line tonight,” I say quietly.
“Yes,” Roman replies. “And men who cross lines eventually learn why they shouldn’t.”
A dark smile forms despite the exhaustion dragging through my system.
“Whatever this becomes,” he says calmly, “won’t remain contained much longer. If this older woman truly sits above Enzo, then yesterday at the shelter wasn’t random escalation.”
“It was a test,” I murmur. “They wanted to see how I’d respond.”
“And now they know.”
Silence fills the study while I look back down at the surveillance photographs spread across Roman’s desk. Enzo sitting across from the older woman. Enzo listening. Enzo following instructions instead of giving them.
That changes everything. And for the first time since this began, I see that Enzo may not actually be the most dangerous person involved.
Roman studies me across the dim light of the study before speaking again. “There’s another issue.”
I already dislike the tone in his voice. “What?”
His fingers rest against the side of the bourbon glass. “The drawing Ivy made.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. “What about it?” I ask carefully.
Roman’s eyes stay locked on my face. “Tell me again exactly how Maggie found it.”
I exhale slowly through my nose. “It was inside her mailbox this morning,” I say. “No postage. No return address. Just the drawing folded inside an envelope.”
Roman says nothing.
“Ivy made it at the shelter last week.” A muscle in my jaw jumps. “A picture of flowers, the sun, and the puppy.”
“When was it taken?” he asks.
“Maggie thinks somebody took it during the shelter break-in.”
Roman grows quiet after that, his attention narrowing while thunder rolls beyond the windows. I recognize the look immediately because I’ve watched my brother wear it moments before entire organizations died beneath his decisions.
“And your first thought?”
“That someone entered the shelter looking for access.” Irritation roughens my voice. “The break-in already connected itself to her mother’s car break-in and Ivy’s drawing in my head.”
Roman dismisses that with a slight movement of his hand. “No. Your first emotional thought.”
I stare at him for a moment before answering. “That they were watching Maggie.”
“And now?”
An ugly feeling moves through my chest.
Roman leans farther into the chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “The drawing itself matters less than the message written across it,” he says.
SHE DOESN’T BELONG TO YOU.
The words replay instantly in my head exactly as they were written.
Roman watches me. “That isn’t business language,” he continues. “It’s personal.”
Rage burns low beneath my ribs. “They stole a child’s drawing to deliver a threat.”
“Yes.” Roman’s voice remains calm. “But not toward Ivy.”
I look at him sharply. “They wanted Maggie frightened.”
“Not harmed,” he says. “Not yet.”
The room goes still around us.
I scrub a hand down my face. “She received the message.”
“No.” Roman’s eyes stay on mine. “You did.”
I stare outside the study at the dark. “They knew she would come to me with it.”
“Yes,” he agrees.
“And they knew I would react.”
Roman nods once.
“That message wasn’t written for strangers,” he says. “Whoever sent it believes Maggie entering your life creates a problem.”
Violence rushes through my veins because he’s right. The wording alone makes that obvious now. Not stay away from Ivy, or stay away from the family.
You.
“She doesn’t belong to you,” I repeat quietly.
“Territorial language,” he confirms. “Emotional. Possessive. Men involved in route disputes don’t usually speak that way unless the conflict already became personal.”
I think about Enzo speaking Maggie’s name inside that restaurant tonight. The amusement in his face after realizing exactly how much she mattered to me already.
Fuck.
“They’re trying to drive her away,” I mutter.
“Yes.”
The single word cuts cleanly through the room, and suddenly the entire situation feels uglier than it did five minutes ago.
Violence, I understand. Business pressure, I understand.
But this? This feels intimate, targeted.
Like someone watching from the shadows already decided Magnolia Hayes has no place inside my world.