Sergei
I sip the shitty coffee I ordered to blend in. The café has outdoor seating and a clear sightline to the restaurant across the street where Sofia Baranova has lunch with her friend every Thursday at twelve-thirty.
Today they’re on the patio, taking advantage of the warm weather. She loves early spring. She’ll walk to school, the library, anywhere that buys her a few more minutes in the sun.
I hate when she sits outside. She’s exposed.
I’m in jeans and a navy dress shirt. Sunglasses, designer but not flashy.
A book I’m not reading. I look like a man killing time before an appointment, which is exactly the point.
An accountant. A lawyer. Some forgettable corporate bastard.
Nothing about my clothes should earn a second look.
My muscles, on the other hand, I can’t fully hide, and they tend to draw attention.
The street between Sofia and me isn’t too busy.
Office foot traffic. Delivery trucks. Taxis and ride-shares rolling through in a steady loop.
Sofia is at a table near the low iron railing.
Her friend, Tori Johnson—I know because I ran a full background on her—is talking with her hands about something.
Sofia is laughing, hair pulled up in a ponytail. She’s heading to the gym after this. I know because she’s wearing those leggings that show the perfect curve of her ass.
I hate those leggings. They turn every man she walks past into a problem. That’s about the only thing her guards are good for. She gives a tiny signal, a tilt of her head to the left, and her guards step in. Threat over.
She has no idea I'm here. She's never had any idea.
I know the sound of her laugh before I've ever heard her say my name.
I know which table she prefers, which coffee she orders, which exit she'll take when she leaves.
She knows nothing about me. Not really. Not the man sitting across the street watching her laugh. That has never bothered me before.
Today she laughed at something her friend said, and I had to put my coffee down.
My gaze returns to the street.
I watch it the way I watch everything: not one thing at a time, but all of it at once. The pace of the pedestrians. The speed of the vehicles. City life has a rhythm, and the totality of my adult life in this work teaches you real fast when something's off.
That’s why I see the fake bike messenger—I know it’s fake because I know what to look for—about five seconds before he becomes a problem.
He's wrong the second he enters my frame.
There’s nothing specific that screams assassin, but I see it. He’s moving slightly too slow for someone on a delivery schedule. The bag across his shoulder sits wrong. The helmet is pushed up, giving him an unobstructed view. He’s too close to the curb.
I set down the book.
He's angling toward the restaurant. Toward the sidewalk seating.
I see Anton, her bodyguard, move.
He’s been stationed at the corner of the outdoor seating area since they arrived. He’s been her guard for years. Better than the two assholes who had let her out of their sight that night. Mid-thirties. Built like a mountain. One of the few I trust around her. The only one who truly pays attention.
He saw the guy on the bike and is already moving.
I'm out of my chair in a flash.
Anton is faster.
He's off the corner and between the biker and the railing in two seconds. The guy makes his move. I catch sight of something in his hand. Not hard to figure out it’s a gun. Anton bats at the man’s arm, keeping his body between the gun and Sofia.
I’m already moving across the street.
I ignore the horns and curses in several languages.
I hear the usual gasps and the retreating footsteps as people recognize the danger and scatter.
Anton has the biker in a choke hold, talking into the microphone clipped to his collar. An SUV tears down the street, left tires on the sidewalk.
Her men.
Sofia is rushing into the restaurant with her friend. A few people have their phones out, recording the scene, but no one is calling the police.
Anton meets my gaze.
He knows me. Not personally, we’ve never spoken. But he's been doing this job long enough to notice things. Including me. He’s never said anything, but I’ve seen the warning in those looks. He knows I’m watching. He doesn’t know why, but he’s already decided I’m not a threat.
He nods once.
The kind of nod that says, I know what I'm looking at. She's okay. Stand down.
The SUV pulls up next to Anton. A man jumps out of the passenger seat, drags the messenger inside, and the vehicle weaves through traffic and disappears.
Another SUV with blackened windows pulls to a stop at the curb. It looks like any other rideshare. Anton has an arm around Sofia’s shoulders, guiding her to the waiting vehicle. Sofia turns and says something to Tori, who is staring at the scene wide-eyed.
And then Sofia is gone.
I walk back to my table and pull out my phone.
“Boss,” Nelson answers.
“Stay close. She’s headed to the gym. There was an attempt.”
“Will do.”
I end the call and calmly walk the two blocks to where my Mercedes-Maybach is parked. My father never drove. Said it was too risky. It is. But sometimes I need that control.
I call Kirill and tell him what happened. He knows what to do.
I pull to the curb in front of my brownstone. One of my men is there to take the keys and park my car in a secure garage. I enjoy the freedom of driving myself, but I’m not foolish enough to leave it on the street for an enemy to plant a bomb inside.
As expected, Kirill is waiting in my office.
"Tell me," I say the second I walk in.
"The biker was not mafia. Lower-tier, not one of the usual operators."
I nod and walk to the sidebar to pour something nice and strong.
It shouldn’t bother me. She has protection from her own guards. I shouldn’t be affected.
