18. Lorcan
Lorcan
The boardroom air is thick with blue cigarette smoke and the kind of heavy, pressurized silence that usually precedes a killing. Across the mahogany table, Volkov—the Bratva’s lead emissary, a man built like a boulder—is shaking his head for the third time.
"The terms are garbage, Lorcan," Volkov says, his voice a dry, grating rasp. "We control the North Docks. You’re asking for a fifty-fifty split on the shipments. That is an insult to my organization."
I keep my hands flat on the table, my knuckles white.
My men are behind me—Kieran, Marcus, and two others—all of them rigid, hands hovering near the weapons concealed beneath their jackets.
If this deal dies, the dock war resumes by sunrise.
I’m already spread thin fighting Silas, and the last thing I need is a second front in the North.
But I can't give Volkov more. If I give him an inch, he’ll take the whole goddamn port.
"You’re forgetting the cost of my security, Volkov," I say, my voice steady, dangerously low. "My men are the ones shielding your goods from the Feds. Without us, you’re losing half your product to seizures before it even leaves the terminal."
Volkov scoffs, a wet, dismissive sound. "Then we’ll take our chances with the Feds."
I feel the shift in the room before I see it. It’s an instinct, a warning chime in the back of my brain. The door behind me clicks open, and the heavy, solid presence of the guards at the entrance shifts.
I don't turn. I know exactly who it is. My jaw tightens so hard it aches, a dull throb pulsing behind my eyes.
"The security isn't the leverage," Atara’s voice says.
The room goes silent but I can hear the sharp intake of breath from Kieran.
Volkov looks past me, his eyes widening slightly as he surveys the woman who just walked uninvited into the most dangerous room in the city.
She’s wearing a fitted white blouse, her hair pulled back into a severe knot, and she looks like she doesn't belong here, yet she’s walking toward the table with an infuriating, calm confidence.
Volkov looks at me, then at her. "Who is this? And why is she in my negotiations?"
"She’s my partner and my financial advisor," I growl, the words tasting like ash. "She has every right to be here."
Volkov’s eyes narrow, his gaze raking over her with a mixture of suspicion and condescension. "A woman? A financial advisor? This is a joke."
Atara doesn't blink. She reaches the table and sets a folder down, a ledger I didn't even know she’d brought. "The joke is your profit margin, Volkov. You’re currently losing twenty-two percent to 'unexplained shrinkage.' You think it’s the Feds. It’s not."
Volkov scoffs, but he reaches for the ledger. "Prove it."
She leans down, her fingers grazing the edge of the mahogany.
She starts pointing out figures, her tone crisp and professional, entirely devoid of the fear she should be feeling.
She dissects his shipment logs, cross-referencing them with the insurance premiums that are bleeding his firm dry.
She doesn't raise her voice, she just states facts.
She shows him exactly where his own men are skimming off the top and explains the specific language in the insurance contracts that will result in a blacklisting within three months if he doesn't stabilize his routes with my men.
The room goes dead silent. The only sound is the rustle of paper as Volkov flips through the pages.
He looks at me, then at her, his posture slowly shifting, the hostility draining out of his frame to be replaced by a cautious, calculating curiosity. He’s looking at her like she’s a weapon.
"She’s right," Volkov admits, his voice gruff. "The adjusters have been crawling up our ass for weeks."
"Then we have a deal?" I ask, my eyes locked on her. I’m furious she walked in here, but I can't breathe because of how brilliant she just was.
Volkov reaches for the pen, scribbling his signature with a heavy hand. "Fifty-fifty. With the insurance clause."
When the meeting ends and the emissaries are finally escorted out, Volkov stops at the door.
He looks at me, then tips his head toward Atara.
"You’re a lucky man, Lorcan. You keep her close.
She’s sharp. You should bring her to the gala next month—the investors would be very impressed to see the brains behind your operation.
We would be honored to host her as well. "
They leave. I turn back to the room.
Atara is still standing there. She looks calm, but I can see the pulse at her throat beating fast.
"Leave us," I tell my men.
They exit without a word, the heavy oak door clicking shut.
"You had no right," I say, my voice echoing off the walls. I walk toward her, my boots pounding on the floor. "You could have destabilized the entire negotiation. You walked into a room you weren't invited into, and you risked everything."
"It worked, didn't it?" she says, standing her ground. Her chin is tilted up, defiant. "You were stuck. You were going to lose the deal, and you were going to go to war. I saved your position."
I’m standing inches from her now. The smell of her—clean, faint vanilla is overwhelming. My blood is boiling. I want to shake her. I want to kiss her until she can’t breathe. I want to lock her in a room where she’ll never be tempted to walk into a negotiation again.
I reach out, my fingers wrapping around the back of her neck. My grip isn't hard—I’m careful, I’m always careful with her—but it’s absolute. I pull her closer until her forehead is resting against my chest.
"If you ever, ever walk into a room like that again without my word, there will be consequences," I murmur, my voice a low, terrifying rasp against her ear. "Consequences you won't enjoy."
She doesn't pull away. Instead, she slowly tilts her head back, looking at me over her shoulder. Her eyes are bright, reckless.
"Promise?" she whispers.
My fingers tighten on her skin, just for a second. The air in the room feels like it’s being sucked out. Her gaze is a challenge, a direct, searing question. I feel the bottom drop out of my stomach.
I release her and step back, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I’m staring at her, feeling a complicated mess of anger, relief, and a terrifying, bone-deep obsession.
She’s looking at me like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
She’s not afraid. She’s testing the boundaries of the cage I’ve built, and she’s finding out just how much power she has over the man holding the key.
"Get out," I say again, my voice barely audible.
She turns and walks toward the door, her walk steady and confident. She stops at the threshold and looks back at me.
"They were very impressed," she says.
She leaves, and I’m left standing in the silent room.
I sink into my chair, my hands resting on the desk. I’m in trouble. I am thoroughly, completely, and utterly in trouble. I want her so badly it feels like a physical weight, like the air in the room is too heavy to breathe.
I pick up the pen I used to sign the deal and stare at the paper. I’m thinking about the way she looked at me, the way her hair smelled, the way my hand felt against her neck. I’m thinking about how I’m never going to be able to let her go.
I think about the gala. I think about her in a dress, the way her shoulders would look, the way I’d have to keep everyone away from her. The thought sends a surge of possessive heat through me that’s so intense it makes me dizzy.
This isn't about the docks anymore. It isn't about the Bratva. It’s about the fact that I’ve spent my entire life building a wall, and she’s just walked through the front door and sat down at the table.
And for the first time, I don't know how to throw her out.