6. Alexei #2
Maggie smiles. “Baby, if you call me every minute, I won't get anythin’ done.”
Ivy studies her seriously. “Okay. Every two minutes.”
Maggie laughs.
That earns another hint of a smile from Ivy, small but real. Mrs. Bennett steps closer, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she approaches my daughter with the calm warmth she has carried through this house for years.
“We’ll make cookies while they’re gone,” she says. “And Winston and Daisy can supervise from a safe distance.”
Winston sneezes.
“See?” Maggie says. “He’s already accepted the responsibility.”
Ivy hesitates before finally nodding. The agreement is fragile, built on trust that’s been damaged too many times, but it holds long enough for Maggie to stand.
That’s Magnolia Hayes. Afraid, grieving, exhausted, and still moving toward whatever needs her. I hate that about her, and I respect it more than I want to.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. The message appears the moment I pull it out.
Roman: I have information. Call me.
Every instinct I possess snaps into place. Roman doesn’t send messages like that unless something has changed.
Maggie notices my reaction. “What is it?”
I slide the phone back into my pocket. “Roman.”
She understands instantly and doesn't ask more questions. Together we head toward the foyer.
Luka is already waiting near the front doors with Viktor and two security men. The moment we approach, Luka straightens.
“Plans changed,” I tell him.
He already understands this isn't routine. “Boss?”
“Maggie is going to the shelter,” I continue. “Two vehicles. Four men. No public entrance unless cleared first.”
He takes the instructions in with a single nod. “Understood.”
I look at Maggie. “You stay with Luka or one of the men at all times.”
She folds her arms. “Alexei.”
“This isn’t negotiable.”
The look she gives me suggests she would very much like it to be. I ignore it and turn back to Luka.
“No side rooms alone. No leaving the property without notifying security. If she decides she wants coffee, I want someone knowing where she's getting it.”
Maggie gives me a look that would have made a less intelligent man reconsider speaking. “You're bein’ dramatic.”
“No. I'm being careful.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. “You forgot to say I need permission to breathe,” she mutters.
“You breathe under supervision.”
Luka turns his face away.
Maggie points at him. “Do not laugh.”
“I would never,” Luka replies. His face says otherwise.
My attention moves to Viktor. “Grab another man. You're with me.”
Viktor nods, leaving the foyer.
Roman has information. Whatever he found, I want it now.
I walk Maggie to the front doors. The morning air is already warm, filled with the scent of cut grass and salt from the water beyond the estate. Two SUVs wait at the base of the front steps, engines running, windows dark, and men positioned around them with the controlled discipline I require.
The first vehicle is for Maggie. Luka moves into place beside the rear door with one hand resting near his jacket, his eyes scanning the drive, the tree line, the gate, and every place a threat might decide to appear.
Maggie stops beside the open door and turns toward me.
The oversized sweatshirt hangs loosely over her frame, and the irritation on her face does nothing to lessen the pull I feel when I look at her.
If anything, it makes it worse. Maggie angry, is inconveniently beautiful. Maggie worried is harder to endure.
“You know I’m just goin’ to my own shelter, right?” she asks, keeping her voice low enough that the men won’t hear every word.
“Yes.”
“With four security men,” she adds.
“Yes.”
“And instructions about side rooms, coffee, breathin’, and probably blinkin’ if you thought you could get away with it.”
“You blink too often when you’re annoyed.”
Her mouth parts like she wants to scold me, then she realizes I’m not entirely joking. The look she gives me shouldn’t make me want to pull her close in the driveway with my men standing twenty feet away. It does anyway.
“Alexei.”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “You can be angry with me in the house. You can be angry with me at the shelter. You can be angry with me when you call to tell me Luka is irritating you. None of it changes the conditions.”
Her shoulders lift with a breath she holds too long before releasing. The irritation in her face isn't the whole story. I can see the fear beneath it. She’s decided the shelter needs her more than she wants the safety of staying here.
“I know you’re scared,” she says gently.
The truth of it unsettles me. Maggie sees too much when she decides to look. I keep my face controlled, but something in my silence must answer for me because her irritation eases around the edges.
“I’ll be careful,” she says.
“You’ll be protected,” I insist.
“That too.”
It isn’t enough. Nothing about this is enough. Letting her leave the estate feels wrong in every way that matters, but keeping her here by force would make her fight me harder, and Maggie’s life can’t become another thing I crush beneath the weight of my protection.
