Chapter 31
The Woman in the Surveillance Tape
Asher
Two weeks.
Fourteen fucking days of tearing the city apart, chasing leads that dissolve the second we get close, and feeling my patience grind down to nothing.
Every resource I have is moving—my men shaking contacts, Maverick tearing through data, and favors being called in that I’ll have to repay later.
And all of it happening under a spotlight I didn’t ask for.
And still, she’s a ghost.
But ghosts don’t walk into high-profile parties wearing someone else’s face without help.
Maverick stands across from me in the corporate office, the room lit by the glow of surveillance feeds pulled from every corner of the city. Alleyways. Hotel lobbies. Parking garages. Grainy black-and-white footage looping endlessly.
Places that used to be quiet. Places that now feel watched.
I scan them all, eyes flicking from screen to screen, and looking for something—anything—that doesn’t belong.
So far, it’s just shadows slipping through shadows.
It’s pissing me the fuck off.
The air is heavy in here. Not just with the investigation, but with everything stacked on top of it.
The buyout is in progress, already stirring internal tension.
Every few minutes someone knocks with another update, another number, and another problem.
And every one of them wants reassurance I don’t have time to give.
I don’t care.
This isn’t about business.
This is about The Order.
Rinaldi’s crew didn’t frame Violet for sport. This was deliberate. A calculated hit designed to shake confidence, make clients question our control, and put cracks in our foundation. And with law enforcement tripping over itself to look productive, the timing couldn’t be worse.
Instead, all they’ve done is make sure I’m coming for them.
“Start talking,” I say.
Maverick doesn’t waste time. He knows better.
He tosses a file onto the table and flips it open—photos, financial trails, and call logs spread out like a crime scene. “The woman checked into a hotel two days before the party. Paid cash. No ID. But the clerk remembers her.”
“Before anyone started locking their doors and checking faces twice,” he adds.
I lean over the table, eyes narrowing on a grainy still pulled from security footage.
Curly brown hair. Sharp eyes. Leather jacket. Head angled just enough to avoid cameras.
But it’s not her face that holds my attention.
It’s the man behind her, caught in the reflection of the glass door.
I tap the image. Hard. “Who the fuck is that?”
Maverick exhales. “That’s where it gets interesting. He’s one of Rinaldi’s. Facial recognition matched him—Angelo Costa. Low-level enforcer. Cleanup work, mostly.”
He pauses. “He wasn’t watching her. He was escorting her. Making sure she got in and out clean.”
“Tell me something useful,” I growl.
I rake a hand over my jaw, forcing the anger back under control. “They didn’t just want her at that party. They wanted her seen. They wanted her tied to us.”
“Exactly,” Maverick says. “Word’s already spreading. People are asking questions. Cops are sniffing around. They’re trying to make it look like we’re slipping.”
“So are the cops,” he adds. “Unofficially.”
I straighten slowly. “They’re circling.”
“They are,” Maverick confirms. “But they’re late. And they’re loud.”
I flip another page. “Where’s Costa now?”
“Gone to ground. Last sighting was a club in Queens three nights ago. No cards. No addresses. Someone’s hiding him. Theres too much attention on the streets for him to move clean, someone’s keeping him buried.”
I don’t hesitate. “Find him.”
“Already moving,” Maverick says. “We’ll have him.”
I lean back, dragging a hand through my hair.
Rinaldi thinks he can plant a woman in my territory, pin a murder on my doorstep, and walk away untouched. He’s dead wrong.
My phone buzzes against the table and I glance down.
Violet: Are you coming home tonight?
Something in my chest tightens.
Home.
She’s never called it that before. Not once. It’s always been the penthouse. Your place. Detached. Careful. And now she just drops it like it’s nothing. Like she belongs there. Like she’s settled.
And I like it. More than I should.
Fuck.
I don’t answer. Not yet.
Because the truth is, I don’t trust myself around her. Not when every second in her orbit reminds me how badly this could go. She’s still angry. Still sharp. Still looking at me like I took something from her.
Which—fine. Maybe I did.
She thinks this is about control. And maybe that’s the lie I tell myself too. But then she calls it home and everything tilts. Like she’s playing a game I don’t know the rules to.
What the hell is she doing to me?
I tell myself this is about Zephyra. About leverage. About The Order. That’s bullshit. The truth is messier. Dangerous. If I let myself cross that line, I don’t know if I’ll stop. Not with her living in my space. Not with her under my skin.
Not when I still haven’t even kissed her. And it’s becoming a very specific kind of torture.
Maverick clears his throat, dragging me back. “One more thing.” He slides another set of documents across the table. “We ran her prints internationally.”
I straighten. “And?”
“She’s Russian. Connected to a Bratva cell that went dark about five years ago. No confirmed name. Operating under an alias in Paris before she disappeared.” His eyes sharpen. “If she’s working with Rinaldi, this isn’t just about territory. It’s about dismantling us.”
“Russian,” I mutter, already pacing.
My father’s voice surfaces uninvited—warnings about loyalty, about games, and about men who smile while cutting your throat.
There’s a thread here I haven’t pulled yet. A reason they’re bold enough to step back into our territory.
