Chapter 20
RAFAEL
T he red on the map wasn’t right. I knew it the moment I looked at it. The route stretched from Naples to Marseille, then split east into Zurich and north into Berlin. A clean fork. Good on paper. Dangerous in reality.
Too much border overlap. Too many mouths to pay. Too many chances for something to go sideways.
And yet—I just kept staring at it. Not because of the route. But because I wasn’t seeing it. Not really.
I was seeing her. Bent over the stone wall of that cathedral. Hands tied behind her back. My name on her lips like a vow she didn’t want to give, but did .
I’d had her in my bed every night after that. Until we left Italy. Until she returned to her life, and I returned to mine.
But the distance hadn’t fixed anything. She was still under my skin. Still in my mouth. Still in my goddamn head.
A woman like her didn’t fade. She embedded.
“You listening, or are we talking to the whiskey?”
Yuri’s voice pulled me out of it. I blinked once. Looked over. He was leaning against the bar, one arm slung across the counter, his other hand flipping a silver lighter open and shut. Nikolai was beside the table, cue stick in hand, one ball already sunk.
The basement smelled like leather and wood smoke. Dim lights. Familiar tension.
I straightened slightly, refocusing. “I’m listening,” I said.
Yuri grinned. “Sure didn’t look like it.”
“Get to the point.”
Nikolai stepped back from the table, expression calm—always calm, like a man carved from glacier and bone.
“The shipment’s running late tonight,” he said. “We moved it from 3 to 5 a.m. Port authority flagged one of the shells earlier. Too many eyes. We let it cool down.”
“Who’s running the offload?”
“Maksim and Kiril. Two new kids on the floor but trained by Vadim. They’ll pull it fast. We’ve got four containers. Two are clean. Two are dressed.”
I nodded.
“Contents?”
“First dirty one’s hardware. Modified imports—Russian cut, but repackaged to look French. Compact, no serials, all wrapped in legal equipment shipments. Second one’s coke.”
I looked up at that. “From where?”
“Peru. Cut twice. It’s clean. Pure enough to move, but not pure enough to kill someone if they sneeze on it.”
“Distributors already lined?”
“Yuri’s guy in Marseilles and another in Budapest. French one’s expecting. Budapest is backup.”
I rubbed my thumb along the edge of my jaw, considering the layout on the table. The ports. The timing. The bribes already in motion.
Everything lined up.
And yet— “What about the customs officer?”
Yuri leaned back with a low chuckle. “Replaced. Bought and paid. Wife just got a promotion, too. Isn’t that sweet?”
I didn’t smile.
“And if it gets flagged?”
“Then it gets buried. We’ve got a fallback truck lined with dry goods and a commercial invoice trail that leads to a bakery in Lyon.” He paused. “We’re not sloppy, Raf. You taught us better.”
He was right. But distraction didn’t excuse weakness. And I knew myself well enough to feel the edge of it tonight.
I poured myself two fingers of scotch—didn’t drink it. Just held it in my hand, staring at the routes again. The red lines. The pivot points.
“They go offload at five,” I said. “Text me the moment it’s confirmed clean. No noise. No surprises.”
Nikolai nodded once, precise. “You want to stop by?” he asked.
I didn’t answer right away. Because I wasn’t sure.
The weight of the glass in my hand felt heavier than it should’ve. I didn’t drink it. Didn’t need to. Sometimes holding the fire was enough.
I looked at the map again—at the way the red routes sliced through old territory, at the night that was already in motion.
I could’ve stayed behind. Watched the whole thing unfold from a screen and a report. But I didn’t want to.
“I’ll go with you,” I said, setting the glass down. Not a request. Just fact.
Nikolai glanced up from where he was leaning over the table, cue stick resting against the edge. He didn’t look surprised.
“We’ll bring the secure car,” he said. “Two behind us, one in front. All black. All clean.”
Yuri lifted his brows slightly but didn’t argue. He just flipped the lighter open again, letting the click echo through the quiet.
“You expecting it to go wrong?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Which is why I’m going.”
He grinned. “Paranoia looks good on you.”
It wasn’t paranoia. It was precision.
You don’t build an empire by trusting too much. You build it by showing up when no one expects you to. By making sure your name isn’t just spoken—but respected.
I was about to respond when Nikolai’s phone buzzed. He checked it once. Then again. His expression didn’t shift, but I knew that look.
“It’s Cormac,” he said.
Of course it was.
“Put him on,” I said, calm.
Nikolai answered without hesitation, stepping away from the table.
The Irishman’s voice crackled through the line—low, gruff, that constant undertone of false politeness that made my skin crawl.
