3. Artem
Artem
Sleep doesn’t come.
I lie there anyway, on my back, one arm tucked behind my head, and staring up at the dark ceiling. The room is cold. I keep it that way. No distractions, comfort, or anything soft enough to sink into.
My mind won’t shut off.
It keeps circling back to her.
The way she sat in that room as if she belonged there. The way her fingers moved over the keyboard, fast and precise. The way she looked at me when I caught her.
Not scared or surprised.
Aware.
Like she’d already accounted for me.
I drag a hand down my face because that’s the part that sticks.
Not that she was in my office. Not that she was on Misha’s laptop. Not even that she was digging through things she has no business touching.
It’s that I let her walk out.
I didn’t press harder or make her answer me.
I just sat there and watched her, wanting to see what she’d do next.
It bothers the hell out of me.
I push up from the bed and grab a shirt off the back of the chair.
It’s still dark out, early enough that the house hasn’t started moving yet.
Not that anyone is here. Misha didn’t come home with her after they went out.
No noise or footsteps, nothing but the low hum of the vents pushing cold air through the walls.
Misha is still asleep. I don’t have to check to know that. He sleeps like he lives—recklessly and carelessly, like nothing’s ever going to catch up to him.
I head down the hall toward my office. The hardwood floors are cool under my feet when I unlock the door. I’ve never had to lock any doors until Misha brought home a beautiful redhead.
The space around me is too wide and open. The house was built to impress, not to feel lived in. Everything is sharp edges and clean lines, dark finishes and expensive materials.
The room is bare but functional. A low couch pushed against one wall, a narrow coffee table in front of it, and a desk that rarely gets touched.
Misha’s laptop is where I left it on the desk. Picking it up, I drop onto the couch and lean forward as I flip it open. The screen lights up, and for a second, it’s what she wanted me to see.
A shopping site. Rows of dresses with soft fabrics, bright colors, and something expensive enough that most people wouldn’t question it.
It fits her too well if I believe that’s what she was doing. Pretty and polished, that a woman with her means and funds would shop, but it’s just a little out of reach for me to believe.
Too safe.
I huff out a quiet breath through my nose. “Bullshit.”
I close the browser and go into the system, my irritation sharpening into focus. This part is easy and the one that makes the most sense.
People clean up what they think matters. They don’t always think about what sits underneath it. It doesn’t take long to find it.
A few clicks. A few timestamps.
Small things.
But they add up.
Emails opened for seconds at a time, internal threads, nothing she should even know exists. Folders accessed and closed just as quickly. Shipment logs pulled up and skimmed.
She didn’t take anything. Didn’t forward anything. Didn’t leave anything obvious behind.
But she looked.
At things that matter.
“She knew where to go,” I mutter.
This wasn’t curiosity or boredom. She wasn’t clicking around, hoping to stumble into something useful.
She went straight to it.
Which means she either already has information or she’s trying to confirm it.
Neither option works in her favor.
Or mine.
I close out of the logs and pull up the camera feeds next. The footage rolls back smoothly, flickering through empty hallways and dark rooms before landing on her.
She moves without hesitation. She doesn’t creep along the walls or pause at corners.
My eyes narrow as I watch her slip into the office, closing the door behind her.
Enough time passes that if she wanted to do real damage, she could have.
But she didn’t. At least not in a way I can see.
I rewind it, watching her again, focusing on the details this time. The way she holds herself, the way she moves, and there’s no panic in it.
No rush.
She wasn’t worried about getting caught.
Which means she either underestimated me or she didn’t care if I saw her.
Neither sits right with me.
I turn off the footage.
Cady Gallagher.
Irish mob princess.
Late twenties.
Too polished to be naive.
Too careful to be reckless.
She disappears around the same time every night.
Always with two guards trailing behind her. Irish, not mine. That should’ve been enough to raise a problem the second she stepped into this house.
It didn’t.
Because she didn’t feel like one.
That was my first mistake.
She shops. High-end places, consistent patterns. Not random, or impulsive, just intentional like she’s maintaining an image.
Same with the charity events. Kids, hospitals, smiling for cameras like she’s soft, like she belongs somewhere clean and untouched by this world.
It’s a good cover. Most people see that and stop asking questions.
I don’t.
She drives a black Audi, understated but expensive enough to notice. She keeps a schedule, and has a hair appointment on the last Thursday of each month.
Same place, same time.
Too predictable.
People like her don’t build routines unless they want something hidden inside them.
My gaze drops back to the laptop, anger settling in deeper now because none of that explains why she was in here. None of it explains why she was looking at bratva shipments.
“She’s digging.”
Benedikt’s voice cuts through the silence. The only person who shows up at my house this late.
“Yeah.” I close out the last file. “She is.”
He steps into the room, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t need to ask what I’m doing.
He already knows.
I told him.
“What did she get?” He moves closer.
“Nothing she can use,” I reply. “But she wasn’t guessing.”
He goes still. “Meaning?”
“She knew where to look.”
That lands.
He sighs, then shifts to the next problem. “Shipment’s coming in tonight,” he says. “Private.”
I glance up at him. “No guns?”
His mouth twitches. “No.”
“What, then?”
“A necklace.”
I stare at him. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
I lean back, letting out a quiet breath. “So, we’ve moved from weapons to jewelry.”
“For Sienna,” he says. “Yes.”
That explains it, but it doesn’t make it better. “Unbelievable.”