I stop and look at Maverick. “If Rinaldi wants war…” A slow smile curls at my mouth. “…then war’s what he gets.” I grab my jacket. “Violet stays secure. Lock down every external angle. If this was meant to weaken us, they’ll be watching our response.” I pause at the door. “And Mav?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t want her found.”
His grin is sharp. “You want her destroyed.”
“I want her delivered."
“Consider it done.”
As I step into the hall, I finally text Violet back.
Me: Soon.
The scent hits me the second I step into the penthouse—rich, earthy, and unmistakably homemade. It takes a second to register, and then it clicks.
Barszcz.
Jesus Christ. Of all the things I expected to come home to, a Polish comfort-food night was not on the list.
I loosen my tie, irritation still clinging to me like sweat. Two weeks of chasing ghosts. Of dealing with Rinaldi’s bullshit. Of trying—and failing—not to think about Violet more than necessary.
And then I see her.
She’s at the kitchen island, sleeves pushed up, and stirring a massive pot like she owns the place. Grinning. Actually fucking grinning. Boris stands beside her, arms crossed, and nodding like a proud father watching his kid nail their first recipe.
“Ah, Boss,” Boris says, spotting me. “You are just in time. Your woman has made dinner.”
Violet spins, already rolling her eyes. “I am not his woman.”
Boris waves her off. “Details.”
I arch a brow and step farther into the room. “You cook now?”
She scoffs, ladling deep red soup into a bowl. “I follow instructions. Boris here is my unpaid sous chef.”
“Unpaid?” Boris mutters. “This is crime.”
I snort and lean against the counter. “You sure you didn’t poison it?”
She gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Wow. That’s how you greet the woman who slaved over a hot stove for you?”
I tilt my head, smirk tugging at my mouth. “Slaved? You look like you enjoyed every second.”
She lifts her chin. “Maybe I did. And now—if you’re lucky—I’ll let you eat.”
She sets the bowl in front of me with a flourish, barely containing her excitement. She wants me to try it. Wants me to sit, to eat, and to make this normal.
Normal has never been my thing.
I take a bite. It’s good—rich, balanced, and familiar—but my attention is already drifting back to her. The way she watches me like she’s pretending not to care. The way her tongue slips out to wet her lips when she gets impatient.
I set the spoon down slowly.
“You know,” I say quietly, “this would probably taste even better off you.”
She freezes. Just for a heartbeat. Then her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
Boris chuckles from across the room.
I don’t look away from her. “You heard me.”
She crosses her arms, but her cheeks are already flushed. “You’re disgusting.”
“And yet,” I say, pushing away from the counter, “you’re still standing right there.”
Boris clears his throat, grabbing his coat. “I go now.” He shakes his head as he heads for the door. “Young people.”
The door clicks shut.
Silence stretches—tight and electric.
I move toward her. She doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t flinch. That fire in her eyes twists something dark and hungry in my chest.
“Come here,” I murmur.
She tilts her head. “Make me.”
So I do.
I grip her waist, lift her onto the table in one smooth motion, and step between her legs. Her breath stutters, but she doesn’t fight me. My hands slide up her thighs, slow, deliberate, and claiming.
“You think feeding me gives you an upper hand?” I murmur against her skin, lips brushing her jaw. “That’s cute.”
She shivers, trying to sound unimpressed. “You think feeding you gives you a claim?”
I tug her closer until she’s flush against me. “I think you like this more than you want to admit.”
She opens her mouth to snap back, but I don’t give her the chance. I push her dress up, hands spreading her thighs, and her breath hitches sharp and fast.
I drop to my knees. I dip my head, my mouth brushing over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. “Time to see if you taste better than the soup.”
I don’t give her a chance to protest. My fingers press into her thighs, spreading her open as I drag my tongue through her warm center.
The sharp gasp that leaves her is like music, her body jerking, but I hold her down.
She’s drenched already, her body betraying her even as she tries to hold onto that stubborn defiance.
Violet props herself up on her elbows, glaring at me like she wants to cuss me out.
But her lips part instead, breath hitching as I swirl my tongue over her clit.
Her fingers tremble before she clenches them into fists, refusing to give me the satisfaction of grabbing my hair like I know she wants to.
“You taste so sweet for me,” I murmur against her, letting my breath tease over her swollen, and sensitive flesh.
She huffs a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. “You—” The rest of whatever comeback she had, dies in her throat when I suck her clit between my lips, slow and deliberate. Her hips jolt, but my grip is firm, pinning her down while I devour her.
She’s wet, dripping onto the table as I push my tongue inside her, and taste every desperate pulse of her arousal.
My cock strains against my pants, but I don’t care about that right now.
Right now, this is about her breaking. About proving that no matter how sharp her tongue is, her body will always be mine.
“F—fuck,” she stammers, the word barely a whisper.
I hum in approval, the vibration making her legs tremble.
She’s fighting it, fighting me, but I know the moment she loses.
Her back arches, her thighs tightening around my head as she gasps my name.
I lap up every drop of her, savoring her like the finest meal, and when she finally collapses against the table, panting and spent, I pull back.
Slowly, deliberately, I straighten, licking my lips before reaching for my spoon again.
I take another bite of the soup, eyes locked on her bare, wrecked body, while her thighs still quiver as she struggles to recover.
Then I smirk.
“Well,” I murmur, savoring the bite, “looks like dinner came with dessert.”