Chapter 5
Monday morning found Gaby staring at her monitor, sipping coffee that was barely warm but still necessary after hours spent combing through a file she’d practically memorized.
Viktor Leonovich was wealthy, well-connected, and shielded by layers of offshore accounts, shell companies, and intermediaries paid to keep his hands clean while others took the fall.
Enzo Denali had been the leader, but Viktor seemed to be the one who made the machine run. Insulated and indispensable, the kind of right-hand who didn’t stay second for long.
His travel history didn’t prove anything, but the timing troubled her. He always showed up adjacent to Enzo’s movements. Never the same city, never overlapping, but close enough to make her stomach twist. He manipulated money, influence, and people with equal ease.
Because, why not? Men like him believed they were untouchable.
Gaby leaned back and rubbed the tension from neck. Since taking time out for the wedding, she’d immersed herself in the case—no daydreaming about happily ever afters, no replaying that dance she probably should’ve skipped, and definitely no thoughts of Rhys.
Just Natalie. Always Natalie. Except for that one three-hour break when she’d let herself breathe. Even that left her feeling guilty.
She took another sip of coffee and grimaced at the cold, bitter taste. There was no time for a refill—too much had already slipped by for her sister.
She’d just opened another grainy surveillance photo when a shadow crossed her doorway.
“Drop everything,” Rhys said without preamble. “Leonovich is on the move. Something’s going down tonight.”
Her pulse snapped into high alert. “What kind of something?”
“We don’t know yet. The FBI picked up chatter about a high-value meeting.” His tone carried the weight of long nights and not enough answers.
She stood, ready to go. “Where?”
“That’s the part we’re still chasing.” Rhys exhaled through his nose, irritation tightening his jaw. “We’ve narrowed it to three locations in the city he uses when he wants privacy.”
Her shoulders fell a fraction. “That’s it?”
“For now.” He frowned, tapping the file against his thigh. “There’s one odd detail. ‘Estonia’ was mentioned.”
She blinked. “As in the country?”
“Again, we don’t know. Callan is still digging for a correlation, but nothing is clear yet.”
Estonia. Why did that ping a faint memory? She lifted a hand, one finger raised. “Hold that thought.”
“Gaby, it’s almost four,” he reminded her. “We don’t have time—”
But she was already at her laptop. “There’s a note in Leonovich. He prefers classical music. Obsessively, it seems. He paid more than I’ll make in my lifetime for handwritten Beethoven sheet music.”
She typed, scrolled, and refined the image search, smiling when she found what she was looking for.
“Here,” she said, turning the screen toward him.
Rhys leaned down and studied the glossy promotional shot of a hotel lobby: marble floors, velvet seating, champagne-gold lighting and, in the center, a sleek black baby grand beneath a spotlight.
His brow furrowed. “What am I looking at?”
“Sorry,” she murmured, reaching in front of him to zoom in on the fallboard above the keys, and the distinct Baltic gold lettering.
ESTONIA.
“Leonovich wasn’t talking about geography. He was confirming the ambiance and the presence of this specific piano. There’s one hotel in Miami pretentious enough to showcase an Estonia baby grand.”
Rhys stared at the brand, realization clicking into place. “Bloody hell,” he breathed. “The Ellington Hotel.”
“Leonovich is used to indulgence,” she said, nodding. “He wants things just so while he conducts his disgusting business.”
Standing, Rhys put his hands on his hips, visibly impressed. “I couldn’t tell one black piano from another. How did you know the brand?”
“By the shape. Estonia’s grands are wider at the tail. My sister plays,” Gaby added softly, her gaze returning to the screen, “Once, at a recital for gifted students, they had an Estonia. She talked about it incessantly for weeks afterward.” She took a steadying breath. “Some things just stick.”
Rhys’s expression shifted, respect evident, but layered with more. Sympathy, maybe, for the toll this case was taking on her. She tried not to dwell on it. She was too tired, and refused to break down, worse, to cry, before a critical op.
“Good work,” he said finally. “Better than good. Bloody brilliant,” he added with the unmistakable British lilt he didn’t often let slip. “You’ve just saved us hours chasing our tails all over Miami trying to find him.”
Warmth spread through her, mortifying in its intensity. Before he could see how much his approval meant to her, Gaby shut her laptop and straightened her notes.
“What’s our cover?” she asked, steadying her voice.
His mouth quirked, almost, but not quite, a smile. “Looks like you and I have a date at the Ellington.”
Her stomach dipped, and she warned herself to keep it professional. It had to be.