“You’ll handle it.”
Of course I will, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
His attention shifts back to the laptop, then to me again.
“Your brother,” he says. “He’s serious about her?”
“He thinks he is,” I reply.
Benedikt’s expression hardens. “He knows who she is?”
“Not fully. Irish princess, yes. Little spy, no.”
“Then tell him.”
“No.” It comes out sharp and immediate.
“Why not?”
Because I’m not done with her. I want to see what she does next. Something about this feels unfinished.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees, meeting his gaze. “Because I want to know what she’s doing first.”
That’s true; it’s just not the whole truth.
“She’s a Gallagher,” he says. “That’s not something you let play out.”
“I’m not letting it play out.”
“You’re letting her stay.”
“For now.”
His eyes narrow. “That’s a mistake for obvious reasons.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she’s already in something bigger than we think.” I nod toward the laptop, tapping my fingers once against the edge of the screen. “She didn’t take anything. She’s not sloppy. She’s looking for something specific.”
Benedikt moves deeper into the room. I feel him turning it over, looking at it from angles I already know he’s going to land on.
“And you’re going to let her keep looking?” His voice is even but edged with a warning.
“For now.”
It’s the truth, even if I know he’s not going to like it.
“Tell Misha to cut it off.”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
Benedikt squares his shoulders, and his expression hardens.
“You’re making this complicated.” He steps closer, stopping just short of the desk. “I’m not looking to have to kill a mob princess to keep my secrets a secret. So, unless you have a plan, I’m going to issue the order.”
He’s not wrong, but I’m irritated. He’s already moved to the end of the situation while I’m still working through the middle of it.
“She’s not better than me,” I say. “What’s your worry and rush?”
His eyes sharpen on mine, and for a second, I see his patience thinning.
“She started this,” he says, more force behind it now, “and I don’t know why.”
That lands heavier than anything else he’s said so far, because that’s the part that doesn’t sit right with me, either.
It’s not that she got in, or even that she poked around.
It’s that she had a reason to.
Benedikt exhales slowly. “The Irish have been pushing for more than a year. You know that.”
“I do.”
“Every meeting with Colin is the same conversation dressed differently,” he continues. “He wants more territory, more access, and more leverage in places that matter. Things that give him footing against us.”
“And you’re not giving it to him. I’m aware.”
“Correct.” The word comes out flat. “The second I do, it’s not an alliance. It’s a concession. And he knows it.”
I nod, because that’s the truth.
Colin Gallagher doesn’t negotiate to meet in the middle. He negotiates to take.
“He thinks he can push you into it,” I say.
“He’s been trying,” Benedikt replies. “And I’ve been letting him think he has time.”
“And now?” I ask.
“And now, his daughter is in your house,” he says quietly. “She’s dating your brother, going through my operations, my shipments, and my internal communication. Those things don’t leave this circle unless I decide they do.”
My grip tightens against my knee, but I don’t interrupt him.
“That’s not curiosity,” he continues, his gaze locking back onto mine. “That’s intent. And I don’t like not knowing which side of it she’s on.”
“I understand—”
“Then act like it.”
I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch just enough that he knows I’m not brushing this off, even if I’m not reacting the way he wants me to.
“She didn’t take anything,” I repeat, slower this time, more deliberate. “She didn’t send anything, either. If she were working directly for her father, we’d already be dealing with it.”
“Unless she’s not done yet,” he counters. “Unless she’s confirming something before he makes a move.”
That thought has already crossed my mind.
It’s the most reasonable explanation. And it’s why I didn’t shut her down last night.
“She’s looking for something specific,” I say again. “Which means she doesn’t have the full picture.”
“And you’re comfortable letting her get it?”
“No,” I say. “I’m comfortable watching her try.”
Benedikt studies me for a long moment, deciding whether this is a strategy or a mistake.
“You’re too calm about this,” he says.
“I’m calm about everything. I just haven’t decided that she’s the problem yet.”
“She broke into your office.”
“And didn’t take anything.”
“That we can prove.”
That’s fair.
“She’s careful,” I continue. “Too careful to make a move without knowing what she’s dealing with.”
“And that makes her less dangerous?” he asks.
“No,” I answer honestly. “It makes her deliberate.”
And that’s worse for everyone, including her.
A beat passes between us.
“If Colin’s moving,” I continue finally, “she’s either part of it or trying to get ahead of it.”
“And if she’s part of it?”
“Then we’ll know soon enough,” I say. “She’s not subtle enough to stay invisible forever. Especially being so close.”
That earns me a look of acknowledgment.
“And if she’s not?” he asks.
“Then she’s looking for something he doesn’t have.” I glance back at the laptop. “Which means she’s not fully aligned with him.”
That hangs there for a second.
Because that changes things.
Not enough to trust her, but enough to hesitate.
Benedikt shakes his head like he doesn’t like where this is sitting but isn’t ready to override it.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he mutters. “And I don’t like it.”
“Maybe.”
“If you’re wrong—”
“I won’t be.”
He watches me for another second, then nods once. “Handle it.”
“I will.”
And I mean it.
Cady Gallagher didn’t just wander into this.
She didn’t just get curious.
She walked into a house that isn’t hers, into a war that is getting close enough to feel, and she started digging like she already knew where to look.
Which means whatever she’s after, it matters.
Enough to risk everything.
And that’s what makes her dangerous.