Chapter 6
Adrian
"Her name is Seraphina Romano."
Leo drops a file on my desk. It's incredibly thin considering he's been searching for several weeks.
"That's it?" I don't open it yet. "There's like three pieces of paper in this. Was I not clear?" I ask. "I wanted a full work up once you found her."
Leo sighs. "She's a ghost, Adrian. No lease, no credit cards, pays cash rent for an apartment above the bookshop where she works.
No social media. One bank account, which is incredibly sad considering the kind of merchandise she sells.
" Leo sits across from me. "She's either very smart or very poor. "
"Both, probably." I open the file. It sounds rude, but I am being realistic. Sera told me she worked with manuscripts, but I saw how dismissed she was when she tried to network. That coupled with her borrowed dress and earrings told me a story.
In the file, I see her photo—a college ID. She's younger and softer, but unmistakably her.
Seraphina Romano. Age 26. Book restorer. Antiquarian Rare Books, East 42nd Street.
"She has a brother," Leo continues. "Gabriel Romano. Twenty-four. Works at the docks. Now, he was interesting."
My hand stills on the page.
"Who owns him?" I ask.
"He owes the Russians. He's got a gambling problem."
"How much?"
"Fifty thousand. Maybe more. He's been dodging them for weeks." Leo leans back. "Could be why she's so off the grid."
Smart girl if that was the case.
"What else?"
"She went to Columbia for art history. Dropped out senior year when her mother died. She had ovarian cancer. She went quickly. Seraphina worked three jobs to pay off medical debt. She lives alone. No boyfriend. No friends that we can track. Just works and goes home."
I study her photo. Dark hair. Dark eyes. That same intensity I remember from the gala.
"She's clean, Adrian." Leo's voice has that edge. The one that means he's about to say something I won't like. "Completely. No criminal record. No connections to anything. She's just a girl who restores books and has a shitty brother."
"So?"
"So let her go." Leo leans forward. "You had one night with her. The girl can't afford any more trouble."
I close the file. Look at him.
"I didn't ask for your opinion."
"Adrian—"
"I asked you to find her. You found her. Now I want surveillance."
"Why?" Leo's frustration bleeds through.
"Because I want her." The words come out colder than I intend. "And I don't need to explain that to you."
Leo sighs. "You're making a mistake."
I stand. "I want surveillance. Daily reports. Where she goes. Who she talks to. Everything."
"Adrian, this is—"
"Are you refusing?"
The question hangs in the air. Leo knows what it means when I use that tone.
"No," he says finally. "I'll set it up."
"Good. Start today."
He leaves, and I'm alone with the file.
I open it again. Read through the sparse details of her life.
Seraphina Romano. Works at a bookshop. Lives alone. Has a brother who owes money to dangerous people.
She thinks she ran from me.
She's wrong.
The surveillance starts that afternoon.
Leo assigns a two-man team. Discreet. Professional. They send me reports every few hours.
2:47 PM - Subject at work. Restoring manuscripts at desk.
6:15 PM - Subject closes shop. Returns to apartment above.
7:30 PM - Lights on in apartment. No movement.
11:45 PM - Lights off.
I read each report. Study each attached photo.
She has a routine. She's predictable and safe.
Work, home, sleep. Repeat.
No coffee shops. No restaurants. No life beyond those four walls.
It's not enough.
I want more.
It's been weeks since I've seen her, and I'm dying for more.
On the third day, I go myself.
I park two blocks from the bookshop and walk past it slowly.
Through the window, I can see her. She's bent over a desk. Working on something with careful, precise movements.
She's wearing a brown cardigan that matches her hair. I can't see the rest of her, but I'm intrigued by her obvious passion.
I watch for ten minutes. Then twenty.
She doesn't look up, doesn't notice.
Completely absorbed in her work.
I could walk in right now. Pretend I'm browsing. "Accidentally" run into her.
But I don't.
Not yet.
I want to know everything first.
That night, I go to her apartment.
It's absurdly easy. The building is old. The locks are cheap, even the extras that she has obviously just installed. No security cameras. No doorman.
The manuscripts are locked away, but I have no interest in them, and neither would anyone coming in here. People in my line of work don't care about paper when flesh is on the line.
I creep inside her place. She's already asleep. Her lights went out an hour ago.
Inside, the apartment is small. One room serving as bedroom, living room, and kitchen. A tiny bathroom. That's it.
But it's clean. Minus the books. There are books everywhere—on shelves, the table, and even stacked on the floor.
I move through the space quietly. Methodically.
