Page 45 of Sexted By a Stranger
"Repeated intel from comms," Lennox added beside me, tracing audio waveforms on the screen, "explicitly targeted you, along with our casino and the core harbor zone."
I leaned back into the chair, my voice soft but lethal. "This wasn't an assault. It was a probe."
Both men stiffened instantly.
"Look at their positions and movement patterns." My finger swept across the display. "Peripheral thugs. Hired guns. Connor's real core—those Irish mad dogs—would never use such sloppy tactics. He's spilling this gutter trash's blood to test our reaction speed, and..." I paused as a sharp pain shot through myshoulder, making me suck in a breath, "...whether I've staked everything on New York."
Ragnar's voice dropped lower, skimming the floor. "Our mole just confirmed Connor's scooping up the Marcheses' remnants." He pulled up another intel map. "And he's connected with 'Direwolf Bratva' through old snakehead Abramov."
Lennox's Adam's apple bobbed. "Those Eastern European rabid dogs?"
Ragnar nodded, laser flicking to a rapidly pulsing yellow marker. "They're mobilizing at an alarming speed. Connor's plan is clear—use the Marcheses' stragglers as cannon fodder to pin down our firepower, have Malkovich's men tear through our flank, then unleash Direwolf Bratva as the dagger to gut Manhattan's harbor and underground casinos. The casinos we can rebuild. But the harbor..."
"...would leave us stranded fish," I finished coldly.
The Marcheses. That second-rate family I'd crushed to dust. To think Connor would scrape up such pathetic scraps. A humorless laugh escaped me. "He's more desperate than I thought. Scavenging strays? That last lesson must've truly broken him."
"At this pace, they'll likely move within the month," Lennox said, thickening the air like poured lead. "Connor's counterstrike is at our throats."
One month.
With my injuries, a full recovery would be tight, but enough to wage war. More crucially, Connor had timed this perfectly—striking when I was wounded. That probe's results had clearly pleased him.
"Initiate 'Iron Curtain Protocol' on the estate—now!" My command cracked like a whip. "Triple all posts with Family elites; fortify every entry point with blast walls and heavy weapons; snipers in rotating shifts, locking down every vantageand blind spot 24/7. I want even a sparrow trying to enter to leave feathers behind."
"On it, Boss!"
"Ragnar—pull the toughest enforcers from the West Sector. Order all assets to burn anything exposing Connor's new command post, mercenary nests, and firepower layout."
"Lennox." I turned to him. "Coordinate all district captains immediately. Tighten perimeter defenses at every outpost to Threat Level Alpha. Vet every fringe associate—especially near the harbor and casinos. Not a single spy gets embedded!"
"Also—Sheila's zones get rotating patrols. Nothing enters this estate without passing extreme vetting. I want even a suspicious fly near her."
The memory of her trembling in my arms flashed before me, twisting my heart like a rag. She didn't belong in this storm of bloodshed, yet Connor had already made her the crosshair aimed between my eyes.
"Understood!" Both answered, spines steel-straight..
Extremely light knocking came from outside the study door, accompanied by Sheila's careful voice. "Luca? Are you still busy? It's time to change your bandages…"
The secret meeting came to an abrupt halt.
Lennox reacted lightning-fast, striding to the door and opening it just a crack.
Sheila stood in the dim light outside, holding a medical tray in her hands.
Her face was somewhat pale, with faint shadows under her eyes. Her gaze was filled with anxiety, looking past Lennox's shoulder and landing directly on me behind the desk. When she saw the dark red bloodstains seeping through the bandages on my shoulder, her pupils contracted sharply, and she pressed her lips together tightly.
Lennox instinctively tried to block her view, reaching for the tray while lowering his voice. "Miss Stella, just give it to me. The Boss is…"
"Let her in."
Lennox's movement froze, and he stepped aside to clear the path.
Sheila practically squeezed through, her steps urgent. The lingering gunpowder and blood scent in the study made her delicate eyebrows furrow deeply. She hurried to my side, setting the medical tray on the edge of the desk.
"You look terrible, and your wound is bleeding again. The doctor said you need to rest." Her voice carried undisguised anxiety and almost accusatory concern.
Looking at the worry thick enough to drown in her eyes and her reddened eye sockets, I could almost imagine how she'd forced herself to stay by my side last night, and how she'd turned away to secretly wipe her tears. For a moment, tenderness and heartache overwhelmed me, driving away the gloom and violence that had been occupying my mind.
