Page 19 of Sexted By a Stranger
Chapter 7
Luca
"Boss, Ragnar's back."
Lennox's voice interrupted my thoughts about Sheila. Her unique spirit and backbone were worth more than any jewel. I'd planned to invite her to dinner tonight, but it seemed that would have to wait.
"Send him in."
Ragnar pushed through the door, his face serious as always.
"Job's done, Boss." His report was clipped. "Wiped out Marchese's footholds. All of 'em."
"Clean." I exhaled a plume of smoke. "Their product?"
"Absorbed." Ragnar's voice went cold as a blade. "Their Bronx dope operation's crippled."
A slow nod. When punks overreach, brute force is the only grammar they understand.
"Boss." Lennox entered at that moment, expression grave. "There's another situation."
I didn't even lift my eyes. "Speak."
Lennox stepped forward, sliding a tablet silently before me. The screen lit up, displaying not financial reports but shockingcrime scene photos—twisted shipping containers, large patches of dark brown stains not yet fully dried on the ground, a work boot covered in mud and dark red coagulated matter in the corner, a stiff ankle visible at the boot's opening.
"Brooklyn Pier Three." Lennox's voice was ice-cold. "Our people—eight elites, forty-seven soldiers, all gone. The shipment... hijacked." He paused. "It was 'Polaris.'"
Crack.
The pen tip punctured the tough cardstock beneath without warning, driving deep into the expensive mahogany desktop, leaving an ugly ink stain. Polaris. The shipment just arrived by sea, worth nearly ten million dollars, and more importantly, the lifeline for opening new East Coast channels—new weapons technology.
Cold, violent killing intent shot straight to my head. I slowly leaned back in my chair, gaze moving from the tablet screen to Lennox's tense face.
"Who did this?" My voice was unnaturally calm, calm like the dead sea before a storm.
"The Frat. From the methods, it's Connor's pack of mad dogs." Lennox spoke rapidly. "They used heavy firepower, caught us completely off guard. Time, location, route—so precise it's like someone fed them the intel on a silver platter." He added meaningfully, "As for the shipment, word is it's already been dispersed out of New York. We're still tracking specific destinations."
"Also, Boss." Lennox's face darkened. "These past few days, our movements have been predicted. Yesterday's dock attack—they knew our transport time and route precisely. The day you went to rescue her, Connor's men had other arrangements, but we drove them off."
Connor, that mangy dog, dared to move against me. We had a rat.
"Boss," Lennox hesitated. "I have a suspicion."
"About Sheila Stella." His voice was quiet but crystal clear in the silent room. "Connor's interest in her is unusually intense, and..."
"And what?" My tone carried a warning.
"Since you've been in contact with her, our operations have been leaked. Her timing was too convenient. In a place like that club, she just happened to catch your attention. Now, right after she gets close to you, our operations keep getting hit. Could her brother's illness be a ploy? Could her approaching you be..."
Ragnar nodded too. "Boss, Connor's men are still asking about her these past few days. If she's just an ordinary waitress—"
"You're saying she's Connor's plant?" My voice was cold as ice.
"I can't be certain, but the timing is too coincidental. And," Lennox said seriously, "you're paying her too much attention."
I looked at them quietly. Logic told me their suspicions made sense.
But Sheila—those amber eyes filled with stubbornness, fragility, and the pure passion that bloomed beneath me last night... She was a plant? Connor's chess piece? A femme fatale using her brother's terminal illness as cover?
