Inside are shipping manifests. Cargo lists. Names of Bratva lieutenants who’ll be overseeing tomorrow’s shipment at the docks.
Nothing that would single-handedly destroy my organization if it fell into the wrong hands. But enough to ruin a few lives—including her own, if she’s stupid enough to try using it against me.
I return to my office, lock the door, and pull up the security feed on my laptop.
This is how I’ve survived this long. Patience. Calculation. Never leaving anything to chance.
The elevator doors open on the screen—and there she is.
Rowan St. Clair, coffee in one hand, sandwich in the other. Hair windblown, cheeks pink from the spring air outside.
She doesn’t notice the folder immediately. She sets down her lunch, takes a sip of coffee, and answers a ringing phone. “Mr.
