6. Zaria
ZARIA
Ihaven't seen Greer in three days.
Three days since he walked away from that alley without fighting back, without pushing like he's done every other time I've tried to scare him off.
Three days of me telling myself it's good, it's what needed to happen, that the clean-cut marketing analyst finally accepted he doesn't belong in my world.
Three days of being completely fucking distracted.
I'm in my apartment Wednesday night, going over the logistics for tomorrow's operation with Cain.
Papers spread across my coffee table, photos of the northern route, schedules for the Okafor shipments.
Everything mapped out with the precision my father taught me—know the territory, know the timing, know exactly where to hit so it's clean and professional.
But I keep losing my train of thought.
"The checkpoint here," Cain says, tapping a location on the map. "That's where their security will be weakest. We move in from the east side, take the shipment before they even realize we're there."
"Right. East side." I stare at the map without really seeing it.
Cain leans back against my couch, studying me with that infuriating perception that comes from knowing someone too well. "You've checked your phone four times in the last ten minutes."
"No I haven't."
"You absolutely have. And you keep looking at the door like you're expecting someone."
I shoot him a glare that would make most people back off. Cain just grins, clearly enjoying this. "Shut up."
"I could go track down your private school boy if you really want. Wouldn't be hard—pretty sure I know which building he walked to after leaving Marco's. Could have a conversation, see what he's about when you're not around to make him all desperate and feral."
The thought of Cain approaching Greer without me there makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest. "Don't."
"So you do want to see him."
"I want to focus on tomorrow night without you running your mouth about shit that doesn't matter.
" I gather the papers, organizing them into neat stacks to give my hands something to do.
"Greer walking away was the right move. For both of us.
He doesn't belong here and I don't have time for distractions. "
"Distractions," Cain repeats, like he's testing the word. "That what we're calling it when you eye-fuck someone across a fight club?"
"I'm going to stab you."
"You say that a lot but you never follow through. I'm starting to think it's all talk, Z."
I throw a pen at his head. He catches it without looking, still grinning like the smug asshole he is. "Get out of my apartment. Be at the checkpoint tomorrow at ten. Don't be late."
"Yes ma'am." He stands, stretching. "For what it's worth, I thought the suit was kind of entertaining. Had some balls, showing up night after night even when you kept telling him to leave. Most guys would've given up after the first week."
Most guys don't look at me the way Greer does—like I'm dangerous and fascinating and he wants to understand all the sharp edges instead of just avoiding them. Most guys don't keep coming back after I've made it clear they're not welcome.
Most guys bore me after five minutes of conversation.
Cain heads for the door, then pauses. "He'll be fine, you know. Probably go back to his normal life, marry some nice corporate girl who doesn't kill people for a living. Safer for everyone involved."
The image of Greer with someone safe and boring and normal makes my jaw clench. "Goodnight, Cain."
He leaves, and I'm alone with maps and schedules and the nagging feeling that I made a mistake letting Greer walk away without at least?—
Without at least what? Explaining that I pushed him away because he deserves better than this world?
That every time he showed up I wanted to drag him closer instead of warning him off?
That watching him stand there in his clean clothes with his green-gold eyes and his sharp comebacks made me feel things I haven't let myself feel in years?
I pour myself a drink—whiskey, neat—and try to focus on tomorrow.
The Okafors have been pushing boundaries for weeks now. Moving product through Bennett territory without paying tribute, testing whether Malcolm's daughter can actually hold what's hers. Tomorrow night we take what they owe us and make it clear that free passage has a price.
Six people. Quick and clean. In and out before they can escalate.
My phone stays silent. No messages from unknown numbers, no texts from anyone who isn't crew or business. Nothing from Greer.
Which is good. What I wanted. The distraction removed so I can focus on what actually matters.
I finish my drink and go to bed, telling myself I'm not disappointed.
Thursday night comes with cold rain and low visibility—perfect conditions for intercepting a shipment without witnesses.
I'm dressed for work: black cargo pants, fitted tank top, leather jacket that's reinforced in the shoulders and ribs.