The fridge is nearly empty, which explains her thinness.
The bathroom has the basics. Cheap shampoo. Generic toothpaste.
It's all very nondescript and normal.
In the main room, her bed is against the wall. She's asleep, curled on her side, facing away from me.
I should leave. I have what I came for. Insight. But I don't leave. Not right now.
I stand in the shadows, watching her sleep.
She looks troubled. The lines between her brows are scrunched even in her sleep.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, just enough for me to feel but not enough to wake Seraphina.
It's a text from Leo: Team reports possible tail on subject. Gray sedan. Plates registered to Morozov operation.
My jaw tightens.
Someone else is watching her.
I take one last look at Seraphina. At the girl who thinks she's safe in her tiny apartment with cheap locks.
Then I leave as quietly as I came.
The next day, I confirm it.
Gray sedan. Parked three buildings down from the bookshop. Two men inside.
I recognize them. Low-level Morozov muscle. The kind they use for collections and intimidation.
They're watching her.
Waiting.
For what?
I call Leo.
"The Morozov tail on Seraphina. What do we know?"
"They've been there for two days. Just watching. No approach yet."
"Why would they watch her?"
"Her brother owes them money. They probably think she knows where he is." A pause. "Or they're waiting for him to surface."
"Will he?"
"Unsure. He's been in the wind for a while though..." Leo trails off.
His sister is here, visible, and available. Perfect leverage.
"I want eyes on those men," I say. "Twenty-four seven. If they move on her, I want to know immediately."
"Adrian, if they're planning to take her—"
"They won't." My voice is cold. "Not while I'm watching."
"What are you planning?"
I don't answer. Just hang up.
Three more days pass.
Three days of watching her. Of watching the men who are watching her.
She has no idea.
On the fourth day, a third car appears. Black BMW. Expensive.
A blonde man gets out, tall, mid-thirties, and completely unknown to me.
I have Leo run the plates.
"Apparently this guy is John Smyth," Leo says thirty minutes later.
"So, an alias."
"Appears so," Leo says.
"I don't recognize him," I say. "Do you?"
"No."
I watch the man enter the bookshop.
"What do you want to do?"
"Nothing." I lean back. "Let him make his move. I want to see what he wants."
He's inside for ten minutes. I watch through the window as he talks to Seraphina. As she shows him books. As her body language shifts from professional to tense.
When he leaves, she immediately disappears into the back room.
She's scared.
Good.
Fear will make her easier to protect.
Two more weeks pass.
The Morozov tail stays, and the other man—John—is nowhere to be seen. Seems he has fled the city.
Not that I believe that.
The surveillance reports are concerning.
Subject left work early. Appeared unwell.
Subject vomited in trash can outside building.
Subject declined lunch. Third time this week.
I watch the footage. She's losing weight. Dark circles under her eyes. Pale.
She's either sick or terrified.
Probably both.
On Tuesday morning, I make a decision.
"I'm going to approach her today," I tell Leo.
"How?"
"I'll figure it out." I check my watch. 2:00 PM. "Just make sure the team is ready. If anything goes wrong—"
"Adrian." Leo's voice is sharp. "The Morozov guys have been getting more aggressive. If they make a move—"
"Then I'll handle it."
"You can't just—"
"I can do whatever the fuck I want, Leo." My voice drops. Gets dangerous. "She's mine. And anyone who touches her will learn that very quickly."
Leo stares at me. "You're obsessed with her."
"I'm protective of what's mine."
"She doesn't know she's yours."
"She will."
I leave before he can argue further.
I'm three blocks from the bookshop when Leo calls.
"She left early. Boss sent her home."
"And? She lives upstairs."
"Dimitri Morozov just turned onto her street, and she is walking around."
Dimitri. Alexei's cousin. Known for his brutality, and his preference for kidnapping women.
I've been waiting for this.
"Where's she now?"
"Taking the alley shortcut. Between 44th and 43rd."
Of course she is. She has no idea she's being hunted.
"Where's Dimitri?"
"Entering the alley. Adrian, if he takes her—"
"He won't." I'm already running. "I'm two minutes away."
"Do you want backup?"
"No." I want to do this myself. "Just have Dr. Reeves on standby."
"Why would you need—"
"Because Dimitri is about to make a mistake." I round the corner. See the alley entrance. "And I'm going to make sure he doesn't survive it."
I hang up.
Pull the knife from my jacket.
And walk into the alley to save the woman who has no idea I've been watching her for three weeks.
The woman who thinks she ran from me.
The woman who's about to learn she was never really free.