2. Luna
Luna
“You do one job without your team, and you’re stuck on desk duty for three months.”
Two long, fucking months have passed, and there’s still one more to go.
I do feel kind of bad, though.
Not for the men I killed.
No, they definitely deserved to die.
And I don’t feel bad for avenging the sixteen-year-old girl found in a dumpster at a construction site—her fingertips burned off, her face bruised beyond recognition, and the clear evidence she’d been beaten before being strangled to death.
I don’t feel bad about tracking the fucker down to one of those strip clubs that prey on young women, luring them into a false sense of safety.
Nicole "Sugar" King was just a kid. A sixteen-year-old runaway who faked her age, got a job dancing at a strip club, and, in the end, paid the price with her life.
None of it was her fault. She was a lost kid swept up in this world.
I blame that creep, Anton Pushkin.
After thoroughly investigating Pushkin’s history, it became clear that he was a repeat offender. The world is a better place without him.
Hell, he should’ve been swallowed by his mother when she had the chance—when she was on her knees.
But the only reason I’m really sorry is because my whole team got punished, not just me.
You know the saying, “One for all, and all for one”?
Let’s say the EAO takes that very, very seriously.
So, the past two months have been pure agony, and my fingers itch to get back into the field.
“I swear to God, if you click that pen one more time, I’m going to staple it to your hand,” I snap, glaring across the desk at Amani, who’s tapping a bright pink gel pen against the edge of her keyboard.
At 28, Amani commands attention with a presence that could make seasoned models take notes—effortless, magnetic, and undeniably lethal.
Standing at 5’10”, she is a study in contradictions. Her long legs and sand-colored skin, a testament to her Laotian and African American heritage, are paired with an easy charm that disguises the razor-sharp instincts of a predator.
Her shoulder-length waves frame a face that is both striking and unreadable, her dark brown eyes capable of ensnaring anyone foolish enough to meet them too long.
A walking paradox, Amani is the perfect blend of refinement and ruthlessness. The face of a goddess, the spirit of a golden retriever, and the deadliest sniper in the entire Order.
“What? It helps me focus!” Amani grins, flashing those perfect teeth like she isn’t slowly driving me insane.
“That’s a lie,” Raven mutters without looking up. “It doesn’t help you focus. It helps you distract us.”
Raven, on the other hand, is enjoying the break.
At 27, with her light brown skin, long black straight hair, and sharp brown eyes behind her thick-rimmed glasses, she’s the definition of focus.
She’s always calm, no matter the situation, her fingers flying over her keyboard like they’re programmed for efficiency.
She’s got the mind of a chess grandmaster wrapped in a 5’6” athletic frame.
While I see desk work as suffocating, she sees it as essential. Raven is our team’s brain—a strategist to her core.
Amani rolls her eyes. “Not my fault you’re grumpy, Miss ‘I Like Desk Work.’”
“I don’t like desk work,” Raven says coolly. “I tolerate it. Unlike some people who act like being away from the field is the equivalent of being waterboarded.”
“I am being tortured!” Amani whines, slumping dramatically in her chair. “Do you know what it’s like for someone like me to sit still for eight hours? It’s unnatural!”
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m two seconds away from using duct tape to fix your ‘stillness problem.’”
“Oh, come on, Luna. You’re just as miserable as I am!” Amani says, swiveling her chair toward me. “Don’t pretend you’re enjoying this any more than I am.”
“She’s got a point,” Raven says, finally glancing up. “You’ve been glaring at that monitor like it personally offended you.”
“Maybe it did,” I mutter.
The truth is, desk duty isn’t just boring—it’s suffocating. Every file I process, every trafficker I research, every lead I catalog reminds me of what I should be doing: taking these bastards down myself.
It’s been two months since I crossed paths with the Russian Bratva’s Pakhan and his crew.
Two months ago, I made the mistake of going solo, which landed us all on desk duty.
A.K.A, “bitch boy duty.”
But it isn’t just the punishment that gnaws at me.
It’s him.
Vladimir Petrov
The name alone carries a heavy weight in my mind, like a storm cloud that refuses to clear. His face lingers in my thoughts, unbidden—a haunting presence I can’t shake.
Long jet-black hair swept to his shoulders, stark against the ghostly pallor of his skin. High cheekbones and a strong jawline—regal yet menacing, as if chiseled from cold stone. And those eyes—piercing, unrelenting, the icy blue of a winter sky just before the storm breaks.
I know the mafia. I know how they operate.
But Vladimir Petrov?
