A thrill zips through me. “Then teach me, Professor.”
“With pleasure, piccola.” His mouth claims my neck, sucking hard enough to mark, promising rounds where he’ll reclaim—and I’ll fight, deliciously, every step.
CHAPTER TEN
NICO
Reports scatteredacross my desk told a disturbing story. Moretti’s crew had gone completely silent. In my line of work, silence never meant peace. It meant trouble was brewing.
I flip through surveillance photos, shipping manifests, and financial records. The edges of the pages cut into my fingertips as I search for the pattern, the hidden message in this vacuum of information. Nine days without a single notable movement from Moretti’s lieutenants. No street-level activity. No financial transactions through his known channels. Nothing.
This isn’t a retreat. It’s preparation.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. Blake enters without waiting for my response, a habit he’s adopted since Marco’s death that I find both presumptuous and necessary. He carries a leather portfolio and wears a carefully neutral expression that tells me he has information I won’t like.
“Morning report, sir,” he says, placing the portfolio on my desk.
I gesture for him to continue, not looking up from the shipping manifest I’m studying. It details a pharmaceutical delivery from a Korean company. Legitimate on paper, but the routing is suspiciously circuitous.
“It’s been nine days, sir. Absolute radio silence from Moretti’s camp.” Blake’s tone is professional but laced with concern. “No chatter, no movement from his known lieutenants. It’s too quiet.”
I lean back in my chair, studying him. In the three weeks since Marco’s murder, Blake has proven himself competent if not irreplaceable. He lacks Marco’s instincts, but his attention to detail is exceptional. He wouldn’t have mentioned the silence unless it worried him.
“You’re right,” I say, tapping my finger against the edge of the desk.
I stand and walk to the window. The lake stretches out before me, sunlight dancing across its surface in a deceptive display of tranquility. Beyond that water lies Chicago, my city, where Moretti is plotting his next move.
“The North Korean shipment is the prize,” I continue, watching a sailboat cut through the waves. “He’s waiting for it to get closer before he strikes.”
Blake nods. “That gives us two weeks at most, according to our intelligence.”
Two weeks. The tightness in my chest intensifies. Not enough time to fully secure my position, especially with my enforcer dead and Lea still an unresolved variable in the equation.
“What about our assets in the Seattle Port Authority?” I ask.
“Loyal, but under increased scrutiny. Moretti’s been spreading money around. Nothing obvious, but enough to make some of our people nervous.”
I turn back to face him. “Double their compensation. I want eyes on every container from Seoul for the next month.”
“Already done, sir.”
I nod, appreciating his initiative. Not quite Marco’s level of anticipation, but progress.
Blake shifts his weight, a subtle tell that he has more to report—something he’s less comfortable delivering.
“What else?”
He clears his throat. “On a... social front, sir. Mrs. Davenport has called twice. She’s insistent that you make an appearance at the Children’s Hospital charity planning committee. She mentioned your ‘newfound commitment to family’ and how it would look if you weren’t involved.”
I feel my jaw tighten. Eleanor Davenport, the lake’s self-appointed social gatekeeper, has been leveraging our fabricated engagement since the moment she extracted the lie from us. Under normal circumstances, I would simply ignore her, but appearances matter now more than ever. Any deviation from expected behavior could trigger scrutiny we can’t afford.
“She’s boxed us in,” I say, the admission tasting bitter. Being manipulated by a society gossip is an annoyance I neither need nor have time for. “Fine. We’ll give her a show.”
I walk back to my desk, mind already calculating the most efficient solution to this social problem without compromising security.
“We’ll set up a reception for the top twenty donors. On the yacht. Sunday afternoon.” I make each decision rapidly, visualizing the event. “A charity focus. It will be controlled, visible, and it will get her off my back.”
Blake nods, making notes in his small black book. “And Ms. Song?”
