MINE TO OWN
They talked business, as expected: shipment routes through the Baltic, intel on Dutch surveillance, price spikes in crude oil, all masked beneath cordiality and veiled threats.
Zane said nothing.
He was not a player. Not yet.
He was the distraction.
He felt one man’s gaze more than the others.
Alessio Moretti—the hook-nosed delegate.
His eyes lingered too long.
His interest was not subtle.
“So,” Alessio said suddenly, his voice cutting through a pause in conversation. “Zane. You’re American?”
Zane glanced at Andrei, but the man said nothing. That, apparently, was permission.
“I’m many things,” Zane said evenly.
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