His reach is more expansive than I expected. His name carries more power than I accounted for. He isn’t some two-bit Russian gangster clawing his way to the top—he is the top.
And I walked right into his world, blade drawn, thinking I had the upper hand.
I could’ve gotten myself killed.
Was it stupid? Yes.
Was it reckless? Double yes.
But did I see one of the most gorgeous men in my life dressed head to toe in all black, waiting to be eaten like an ice cream sundae?? I’ll take that as a win.
The only reason I spared him and his men was because they either had no ties to Anton’s depravity—or they’d done a damn good job covering their tracks.
And because I was outnumbered.
But I digress.
Even though I’m on desk duty, I keep my ear to the ground. I know he’s been looking for me.
Well, Nephthys.
Showing up to cities I’ve already hit. Establishments I’ve already burned to the ground.
I might have deliberately leaked information to test whether he would pick up on my hints.
And as expected, he’s getting closer.
He’s dangerous and relentless. But that doesn’t scare me. If anything, he intrigues me.
Okay, maybe more than intrigues me.
I might have cyber-stalked him after I got my ass handed to me by my mentor when I got back.
I might have spent an embarrassing amount of time scrolling through every scrap of information I could find.
And let me tell you, the internet has been criminally stingy with personal details on Vladimir Petrov.
Like, excuse me, why is there no detailed dossier on how a man can be that beautiful and terrifying? What cruel joke of the universe allowed this man to have the jawline of a Slavic God and the reputation of a nightmare?
And let’s be real—I wasn’t just looking for dirt. Oh no. I zoomed in on every blurry security cam shot, every grainy newspaper clipping like I was conducting a damn FBI analysis.
Because of scientific curiosity, obviously.
Amani’s voice yanks me out of my spiraling. “Earth to Lunaaaaa.”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring off into space like a lovesick fool.
Amani waves a hand in front of my face, her lips quirked in a knowing smirk.“You were zoning out. Thinking about anyone in particular?”
Gotta play this cool.
I school my expression into something resembling nonchalance. “Pfft. No.”
Nailed it.
Amani lifts a perfectly arched brow.
Damn it. Maybe not.
“She’s definitely thinking about someone,” Amani teases.“Raven, place your bets. Who do you think it is?”
Raven doesn’t even look up from her screen. “Do I look like I care about Luna’s mystery man?”
“Man?” Amani gasps dramatically, clutching her chest like she’s uncovered the world’s biggest secret. “So it is a man!”
I roll my eyes, turning my chair away from them.
“Come on, Luna, don’t be shy!” Amani presses, spinning her chair to face me again. “You’ve been weirdly quiet all day. And don’t think I didn’t notice how you tensed up when Isabella cussed you out and told you to stay away from a certain someoneeee.”
I freeze.
“You’re imagining things,” I say flatly, hoping she’ll drop it.
“She’s definitely not imagining things,” Raven chimes in. “But can we focus, please? We have work to do.”
“Ugh, you’re no fun,” Amani groans but finally backs off.
I exhale slowly, relieved. The last thing I need is for my team to dig into my headspace about Vladimir.
Because while I’m busy thinking about him, he’s undoubtedly thinking about me.
“Luna.”
Raven’s voice pulls me back to reality again.
“Yeah?” I say, shaking off my thoughts.
“We’ve got a lead,” she says, eyes fixed on the monitor. “The shipment Amani mentioned earlier? I found the location. It’s going down at the docks two nights from now in Philadelphia.”
Amani perks up immediately, her grin returning. “Finally! Let’s gear up and get ready to kick some ass!”
“Not so fast,” Raven warns. “We’re still on desk duty, remember? We need clearance from the Order before we move.”
Amani groans, throwing her head back dramatically. “Come on. We can’t just sit here! All the other teams are busy at the moment. I’m sure the higher-ups will understand!”
“She’s right,” I say, my voice firm. “We can’t let this one slide. If we can stop that shipment, we’re doing it. Desk duty or not.”
Raven sighs, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Fine. I’ll make some calls and see if I can get us temporary clearance. But if this goes sideways, it’s on you, Luna.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I smirk.
Amani jumps to her feet, practically vibrating with energy. “Let’s do this, Team Phoenix! Time to show these bastards what happens when they mess with the wrong women.”
I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm.
And when it comes to protecting the innocent and dismantling the monsters of the world, there’s no one I’d rather have by my side than Amani and Raven.
This is what we do.
This is who we are.
And we’re not stopping for anything—or anyone.
I wonder … does that bastard still have my blade?