Semua Bab Fame or Revenge? The billionaire heiress choice. : Bab 41 - Bab 50

"Yours is closer."We barely make it inside his apartment before his mouth is on mine again, more urgent now. He kicks the door shut behind us, and we stumble toward his bedroom, shedding clothes along the way. My jacket on the floor. His shirt pulled over his head. My dress unzipped and sliding down.There's a desperation to it—like we're trying to reconnect through touch after weeks of distance. His hands map my skin like he's memorizing it. I pull him closer, closer, needing to erase every inch of space between us. We're both of breath when we break the kiss. He looks like he is trying to fight something internally. "Olivia," he breathes. The sound he makes as my name falls from his lips causes aches in every part of me. “I have missed you….us…making love to you,” he whispers. His voice husky and drenched in lust. I stare at the bulge in his pants. Only a tip gap between us. My fingers trail down his waist to feel his erection. "Fuck," he groans. “I’ve missed this too,” I whisp

"Explain what? How you sold our Rotterdam client list to Petrov's organization? How you've been feeding information about our security procedures to people who want to destroy us?" Fernandez's voice is calm, but there's rage underneath. "No. I don't think I want to hear your explanations."He pulls a gun from his desk drawer. Not the Sig Sauer from before—this is something bigger, heavier. A Desert Eagle .50 caliber."Liam," Fernandez says, turning to me. "I want you to watch this. I want you to understand what happens to people who betray my trust. Because once you're fully in this family, this becomes your responsibility too. Protecting what we've built and eliminating threats."The shipping clerk starts sobbing. "Please, I have kids—""Should have thought about that before you sold us out."Fernandez walks behind the first man—the warehouse worker. "In business, loyalty is everything. When someone breaks that trust, they don't get second chances."He places the gun against the back

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.

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

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