I reach for her hand. She lets me take it.
Her fingers are warm against mine, and for one heartbeat, the driveway, the men, the engines, and Roman’s message recede behind the simple fact that she’s standing in front of me alive.
Afraid, stubborn, and already more important than is safe for either of us.
“You call me if anything feels wrong,” I tell her.
“I will.”
“Not after you investigate it yourself or decide whether it’s worth mentionin’.”
Her brows lift. “Are you mockin’ my accent while givin’ me orders?”
“I’m making sure you understand me.”
A reluctant smile appears before she looks away, and I dislike how much that small victory matters. She squeezes my hand once.
“Go call Roman,” she says. “You look like you’re two seconds away from climbin’ out of your skin.”
“I don’t climb out of anything.”
“No, I suppose you just stand there and intimidate the skin into stayin’ put.”
Luka turns his head toward the gate with the sudden focus of a man determined not to react. Maggie notices and points at him again.
“I swear, Luka.”
“I heard nothing,” he says.
“Liar.”
I almost smile. I release Maggie’s hand because if I hold it longer, I’ll delay both of us. Luka opens the door fully, and Maggie climbs inside.
The first SUV pulls forward, followed by the second. I stand on the steps until both vehicles reach the gates. The iron bars open, the convoy slips through, and the estate closes behind her.
I’ve watched convoys leave for years without giving them a thought once they cleared my line of sight. Watching Maggie disappear beyond my gate feels entirely different.
Viktor steps beside me with another man at his back.
“The car is ready,” he says.
I turn from the drive. “Good.”
Viktor watches me a beat longer than usual. “You shouldn’t look that smug while injured,” I tell him.
“I’m not smug.”
“You are,” I insist.
“I was shot.”
“That’s not a defense.”
Viktor leaves the accusation unanswered. I let it go because arguing with Viktor has never improved anything, and I need him to be useful today.
We take the car to Black Tide. The drive into Savannah passes through streets that look ordinary.
People walk dogs, stop for coffee, argue over parking spaces, and move through the city as if violence didn’t tear through the shelter less than forty-eight hours ago.
That’s the part civilians rarely understand.
The world doesn’t stop because blood is spilled.
It keeps moving around the people left standing in it.
My phone rests in my hand, Roman’s message still on the screen. I wait until we’re on the secure line inside the car before calling him.
He answers before the second ring finishes. “Brat.”
“What did you find?”
“No greeting?”
“Roman.”
A faint breath moves through the line. It’s as close to amusement as Roman ever gets. “Enzo has gone underground.”
My jaw clenches. “When?”
“Last night. Three known residences are empty. Two offices cleared. Phones discarded. His usual driver disappeared with him, and one of his shell accounts moved money through a route we didn’t know about until this morning.”
“He expected us to come.”
“He expected you to come,” Roman corrects.
Outside the window, Savannah slides past in clean lines of brick and iron. I stare through it without seeing any of it clearly. Enzo running confirms what I already knew. A guilty man flees. A frightened one erases tracks.
“Find him.”
“I will,” Roman assures.
There’s a deliberate pause afterward. Roman doesn’t hesitate unless he wants the silence noticed.
“What else?” I ask.
“I started digging into Clara again.”
Her name pulls every part of my attention to the call. “Why?”
“Because every road around this situation keeps turning toward her.”
“She’s dead.”
“Yes,” Roman says. “And still inconvenient.”
A surge of anger moves through me before I can stop it. “Careful.”
“I’m always careful. That’s why I’m calling instead of waiting until I have a prettier answer.”
I stay silent.
Roman continues. “There’s no Clara Bennett before Savannah.”
I hear the words, but they seem impossible. “She changed her name.”
“That’s not the problem.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“I looked under every name we have. Clara Bennett. Clara Agapov. The aliases attached to the accounts that appeared after her death. Every possible variation connected to the documents she left behind.”
Roman’s voice remains even, which makes the information worse. “She appears in Savannah eleven years ago. Lease agreement. Employment record. State identification. Before that, there’s nothing verifiable.”
“That’s not possible.”
“No,” Roman replies. “That’s not the word I would use.”
The SUV turns toward the Black Tide complex, the port cranes rising in the distance like black bones against the sky.
“Intentional,” I say.
“Yes,” Roman agrees.