6. Demin
DEMIN
Ihave Danya clear the breakfast dishes early and tell Mishka to bring the girl down to my office, and by the time she's standing in the doorway, I've already got everything spread across the desk.
Satellite images, the printed blueprints my contact pulled from the planning office in Madrid, the handful of overheads I paid far too much for.
It's all laid out flat under the lamp, weighted down at the corners with whatever I had handy.
When Bart brings her in, she stops halfway across the room with her arms folded over her chest and a glare on her face.
I've been pushing for a few days with no success, but I know she understands what it comes down to.
She has no choice and yet she wants her father out of there so desperately.
My guess is, she's afraid of them killing him and she'll cave.
It's the reason I'm at it this morning again so early.
"Sit," I tell her, gesturing at the chair across from me.
She comes around and lowers herself into it slowly, still favoring her ribs, but the bruising on her face has started to yellow at the edges instead of that deep purple, so she's healing. She doesn't say good morning and neither do I. We're past pretending this is anything other than what it is.
"You know this place better than any blueprint can show me," I say, turning one of the lights so it illuminates the blueprints better. "So you're going to walk me through it. Where your father sleeps, where the lab is, how the guards move at night. Start with the buildings."
She leans forward, wincing as she does, and studies the image for a long moment. I half expect her to refuse outright, to fold her arms and give me that look she's so fond of, but instead, she lifts a finger and taps the photo.
"This building here, the long one. That's where we live, in the back corner.
Last door." She has no idea how my heart is tossing around inside my chest with excitement over this.
My God, the profit we'll rake in now… "The lab's in the second building, the one with no windows on this side. They keep it locked and cold."
"How many ways in?" My mind is already formulating a plan for how I'll move in, how many men we'll need. It's not going to be an easy snatch, because Solano's men will be armed well. But with these schematics, it makes it at least possible.
"Two that I know of." She slides her finger across to the far edge. "The bay doors here, for trucks, and a side door on the water side. The side door stays locked unless they're moving product."
I make a note on the pad beside me. She watches my hand move and scowls. I know she hates every word she's giving me, but she has finally come to her senses, showing me how much she wants the old man out of there.
"The guards," I say, lifting my tone in a question. She glowers up at me then sits back, resuming her stiff posture. There's something attractive about her absolute defiant nature which I don’t take time to examine, but the second I do, believe me—I'll indulge.
"Two at the main gate. They trade off around two in the morning, and the ones coming on are always slow about it.
" I'd put money on the fact that she's studied those guards well enough to know exactly when to try escaping.
"There's a man on the water side, but he doesn't really walk it.
He sits on a crate by the dock and smokes most of the night.
There are more inside, but I don't know how many. I'm not allowed in the warehouse."
"But you've seen them come and go."
"I've seen six, maybe eight, on the busy nights." She shifts in the chair and looks at me. "I'm not a soldier, Mr. Roshin. I wait tables. I'm telling you what I see from a window."
It's more than enough, and she knows it. The picture she's drawing for me is a sloppy operation run by men who've gotten comfortable, and comfortable men are easy to take. Solano's grown fat and lazy down there, and his crew have caught the same disease—that's good news for me.
"Your father," I say, tapping the long building on the schematic again. "Walk me through his day. When he goes to the lab, when he comes back, who moves him."
She's quiet for a second, and I watch her decide whether to answer, and then she does.
"Mornings, around eight. One of Solano's men walks him over and stays at the door while he works.
He doesn't come back until they're done with him, sometimes late afternoon, sometimes after dark if there's a shipment going out.
" Her hands curl in her lap. "He's never alone on the way to and from that room—not once, in years.
They walk him there and back every single day, and if he's slow, they shove him. "
Her bottom lip quivers as she says that. It sounds like Solano keeps tight control on his chemist, which means he's very valuable to the organization. And it looks to me like she's not so pleased with that.
"And the man who walks him. Always the same one?"
