Page 52 of Sold to the Bratva
He shuts the door with sharp, controlled movements. Ignoring the couch and chairs, he plants himself in front of my desk withhis hands clasped behind his back, a soldier delivering a report. No pleasantries. Never a good sign.
“The shipment last night was compromised,” he says.
Everything inside me goes still. “That makes two hits in as many weeks.”
“Yes,” he says, his tone grim. “It was the same setup, the same route, the same timing, as if they’ve mapped our routine. The guards were ambushed on the southern perimeter just before the truck made the turn at Pier 18.”
“Were there any casualties this time?” I ask, impatience edging my voice as I brace for the worst.
“No deaths, but one man was wounded. It was too close. We can’t survive many more hits like this.”
Fighting to stay calm, I draw a slow breath through my nose and let it out. “What did they get?”
“Nothing. The backup team responded fast. But the fact that they got that close again…”
“Means someone knew exactly where to be.”
Mikhail nods once.
I lean back and let the silence stretch. My mind sifts through a thousand possibilities, each darker than the last.
“We scrub the location,” I say after a beat. “No more runs through Pier 18. We find new routes, new meet-ups. I don’t care how inconvenient it is. If someone is watching our every move, we need to make sure everything we do stays unpredictable.”
“I’m already working on it,” he replies dutifully.
I pause.
“What about the men? Are there any potential leaks there?”
He tenses slightly. “The team is clean, as far as we can tell. We’ve run background checks on all of them, even pinged their phones to be sure no information is leaking. Nothing stands out so far.”
“Someone is talking, Mikhail. No one hits us twice by accident.”
“I know,” he answers grimly.
I rub the back of my neck, slow-burning frustration crawling up my spine. I’ve worked too hard for some coward to crack the foundation from the inside.
“What about the Grinkovs?” Mikhail asks, breaking through my reverie with the one question I dread.
I arch a brow, aware of how much effort it cost him to make the suggestion.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “If this were before Katya, I would tell you that they’re the top of my suspect list. But now?”
Mikhail shrugs. “Oleg’s been quiet lately. I hear he’s running things very differently from his father.”
“Quiet isn’t always good,” I mutter.
“Exactly.” He nods, a fraction more at ease.
I glance at the doorway where, only hours ago, Katya and I walked in hand in hand, flushed from the doctor’s appointment. Her smile had been radiant, hopeful, and for a moment I let myself imagine what peace might feel like. Now I’m being dragged back into the rot of our world.
“Keep running the background checks,” I tell him. “Start over if you have to. Every man who touched that shipment. Every driver. Every call that went out of the warehouse in the last two weeks.”
“I’ll get on it,” he says, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “You’re thinking we have a rat?”
“I don’t want to,” I mutter. “But what other answer makes sense?”
We don’t voice the other answer that makes sense. I know Katya would never betray me, but that says nothing about her father. Mikhail finally nods and walks out, leaving the door half-open.
