37. Chapter 37

thirty-seven

Leonid

I rev the Ducati’s engine, the familiar purr vibrating through my body.

“Status,” I bark into the earpiece.

Maksim’s voice crackles back. “She’s eastbound on 7th, boss. Riding your bike like she stole it. Which , you know, she did .”

I grit my teeth. “Because we fucking let her,” I correct. “If we didn’t, she’d never have gotten out of that room.”

“Gotta hand it to her, though,” Dmitry chimes in, “girl’s got skills. Just took a corner that would make a MotoGP rider shit himself.”

“Less admiration, more pursuit,” I growl.

I weave through traffic, keeping a careful distance from my own bike ahead. The woman—our mystery thief—rides it like she was born to it.

“Still got eyes on her?” I growl into the earpiece.

Maksim’s voice crackles back. “Affirmative, boss. She’s slipped through, but we’re still on her trail.”

I grunt in acknowledgment. We’ve been tailing her for the better part of an hour, letting her think she’s lost us. Amateur move, really. You don’t steal from Leonid Kuznetsov and just ride off into the sunset.

“Any ID on our myshka yet?” I ask, using the Russian word for “little mouse.” Feels fitting, watching her scurry through the city streets.

“Negative,” Dmitry says, his voice steady. “But she’s ditching the bike. Looks like we have all eyes on her now.”

I park across the street, killing the engine. The woman—still nameless, still a mystery—climbs off my Ducati, her movements stiff after the long ride. She glances around, paranoia evident even from this distance. Satisfied she hasn’t been followed, she heads for the building’s entrance.

I ease off the throttle, hanging back as we enter a residential area. Rows of aging apartment buildings loom on either side, their faded brick telling stories of better days.

“She’s walking into the apartment on your left,” Maksim reports. “Eden Apartments.”

I see her from across the street, her fucking gold dress so short it might as well be a shirt, her bare feet slapping against the pavement. She looks relieved but scared—wild, like she doesn’t give a shit. And damn, if it doesn’t make me hard, watching her like this.

“I want everything on this place,” I order. “Tenant lists, security footage, the fucking custodian’s shoe size. You get me?”

“On it, boss,” Dmitry responds.

I watch as she disappears inside, a strange mix of emotions churning in my gut. Anger at the theft, sure. But also… curiosity. Admiration, even. It’s been a long time since anyone’s had the balls to cross me like this.

“You gonna go in after her?” Maksim asks.

I consider it for a moment. But no. This game’s just getting interesting. Why rush the endgame?

“ Nyet ,” I reply. “We wait. Watch. Let our little mouse get comfortable in her hole.”

I light a cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke into the evening air. “She thinks she’s won. Let her enjoy it while she can.”

I flick the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, grinding it under my heel. A few doors down, the neon sign of “Le Petit Café” flickers, its attempt at Parisian charm an unexpected find in this quiet residential area.

“Might as well get comfortable,” I mutter.

I stride toward the café, pushing open the door. A bell chimes, too cheerful for my mood. The handful of patrons inside pause, their eyes darting to me before quickly finding their cups fascinating.

Smart.

I settle into a window seat with a clear view of Eden Apartments across the street. The waitress approaches, her steps hesitant.

“ Chay ,” I order, not bothering to look at her. “Black.”

She scurries off. I pull out my phone, pretending to be engrossed while keeping an eye on the apartment building.

The tea arrives, steaming and better than expected. I sip, my eyes sweeping the street for any hints of trouble. Well-dressed professionals hustle by, heads buried in their phones. It’s a nice neighborhood—far from what you’d expect an assassin to call home. The Eden building looms, a concrete eyesore nestled among surprisingly lush greenery.

The bell chimes. Maksim strolls in, iPad tucked under his arm. He slides into the booth across from me, eyebrow raised at my barely touched tea.

“What, too good for Le Petit Café ?” he asks, smirking.

I roll my eyes at Maksim’s quip. “Just give me the intel, mudak .”

Ignoring me, Maksim reaches for my cup. He lifts it to his nose, inhaling deeply like some pretentious wine taster.

“Ah, the aroma of overpriced leaf water,” he says with a dramatic sigh.

Before I can stop him, he takes a massive gulp. His eyes go wide, and he starts coughing and sputtering.

“ Blyat !” he chokes out. “It’s fucking hot!”

I can’t help but smirk. “No shit, genius. It’s tea, not vodka.”

Maksim fans his tongue, his eyes watering. “Fuck, I think I burned off my taste buds.”

“Good,” I grunt. “Maybe now you’ll shut up and give me the damn intel.”

Still grimacing, Maksim picks up the iPad. “You’re no fun, boss. No sense of culinary adventure.”

I lean forward, my patience wearing thin. “The only adventure I’m interested in is finding our little red mouse. Now, what’ve you got?”

Maksim’s fingers dance across the iPad, his smirk growing wider. “Patience, boss. Good things come to those who wait.”

“And broken noses come to those who don’t fucking hurry up,” I growl, my knuckles white around the mug.

He chuckles, turning the iPad toward me. “Easy there, tiger. Look at this.”

I lean in, scanning the screen. Tenant lists, security footage, utility bills—it’s all there. My eyes narrow as I spot a name that doesn’t fit.

“Clara Caldwell,” I mutter, the name tasting strange on my tongue.

Maksim nods, his expression turning serious. “Ring any bells?”

“Should it?”

He swipes to a new page, revealing a family tree. My breath catches as I spot a familiar name near the top.

“Maxwell Caldwell?” I breathe out.

“Bingo,” Maksim says, tapping the screen. “Our little red riding hood? She’s a Caldwell.”

My mind races, pieces clicking into place. The Caldwell family—once a powerhouse, now barely keeping their heads above water. I’d written them off years ago.

“What’s the connection?” I demand, leaning closer.

Maksim shrugs. “That’s the million-dollar question, boss. Far as we can tell, the Caldwells are circling the drain. Maxwell’s been MIA for months. Rumor has it, they’re on the verge of bankruptcy.”

I lean back, my tea forgotten. “So why the fuck is his daughter gunning for me?”

“Maybe Daddy Dearest owes you money?” Maksim suggests, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

I snort. “If he did, I’d remember.” My fingers drum against the table, mind whirling. “No, this is something else. Something personal.”

Maksim nods, closing the iPad. “So, what now, boss? We going in guns blazing or what?”

I stare out the window, watching the Eden Apartments. Somewhere in there, Clara Caldwell is probably thinking she’s won. Thinking she’s outsmarted the infamous Leonid Kuznetsov.

A slow, predatory grin spreads across my face.

“No,” I say, standing up.

“We’re going to play it smart. Shadow her for the next couple of days.”

“Really?” Maksim’s eyebrows shoot up. “Patience from the big bad wolf? Now that’s a surprise.”

I shoot him a glare. “ Pizda . I want to see if our girl has any more tricks up her sleeve.”

I toss some bills on the table, more than enough for the untouched tea. “For now, let her sweat it out.”

As we head for the door, Maksim falls into step beside me. “You know,” he says, his voice low, “this is usually the part where you say something badass, and we ride off into the sunset.”

I pause at the door, hand on the handle. Turning to Maksim, I fix him with a hard stare.

“This little rat thinks she can come into our turf and not pay a price? We’ll show her what happens when you fuck with the wrong cats,” I snarl, slipping on my shades. “We’ll give the suka a surprise she won’t soon forget.” We step out of the café.

Clara Caldwell. I’m coming for you.

Maksim grins, a wild glint in his eye. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”