“Briefing in twenty,” he said, already turning toward the hall.
She nodded, but he was already gone,
Gaby exhaled, pressing a hand to her desk.
Get it together.
Tonight wasn’t about her. Or Rhys. Tonight was about Viktor Leonovich and, hopefully, finally, getting Natalie back.
She pictured the Ellington: polished marble floors, elite clientele, a world that demanded extravagance and perfection. “That’s just great,” she muttered to the empty room, “What the heck am I gonna wear?”
***
The lobby was a tribute to excess: marble polished to a mirror shine, palms brushing the lowest tiers of the chandeliers, the air scented with citrus oil.
To a middle-class girl not used to this world, it didn’t feel welcoming.
It left her cold. The farther she walked, the more she sensed the power and old money in the air.
The kind she couldn’t begin to fathom. That could swallow girls like Natalie without a second thought.
Gaby’s fingers rested in the crook of Rhys’s arm—light, casual, playing her part.
Inside, she was coiled tighter than a spring.
Not with nerves or fear, though she felt a bit of both.
With awareness. Of heat, longing, and regret.
All the things she’d spent the afternoon trying to lock down. Clearly, it hadn’t worked.
Cari had swept into headquarters like a fairy godmother with a makeup kit, humidity-defying hair product, and a garment bag.
“Tonight, you’re going to look like you crawled out of a bank vault,” she’d announced.
They took over the men’s locker room. An hour later, Gaby emerged in a midnight-blue column dress, four-inch Manolo Blahnik heels that fit like they were made for her, and makeup in soft, peachy tones, all thanks to Cari’s expert touch.
Even Rhys’s eyes had glinted with appreciation when she stepped into Dev’s office for the final briefing. A tiny reaction. Barely there, but unmistakable.
“You’re quiet. Talk to me.”
Laced with a concern he rarely showed, Rhys’s voice snapped her back into the present.
She glanced up at him, the steel blue of his eyes made even bluer by his dove-gray suit that fit like it had been sculpted, not tailored. She stilled, air snagging in her lungs.
Stay professional. Focus on the op.
“I’m fine,” she said, too fast.
Rhys’s head angled toward her, a subtle tilt signaling his skepticism. “Try again, Gaby. Check in.”
God help her, that low, resonant tone slid down her spine exactly the way it had when he’d murmured status checks against her mist-damp skin. Dominance and command, yes, but also assessing to ensure they moved as one.
She inhaled once, controlled. “I’m resetting. But I’m good. Promise.”
His hand brushed her lower back, guiding her forward. A touch meant for cover, but one she felt everywhere.
“Chin up. You’re with me,” he murmured near her ear.
Like she could forget.
They approached the piano bar, though the term bar seemed grossly inadequate, with a rare baby grand commanding the center of the high-ceilinged open space. Music unfurled from its strings, lush and stirring as the pianist played with a lively touch.
And there he was. Viktor Leonovich.
Gaby had imagined a predator built like a wall.
Instead, the man in the plush booth was small, almost delicate.
His hair had silvered at the temples. Gold and diamonds winked on his fingers.
His linen jacket was so expertly pressed it looked like a valet might appear out of thin air to whisk away the first hint of a wrinkle.
He sat alone, eyes closed, posture loose—utterly at ease while the opening movement of Beethoven’s Concerto No. 5 played.
She scanned for his shadows. No thugs lurked nearby. No muscle skulked in the corners. No obvious security.
It was unsettling. Men like Viktor had enemies. They had enough money to buy silence and smooth over atrocities, but that was never guaranteed.
“I don’t see security or cameras,” Gaby murmured.
“But they’re here,” Rhys replied just as quiet. “Fortunately for us, the good guys are too.”
He guided her to a table with a clear line of sight to their target. As she sat, a waitress swept in wearing a low-cut top more appropriate for a nightclub than an elite hotel. The lace of her bra showed clearly through the sheer material. Her name tag—Liana—practically pointed at her cleavage.
“Welcome to the Ellington,” she said, smile bright—and aimed entirely at Rhys.
Of course it was.
Rhys radiated command without trying, elegance without effort. He was a force people moved toward without realizing it—especially women, who were hard-pressed to look away from those incredible eyes and that damn sculpted suit.
She couldn’t really blame the waitress. But still. She was sitting right here next to him.
“Macallan twenty-five, neat,” Rhys said. “Vodka tonic with a twist of lime for the lady.”
“Yes, sir,” the waitress purred, before moving away, hips swaying in her short skirt, as good as strutting, not having spared her so much as a glance.