But I am.
That alone is a problem.
I sip my drink. “Continue.”
"Hired through an intermediary two days ago.”
"Was she supposed to die?" I ask calmly.
Kirill meets my eyes. “Not yet.”
Intimidation. Not a kill—not yet. This was a message. Someone telling Sofia Baranova she isn't as safe as she thinks she is. Whoever sent it wants her to walk away without a war.
It’s a first move. A declaration of intent.
It has Yuri Baranov's signature all over it. He’s been in the city for a week. Time to establish himself. Make contacts. Do something bold to make him look powerful. Announce the game has started.
He's not wasting time.
"I want to know who inside the Baranov circle has been talking about her or her old man. Someone gave Yuri her Thursday routine. If it’s one of her guards, I want to know. I’ll handle it personally."
Kirill writes something in the small notebook he carries everywhere. He refuses to digitize. Paper burns. Phones can’t be trusted. I agree.
"Anton is competent,” I say, almost as an afterthought. “If he’s on her, he’ll keep her safe.”
"He made you."
"I know."
He smirks. “You’re slipping.”
“Not even a little.”
He grins because he knows it infuriates me.
“I want our guys that we have on her to stay sharp. Shorten the shift. Add more men. I don’t care. No one sleeps on this job. Not even for a second.”
That gets his attention. He doesn’t question it. “I’ll make it happen.”
"Yuri will accelerate. Threaten. Intimidate. That was a week-one move. I want to be three moves ahead before he makes his second."
Kirill closes the notebook. "There's the other matter."
Right. The other matter.
The warehouse in Greenpoint.
“I’ll change.”
“I can handle it,” Kirill says. “No need for you to get your hands dirty.”
I give him a look. He knows I get my hands dirty. It’s how I keep control. I can’t look soft. Like a man who delegates all the wet work. Some of it, I handle myself.
I change into a simple black suit. I probably have fifty. It would make more sense to wear something less formal. But I have an image to maintain.
I meet Kirill in the foyer. He’s on the phone, pacing.
“Car’s waiting,” he says.
We step out into the sunshine. A black SUV waits at the curb. I slip into the backseat and settle in. Things are moving faster than I thought they would. Yuri is making a play, which means Mikhail is sicker and shorter on time than he wants people to know.
I could snatch Sofia, put her under my protection and let Yuri take over. I’d be fulfilling my promise. But Sofia would fight me, and Yuri is an unknown. That could get dangerous.
“Everything okay?” Kirill asks.
“Fine.”
The SUV stops at one of our buildings in the harbor. One of many.
Inside is a man named Caruso who has been skimming from a distribution arrangement he has with my operation for approximately eight months.
The skimming itself is almost forgivable.
Small amounts, the kind of thing designed to go unnoticed.
What is not forgivable is that he moved cargo through a route I explicitly closed three months ago after an incident that cost me two men.
He did it because the route was faster and he thought I wouldn't check.
He was wrong about the checking.
I overlook nothing. His shortcuts threaten the entire operation.
I walk in.
He starts talking before I've crossed the threshold. He’s nervous. He should be. His mouth is running with a million different excuses. I let him talk. I watch him, letting him believe his words mean something.
They don’t.
But this is part of the intimidation. The fear.
I stop him.
"The Nostrand route," I say.
He licks his lips and swallows hard.
"I closed it in January. I told you it was closed. I explained why it was closed. Two of my men are in the ground because of what happened on that route." I hold his gaze. "You used it in February. Twice."
"I—it was a timing issue, the alternate route had a—"
"I know what it had. I know what everything has.
That's my job." I take a step toward him.
He takes one back, which is instinct. He can't help it.
The will to survive is in all of us. "My job is to know.
Your job was to follow a single instruction.
And you decided your convenience was worth more than my instruction. "
What happens next is not pleasant. I don't need it to be pleasant.
I need it to be clear. The lesson I need him to learn is simple.
When I close a route, it stays closed. When I give an instruction, it is not a suggestion.
The city is full of men who have tested that principle, and the ones who are still breathing are the ones who only tested it once.
By the time I'm done, Caruso is on the floor, and the message has been received. He’s missing a few fingers and his jaw will be wired shut, but he’ll survive. He’ll be uglier with the new scar I cut into his face, but I let him keep his eyes.
I'm not angry. I'm never angry when it comes time for this part. This is what order costs.
I wash my hands at the utility sink in the corner.
Kirill falls into step beside me as we walk back to the car.
"Follow up tomorrow. Make sure the route stays closed."
He nods.
I get in the SUV.
On the drive back, I think about the nod Anton gave me and the fact that he understood too much. Does he know? He can’t know why I’m watching her. Why I’ve been watching her for more than half her life. Why doesn’t he view me as an enemy?
I think back to the night I carried her battered body to my car. Holding her and promising her she’d never be hurt again. Kirill had been there. He’s never questioned that night. He doesn’t ask why. He accepts it. One day he’ll ask.
And one day, I’ll either tell him…or kill him.