6
Iskander
Three days after kissing Willa in Henri’s office, I stand at the windows of my study watching Charleston’s harbor during sunrise. The taste of her lips haunts me still. She was like honey and defiance if it had a flavor, feeling like surrender and resistance all at once. I’ve replayed that moment countless times, analyzing every detail like a tactical operation, searching for weaknesses in her armor that I can exploit. Sleep eludes me when thoughts of Willa occupy my mind, which has become an increasingly frequent occurrence since Henri’s death thrust her into my world.
My phone buzzes for the morning intelligence briefing from Timur, with security reports, financial updates, and a growing catalog of Balakin’s movements throughout the southeastern United States. Mikhail’s network has expanded faster than we initially projected, absorbing smaller operations with the efficiency of a well-oiled military campaign.
I scan the reports while my mind drifts to more personal concerns. Willa hasn’t returned to the shop since our confrontation, though Mr. Woods confirms she’s been calling to check on business matters. Just professional inquiries about client orders and supplier deliveries, but nothing that suggests she’s ready to engage with the darker aspects of her inheritance.
She’s avoiding me, which demonstrates excellent survival instincts and frustrates me beyond measure.
Charleston Harbor spreads before me like a canvas painted in maritime commerce and hidden currents. Cargo ships navigate carefully marked channels while smaller vessels dance between them, unaware of the deeper currents that determine their fates. The parallel to my situation with Willa isn’t lost on me. Surface appearances mask dangerous undercurrents, requiring careful navigation to avoid disaster.
The intercom crackles with my housekeeper’s voice. “Mr. Taranov? Mr. Vetrov is here to see you.”
“Send him up.”
Timur enters my study with a purposeful stride and appears to come bearing unwelcome news. His weathered face carries additional lines of stress that weren’t present a week ago, and his pale blue eyes hold the particular intensity he reserves for serious threats. “We have a problem.” He settles into the leather chair across from my desk, declining my offer of coffee with a shake of his head. “Balakin’s people have been conducting surveillance around the shop and now Miss Reynolds’ apartment building too.”
The words make me jerk upright, though I keep my expression neutral. “How long?”
“Since yesterday morning. He’s still using professional observation teams, rotating schedules, and photographing entrance points and traffic patterns.” He produces a tablet displaying surveillance footage captured by our own watchers. “They’re not trying to hide their presence, which suggests intimidation rather than covert intelligence gathering.”
I study the images, noting details that confirm my worst suspicions. Mikhail is using two-man teams in plain black sedans with expensive camera equipment. These aren’t street criminals conducting amateur surveillance but soldiers preparing for a coordinated operation.
The photographs reveal men I don’t recognize, with faces hardened by years of violence and shaped by the particular ruthlessness that Mikhail cultivates in his operations. Each image solidifies my suspicions. These men are professionals married to personal brutality, exactly the combination that makes Balakin’s network so effective and so dangerous. “What’s their assessment of our security arrangements?”
“Unknown, but they’ve definitely identified our positions.” Timur swipes to a new set of photographs showing one of our watchers being photographed by Balakin’s team. “They want us to know they’re watching.”
The psychological warfare aspect doesn’t surprise me. Mikhail always preferred elaborate demonstrations of power over subtleties, a trait that cost him dearly during our Moscow years but apparently hasn’t diminished with age or experience. He operates on the principle that fear is more effective than laying low, and knowing you’re being hunted creates paralysis more efficiently than hidden threats do.
I set down the tablet while considering the angles. This extends far beyond simple territorial disputes. The cold realization that Mikhail might have identified my greatest vulnerability and chosen to exploit it with characteristic precision creeps over me like a cold fog. “Recommendations?” I ask.
“You should extract Miss Reynolds immediately. Put her in a safe house until we can neutralize the threat, or buy her out of the shop, maintain distance, and let her manage her own security.” His response comes without hesitation since he has no emotional stakes in whatever we decide.
Both options make tactical sense but the idea of backing off isn’t happening. Willa would resist extraction, viewing it as another attempt to control her choices rather than protect her life. Abandoning her to Balakin’s attention violates every instinct I possess about safeguarding what belongs to me, and buying the shop when I know Henri wanted her to run it after his death feels wrong.
And she does belong to me, regardless of what she believes about independence and professional boundaries. I’ve accepted it and will act as soon as she accepts it too.
The morning light continues its slow transformation of Charleston’s skyline. This city has survived wars, economic disasters, and social upheavals that would have destroyed lesser places. It endures because it adapts and recognizes when circumstances require evolution.
Perhaps I need to apply similar wisdom to my current situation. “No.” I move to the windows again, watching harbor traffic navigate between commercial shipping lanes and pleasure craft. “I want security tripled around both locations. Make a visible presence, not covert observation.”
“Iskander, that’s exactly the escalation Balakin wants. He’s trying to provoke a response that justifies expanding his operations.” Timur’s voice carries impatient frustration. “Don’t give him ammunition.”
“He already has ammunition. Henri’s death, territorial disputes, and eight years of unresolved blood debt have stoked his anger into an unquenchable need to destroy me.” I turn from the window to face him directly. “Adding Willa to that list changes nothing tactically.”
He snorts. “It changes everything personally, which is what concerns me. You’re making decisions based on emotional attachment rather than strategic advantage.”
The accusation hangs between us, carrying truth I’m not prepared to fully acknowledge. Timur has protected my interests since we fled Moscow together, watching me build an American empire while avoiding entanglements that could compromise operational security. He recognizes patterns of behavior that lead to catastrophic mistakes because he’s witnessed them destroy other men in our profession.
The leather chair creaks as I settle back into it, considering how much honesty this conversation requires. Timur deserves transparency about factors that influence my decision-making, even when that transparency reveals weaknesses I’d prefer to keep hidden. “My personal feelings don’t compromise my judgment.”
“Don’t they?” He produces another tablet, this one displaying financial reports from our various enterprises. “You’ve diverted thirty percent of our security assets to protect one woman who wants nothing to do with our organization. Meanwhile, Balakin consolidates territory we should be defending.”
The numbers don’t lie, though they don’t tell the complete story either. Willa represents more than romantic obsession. She’s Henri’s chosen successor and inheritor of a business relationship that generates substantial revenue for our operations. Protecting her is good for the organization in ways beyond my personal desires. At least, that’s what I tell myself during moments of clarity between waves of possessive hunger. “The shop generates significant income through laundering operations. Protecting our investment makes financial sense.”
“Does it? Because the woman who inherited that investment spent twenty minutes yesterday arguing with Woods about dissolving the partnership entirely.” His expression grows troubled. “She’s not embracing her new role with the enthusiasm you seem to expect.”