Hair pulled back in a tight bun, minimal jewelry except for the rings my father gave me when I took over his operations.
Comfortable boots that let me move fast if things go sideways.
Cain picks me up at nine-thirty, four other crew members already in the vehicle. Vaughn and Dante I've known for years, solid and loyal. The other two are newer but have proven themselves reliable. Everyone's armed, everyone knows the plan.
"Northern route, checkpoint three," I review as Cain drives. "The shipment moves through around ten-fifteen based on their pattern. We intercept, take the product, leave a message about tribute owed. No unnecessary violence unless they force it."
"And if they do force it?" Vaughn asks from the back.
"Then we handle it. But we're not starting wars over this. We're establishing boundaries." I check my gun—loaded, safety on—then slide it back into my holster. "Clean and professional. That's how Bennett operations work."
We reach the checkpoint early, positioning ourselves in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse that gives us clear sight lines to the route. The rain makes visibility shit but it also means fewer witnesses if this gets loud.
Ten o'clock. Ten-fifteen. Ten-thirty.
No shipment.
"They're late," Dante says, scanning the empty street.
"Or they changed routes." Cain's jaw tightens. "Could've gotten word we were planning something."
My stomach twists. If the Okafors knew we were coming, this could be a setup—lure us here while they move the shipment through a different checkpoint, or worse, come at us with superior numbers while we're exposed.
"We give it until eleven," I decide. "Then we pull back and reassess."
But at ten-forty, my phone buzzes.
Unknown number. Short message: Check your warehouse on Fifth Street.
I show it to Cain. He frowns, already pulling up the security feed on his phone for that location. "This could be bait."
"Or it's information." I'm already moving toward the vehicle. "Everyone in. We're heading to Fifth Street."
The warehouse on Fifth Street is one of ours—legitimate business front for legitimate shipping, but also where we store things that need to disappear from official records. If someone's moved the Okafor shipment there, it means they intercepted it before we could.
Which means someone else is playing in Bennett territory.
We arrive to find everything quiet. No unusual vehicles, no signs of forced entry. The security camera shows nothing but empty loading docks and locked doors.
"I don't like this," Vaughn mutters, hand on his weapon.
"Stay sharp. Dante and Vaughn, cover the perimeter. Everyone else with me." I unlock the main door, moving inside with Cain on my left and the other two crew members flanking us.
The warehouse is dark except for emergency lighting. Rows of shelving, stacked crates, the familiar smell of cardboard and concrete. Nothing seems disturbed.
Then I see it.
In the center of the main floor, illuminated by overhead lights someone turned on specifically for this: wooden crates marked with Okafor symbols.
Five of them, stacked neatly. And tied to a chair next to them, bloodied and gagged, is one of the Okafor crew members I recognize from surveillance photos.
"What the fuck," Cain breathes.
Taped to the hostage's chest is a note. I cross to him, pulling it free while keeping my gun ready in case this is somehow a trap within a trap.
The handwriting is neat, precise. Exactly what I'd expect from someone who spends his days analyzing marketing data and making spreadsheets.
The shipment you were planning to intercept. Consider it a gift. PS - I don't like you getting your hands dirty if I'm not there to watch.
—G
I read it twice, then a third time, trying to process what I'm seeing.
Greer did this.
Greer—the clean-cut marketing analyst who seemed too soft for my world, who I kept warning away because I thought he'd get himself killed—somehow intercepted a criminal organization's product shipment, tied up one of their crew members, and delivered both to my warehouse like a fucking present.
"Zaria." Cain's voice cuts through my shock. "What the hell is this?"
I'm grinning. Can't help it. The sheer audacity of what Greer just did, the impossible logistics of it, the way he turned my own operation around on me to prove—what? That he's capable? That he can play in this world? That he's not the distraction I tried to convince myself he was?
"This is a gift," I say, still staring at the note. "And a reminder."
"A reminder of what?"
That I completely underestimated him. That the darkness I saw in his eyes that first night wasn't him playing tourist—it was real. That walking away from me in that alley wasn't surrender, it was him deciding to prove himself in ways I wouldn't see coming.