LOGINOlivia
I tap my fingers nervously on the bar table. This feels like the wrong place to have such an important discussion but I couldn't think of anywhere else. He's still a stranger and I can't have him in my house just yet. What was I thinking asking him to marry me? I'm damn sure I wasn't thinking at all. I cringe as I replay the scene in my head. Those words sounded desperate. I needed to prove Asher wrong and he was my only option. Meeting the stranger again at Asher's office was the only good thing that came out of that drama. I didn't expect his call after I handed him a piece of paper I had written my number. The look on Asher's face was everything I wanted. Jealousy— anger. I enjoyed every bit of it as I watched him burn with rage. But I want more. Revenge for cheating on me. And this stranger looks like the perfect plan. He's hot and gives great sex. I'll finally give my dad his wish while getting my revenge on Asher. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans as I see him approach my table. He looks different from earlier today in a casual sweatshirt and pants. “Hi,” I say as he settles on the stool in front of me. “Hi.” His eyes watch me cautiously. He must think I'm crazy. Maybe I am. “Well, thank you for coming.” “How could I ignore the lady that begged me to marry her?” A smirk plays on his lips. I let out a scoff. “I didn't beg you. I only asked you to,” I say with disgust. Maybe this was a big mistake. “Didn't look like it,” he retorted. He lets out a laugh. It's infuriating. “I should have known this was a stupid mistake.” I try to stand to my feet but he stops me. His fingers holding my arm. “Wait.” “Why? This is some kind of joke to you.” I feel stupid and pissed. But mostly pissed. “I'm sorry, okay? Please stay.” His eyes soften just like his grip on my arm. “I don't have time for games,” I say as I lower myself back on the stool. “I'm not trying to play any,” he replies. I dragged my gaze away from his. The bar was getting fuller now. I need to be done with this quick before it gets too noisy to have a conversation in. “So what is it with you and you-know-who?” he broke the momentary silence. “None of your business.” I return my gaze to him with my face firm. “Then why am I here?” “I need your-” I stop mid-sentence and swallow a hard gulp. Already hate how desperate it sounds. “I need your help.” “To marry you?” the stranger asks. “To get revenge on that piece of shit,” I snap. Marriage sounds so serious. “Why should I? You've already put me in a bad position with the business deal we had going on before you walked in.” He slides my glass of coke to himself and takes a sip. I have no idea how he made that look hot. But it did. And made my core throb. “You can leave if you don't want to.” I keep my eyes locked on his. He stares back in silence like it's a staring contest. It makes me nervous for a second. Then he sighs out loud. “What do I get in return if I agree to this?” He leans forward and folds his arm on the table. I do the same. “What do you want?” I know how this works. It's a business my father has always wanted me to be involved in. Nothing ever comes free. “Everything. Everything you know about him.”OliviaThe black SUV has been parked across from my apartment building for three days.I first noticed it Tuesday morning when I left for work. Same SUV Tuesday night when I came home. Wednesday morning, still there. Wednesday night, same position. Now it's Thursday, and the vehicle hasn't moved except for brief intervals—probably shift changes.Someone is watching me.I tell myself I'm paranoid. That after the mall incident, I'm seeing threats everywhere. I'm making coffee when my phone rings. Dad."Olivia, we need to talk. Can you come to the house?"Something in his voice makes my stomach drop. "Is everything okay?""Just come. Now. And Olivia?" He pauses. "Be careful driving. Check if anyone's following you."He hangs up before I can ask why.I look out my window at the black SUV. Still there. Still watching.I grab my keys and pepper spray—a recent purchase that now lives in my purse—and head downstairs. The SUV's windows are tinted, so I can't see who's inside, but as I walk to