"Usually. A bald one, big, with a scar through his eyebrow." She touches her own brow without seeming to notice she's doing it. "He's the one who likes hurting people."
I make several good notes about what she's saying. She's given me good intelligence and I think she's finally come around to seeing it my way. But the second she opens her mouth, I realize that's not the case. Fire erupts from her mouth like steam from a volcano.
"Even if you manage to get him out," she snarls, "I won't help you force him to work for you. He's already been someone's prisoner for years. He deserves freedom, not your harassment."
I lean back in my chair and bring my fingers together in front of me, looking at her over them. She's sitting there with half her body the color of a thunderhead, chained to my mercy, and she thinks she can tell me what to do.
No one has ever spoken to me like this. I have literally killed men for lesser things, and this stubborn, rebellious streak is infuriating me.
"Your father's going to work for the Roshin Bratva, Isabela.
That part isn't up for discussion. The only thing left to decide is how much pain you'd like to watch him go through before he understands his situation. "
She bolts to her feet and I watch pain flicker across her face. She's furious, and she's letting me see it, which is either the bravest or the most foolish thing she could possibly do in my presence.
"Just put me back in my cage," she snarls again, and I stand.
I take my time about it, pushing back from the desk and coming around the side.
She holds her ground while I do, which surprises me.
Most people give a step or two when I come toward them, whether they mean to or not.
It's instinct. The body knows what's coming before the mind does.
But she stays planted right where she is, chin up, watching me close the distance.
I stop a foot from her and look down at her face.
I could break her without much effort, and she has to know that, and still, she stares up at me like she's the one with the upper hand.
Grown soldiers who outweigh her twice over go quiet when I walk into a room.
And here she is, beaten half to death, puffing out her chest at my words.
I reach out and close my hand around her throat, not quite squeezing but applying enough pressure to scare her.
It's a warning and nothing more, my palm against the soft skin under her jaw, my fingers wrapping easily around the side of her neck.
I can feel her pulse racing under my thumb, but she doesn't grab at my wrist. And she doesn't try to pull back, and the only thing that moves is her chest as she breathes, which catches and then steadies.
"You have a lot of opinions," I say, "for someone whose life I own."
Her skin is so warm and soft. I slide my thumb along her jawline and resist squeezing, but the thought of it makes my body warm to the idea. Yet she never looks away from my accusing gaze. She has fire in her, I'll give her that. And what it's doing to my body is sinful.
I feel myself swelling, wanting to see just how far this defiance will go, and the ungodly urge to choke her while I fuck this rebellious nature out of her rises so quickly, I have to move back.
I drop my hand, stepping back from her before the moment can suck me in.
Then I turn toward the desk so I'm not looking at her face anymore.
My pulse is up. I can feel it in my own neck now, which makes no sense, because I'm not the one who was just held by the throat.
"Mishka," I call out, and the door opens almost immediately. He stalks in and looks between the two of us, reading the room. "Take her back," I tell him, keeping my eyes on the maps. "She's done for now."
"Yeah, Boss."
He crosses to her and takes her by the arm, and she lets him turn her toward the door without a fight. But she stops at the threshold and looks back at me.
"You can threaten me all you want," she says. "It doesn't change my answer."
He wrangles her out the door and shuts it as I lean over my blueprints and try to calm myself. What the hell was she doing to me?
I pride myself on having self-control, and that was the farthest thing from it. I could've done unspeakable things to her just then, and not the violent kind I'd have done to any man in her position. A man would've left with a few more bruises.
Isabela would've left with my cum soaking her panties.
And I'd have been left reeling.
Fuck, I'm reeling over just thinking about it.
I can't let this distract me. I can't afford to allow a beautiful, angry woman to pull my attention away from this for one second.
My uncle depends on me to secure that chemist, and with the information I have, I have a good start toward achieving that goal.
If Isabela Cruz thinks I'm going to go soft on her because she fights back, she's wrong. I'm going to stop holding the devil back soon enough. She’ll learn…