I didn’t need to hear the words. I already knew what was coming.
Nikolai’s face didn’t move. Just listened. Processed. Then, without breaking stride, he lowered the phone slightly and looked over at me. “He wants to come by,” Nikolai said. “Said it’s about a… standing proposition.”
A beat. I said nothing for a second, just turned the glass in my hand, letting the silence stretch.
Then— “Tell him to come,” I said. “I’m not busy.
Nikolai lifted the phone back to his ear, giving the confirmation.
I stared at the map again but didn’t see the lines this time. I saw her .
And then I saw the Irishman’s daughter beside her like a chess piece I didn’t ask for—one I had no intention of moving.
Nikolai ended the call and turned back toward us. “He’ll be here in an hour,” he said.
“He’s bringing her,” I said.
Not a question. Just the truth.
They didn’t come alone for things like this.
Yuri made a low sound and tossed himself onto one of the leather couches, arms stretched out across the back.
“Could be worse,” he muttered. “The guy’s offering a decent alliance. Good ports. Solid loyalty. His daughter’s… not exactly hard to look at.”
I looked at him. Not with anger. Just finality.
“He offered her in Italy,” I said. “Said I should take her hand like it was a trade agreement.”
“Isn’t it?” Yuri countered. “That’s how these things have always worked. Bloodlines, power, influence. It’s not personal.”
“That’s exactly what makes it personal.”
“You already have an heir in mind?” Yuri smirked. “Or are we still playing that close to the chest?”
I didn’t answer. Because he already knew. They both did.
Nikolai didn’t say anything. Just returned to the table, cue stick in hand, eyes still on the route.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked. “You hear him out?”
“I let him speak,” I said. “And then I show him how polite I can be when I turn him down.”
I leaned back in the chair, my hands resting on the arms like I was sitting on a throne I never asked for—but would never give up.
Yuri stretched, exhaling through his nose, then looked at me again. “You know you’re going to need an heir eventually, right?”
I didn’t react. Not visibly. But something in me tensed.
He didn’t stop. “Don’t give me that look,” he said. “This isn’t sentiment. This is survival.”
“And you think tying myself to Cormac’s daughter guarantees that?”
“I think it guarantees something. Continuity. Political protection. A bloodline. A way to keep your name alive when someone finally gets lucky with a bullet.”
I stared at him, eyes hard. “I don’t plan on getting lucky.”
Yuri gave a dry laugh and grabbed the whiskey bottle again, refilling his glass. “Nobody does. But the men who survive this world long enough to get tired of it? They’re the ones who plan for when they’re not lucky.”
“So I knock her up and give her my name?” I asked, voice flat. “That’s your brilliant strategy?”
“I didn’t say you had to marry her,” he shrugged. “Just make the world believe you’ve got a future beyond yourself. That alone keeps your enemies guessing.”
I didn’t answer. Because part of me knew he was right. Not about her. But about the idea of her. Of an heir.
Something— someone —that would make them think twice before coming for what I’ve built. But that wasn’t her. It wasn’t Cormac’s daughter. And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be a pawn in a deal dressed up like a blessing.
I stood, walked back toward the map, my eyes scanning the eastern route Nikolai had marked.
“Budapest’s container is already being prepped,” Nikolai said.
“Customs flag is low. Our guy on the inside checked this morning. We’ll run it the same way as Naples—split manifest, double seal, clean paperwork on top, heat tucked underneath. ”
“Cargo?”
“Guns and medical-grade opioids,” he said. “Half is staying in Budapest, half is getting rerouted to Prague.”
“That’s two borders in one drop.”
“Which is why we’ve got a second handler meeting the truck at the handoff point. And the delivery is scheduled to move during the shift change at border control.”
I nodded once. “Anything on the Berlin end?” I asked.
“They’re asking to push the next shipment to Friday. Something about pressure on their import facility. They’re nervous. Not spooked—yet. Just watching the news too closely.”
“Tell them we don’t run on feelings. They agreed to the date, they hold it.”
Nikolai nodded, his fingers already moving to text someone back.
“And the Marseilles drop?” I asked Yuri.
He exhaled slowly. “Already moved. Quiet and fast. I tipped the port director extra for staying blind.”
“How much?”
“Ten grand and a case of Cristal.”
“That’ll buy him a weekend,” I muttered. “Next time make it twenty and give him a girl who doesn’t speak French.”
Yuri grinned. “Always the romantic.”
The door buzzed once—low and quick.
Nikolai checked his phone. His face didn’t change, but I saw the flicker in his eyes. “Cormac’s here.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t need to. Cormac was already here—what mattered now was how he’d be received.