Leo“Argh fuck!”The gunshot misses me by inches. I feel the heat of the bullet pass my ear as I drop and roll behind a shipping container. My arm explodes with pain—a second shooter, different angle. The bullet caught my bicep, tearing through muscle.I clamp my hand over the wound, blood hot and slick between my fingers. Through the chaos of gunfire and shouting, I see Viktor retreating toward the back exit, laying down covering fire.The CIA operators are focused on the containers, on securing the trafficking victims. They're not here for arrests—they're here for extraction. Whoever ordered this op wants the women moved before FBI can claim the case.I use the distraction to crawl toward the service corridor, my wounded arm screaming with every movement. Blood trails behind me on the concrete floor.Behind me, I hear containers being forced open. Women crying out in confusion and terror. Orders being shouted in English with military precision.I make it to the corridor and stagger
Leo I head back to my office, trying to look casual. At my desk, I pull up the security footage Fernandez asked me to review. Hours of camera feeds from all the facilities—the main warehouse, the eastern complex, the secondary warehouse where they're holding the trafficking victims.I'm scanning through footage from three days ago when something catches my eye. A figure in the parking lot of the eastern warehouse, late at night, standing in the shadows. The camera angle is wrong to get a clear view of their face, but they're definitely watching the building.Surveillance. Someone casing the facility.I screenshot the image and keep scrolling. There—same figure, different angle. Still no clear facial recognition, but the body language is distinctly professional. Military bearing. Careful positioning to avoid direct camera exposure.Either someone is watching our operations, or Fernandez has rivals doing reconnaissance.I'm about to flag it for Fernandez when I notice something that ma
LeoI'm reviewing shipping manifests when Malcolm bursts into my office without knocking. His face is pale, his usual composure completely shattered."Turn on the news. Now."I grab the remote and flip to CNN. The headline scrolls across the bottom of the screen: INTERNATIONAL SHIPPING MAGNATE FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT ASSASSINATION.The reporter stands outside a luxury hotel in Manhattan. "...Alexei Petrov, Russian businessman and owner of Petrov Shipping International, was found dead in his hotel suite early this morning. Sources say he was shot execution-style. Police are investigating possible connections to organized crime...""Fuck." Malcolm runs both hands through his hair. "This is bad. This is really bad.""Who's Petrov?" I ask, though I already know from my case files. Alexei Petrov runs one of the largest shipping operations in Eastern Europe—a direct competitor to Fernandez's trafficking network."One of Fernandez's biggest rivals. They've been at war for years over territory
LeoThe recording is still playing in my headphones. Fernandez is talking about "clearing liabilities" again—those sick girls who aren't profitable enough to justify keeping alive.I think about Olivia, asleep in her apartment, dreaming about venues and dresses. She has no idea her father is a monster. I should tell her. Should warn her what's coming. But I can't. Because she might warn Fernandez. He is still her father. And as much as I hate this, my first duty is to the mission, not to protecting Olivia's feelings.My phone buzzes again. A text from Malcolm: Boss wants you at the secondary warehouse at 8 AM. We're doing inventory.Inventory. Of human beings held in a locked room.This might be my chance.I shower and dress in jeans and a work shirt, then check my equipment. The camera in my watch is charged. I have a backup recording device in my belt buckle. My phone has encrypted storage for any photos or videos I can capture.At 7:45, I'm pulling into the secondary warehouse par
LeoI'm in my apartment at 2 AM, headphones on, listening to the third hour of recordings from the bug I planted in Fernandez's office. Most of it is mundane—phone calls about legitimate shipments, meetings about quarterly projections, conversations that would bore any jury to tears.Then I hear it.Fernandez's voice, slightly muffled but clear enough: "Viktor, we have a problem with the Romanian acquisition. Three of the girls are sick. We can't move them in current condition."My fingers freeze over the keyboard where I've been transcribing.Girls.Viktor's response crackles through my headphones—his thick accent making some words hard to catch. "How sick? Can they be treated or do we need disposal?""I'm not wasting medical resources on damaged goods. We'll clear the liabilities before the main shipment moves." Fernandez sounds annoyed, like he's discussing faulty merchandise. "The healthy ones bring premium prices. The sick ones just create risk."Clear the liabilities. Disposal.







