Chapter 1

Lana

”I swear, if this guy screws us over, I”m personally shoving him into his own shipment,” I mutter, rolling the window down just a crack to flick my gum out. The LA skyline looms like a beast in the night, all lit up and ready to swallow souls whole. My Ray-Bans are pointless at this hour, but they”re like armor. You don”t go into battle without your armor.

Grigori”s beside me, a mountain of a man with fists that have told more stories than my entire collection of scars. Roman”s outside, directing the circus of our guys as they load boxes that aren”t exactly filled with your grandma”s secret cookie recipe. The night”s thick with tension, and even the air feels like it”s up to no good.

We pull up to the docks, a place that smells like salt, sin, and a little bit of desperation. Perfect for a Tuesday night deal. The smuggler”s waiting, a smug smile plastered on his face like he”s just won the lottery. He”s got that look, the one that says he thinks he”s the smartest guy in the room. Spoiler alert: he”s not.

He strides over, hand outstretched as if we”re at some fancy gala instead of a dirty dock. Grigori steps in front of me, a living, breathing ”no trespassing” sign. The smuggler”s hand hangs in the air, and I can”t help but smirk.

”Let”s skip the pleasantries,” I say, stepping around Grigori. ”You”ve got something for me?”

He nods, motioning toward a nondescript container. It”s all very cloak and dagger, or in our case, coke and swagger. We walk over, and he starts rattling off assurances about quality and discretion. I tune him out, my eyes scanning the area. Trust is a luxury in this business, and I”m more of a budget shopper.

”Is it all there?” I ask. This is not just a friendly question.

One of my crew, a guy we all call Twitch because of his nervous tic, steps forward with a clipboard. He”s meticulous, a trait that”s saved our asses more than once. He starts counting, ticking off numbers under his breath, moving from crate to crate with a practiced eye.

The smuggler watches Twitch, trying to mask his nervousness with a grin that looks more like a grimace. ”Everything”s accounted for, I assure you.”

But when Twitch finishes, he walks over with a shake of his head. ”We”re short,” he mutters, just loud enough for the smuggler to hear.

”Seems you”re trying to shortchange us,” I say, my voice calm but cold. The smuggler”s eyes flicker with panic, then defiance.

”I... There must be some mistake,” he stammers, but the confidence has drained from his voice.

”No mistake,” I snap back, stepping closer. ”And since you”re not delivering as promised, we”re adjusting the payment.”

The smuggler”s face falls, the reality of his situation becoming painfully clear. ”But I—”

”No buts. You”re lucky we”re paying at all.”

I signal to one of my men, who steps forward with the briefcase. I open it, pulling out a stack of bills and then, with deliberate slowness, remove a few more, making sure the smuggler sees every move. The message is clear: we”re in control here.

The briefcase clicks shut, the sound echoing in the sudden silence.

That”s when he loses it, spitting at my feet, a desperate act from a desperate man. ”You think you”re so smart, with your politicians in your back pocket. I could cut you out, make you go back to whoring where you belong!”

The moment his spit hits the ground, Grigori”s gun is out, smooth as silk but cold as ice. He steps in front of me, a silent giant telling everyone without a word that this is where they stop. No one”s gonna mess with his charge—not on his watch.

I lock eyes with the smuggler, my heart pounding but my voice steady. ”You”ve got exactly one chance to apologize.” My face is inches from his, close enough to feel his ragged breaths. ”Get down and lick my boots, like the dog you are.”

He sneers, a nasty sound that scrapes my nerves raw. ”Bitch, you think you can—”

His words cut off with a gurgle as my knife finds a home in his gut. I”m already moving, sidestepping his pathetic attempt to hit me, my foot connecting with his knee, sending him crashing to the ground.

Grigori”s gun hasn”t wavered, but his focus shifts just a fraction to the fallen smuggler, a clear message that he”s next if he tries anything. The smuggler”s men are still as statues, no one daring to break the silence that”s fallen like a guillotine.

The moment stretches, a beat before hell breaks loose. Roman”s hand lifts, a silent conductor of a deadly orchestra. Every gun in my crew snaps up, aimed at the smuggler and his men. The message couldn”t be clearer if it was written in neon above our heads.

”Roll over, or they”re all dead,” I say, my voice flat, the words slicing through the tension. ”And you? You”ll wish you were, by the time I”m done with you.”

He hesitates, a flicker of defiance in his eyes that dies as fast as it appeared. He knows he”s outmatched, outnumbered. With a grunt, he rolls onto his stomach, the fight draining out of him.

I pull my gun, the weight of it in my hand a familiar comfort. Standing over him, I can”t help but feel the gravity of the moment. This is the part of the game they don”t tell you about—the weight, the finality.

He”s muttering something under his breath, probably curses or prayers. Doesn”t matter. My finger tightens on the trigger. The shot cracks the night open, a final punctuation mark in a sentence we started the moment we stepped onto these docks.

The air rushes out, heavy with the scent of gunpowder and finality. My crew lowers their weapons at another gesture from Roman, the tension bleeding away, replaced by a grim sort of satisfaction.

As we turn to leave, I can”t help but glance back. The smuggler”s body lies still. It”s not pretty, it”s not heroic—it”s survival, plain and simple.

Grigori”s voice cuts through the silence, heavy with something like concern, or maybe just curiosity. ”Was that really necessary?”

I glance at him, can”t help but let a half-smirk dance on my lips. ”You”re the one who has his gun aimed at every fucker”s head at the first sign of trouble.”

He grunts, the sound saying more than words ever could. Grigori”s always been more about action than conversation, anyway.

I bend down, using the dead man”s jacket to wipe the spit off my boot.

Roman”s already scanning the area, always two steps ahead in planning our exit strategy. ”We need to get going. Now.”

He”s right. Lingering is a luxury we can”t afford, not with the cargo we”ve got and the message we”ve just sent.

Twitch is beside me now, his usual tic gone, replaced by a focused glance as he keeps track of our cargo being loaded into the back of a nondescript van. Efficiency is his language, and tonight it sings in harmony with urgency.

I turn to the rest of our crew, catching their eyes one by one. It”s a motley crew, loyal to the bone, but loyalty is a currency that needs constant reinforcement in our world.

”If the police hear a single word about this,” I start, my voice low but carrying an edge sharper than the knife I just used, ”I know where you and your families live.”

It”s not a threat; just a fact. In our line of work, insurance policies come in all forms, and mine just happens to involve knowing exactly where the line is drawn.

Silence blankets the group, a thick, heavy thing that you could cut with a blade. It”s not fear; no, it”s respect. Understanding. We”re all in this together, bound by secrets, sins, and the unspoken agreement that survival trumps all.

The men nod, a silent vow of silence and solidarity. They get back to work, finishing packing up with a renewed sense of urgency. There”s an efficiency to their movements, a well-oiled machine powered by necessity.

As the last crate is secured, I nod to Roman, who doesn”t waste a beat before sliding into the driver”s seat. The engine rumbles to life with a purr that speaks of something feral beneath its hood. I toss one final look over my shoulder at Grigori, who”s standing like an ancient guardian statue by the now empty space where the deal had gone down.

Then it hits me—a wave of nausea so sudden and overwhelming, I barely have time to turn away before I”m throwing up, my body convulsing with each heave. ”Fuck,” I gasp between spasms, ”could this be that pregnancy symptom bullshit again?” The last thing I need is for my men to think I”m weak, that I threw up because of the violence we just dealt in. No, Lana doesn”t get queasy over bloodshed; Lana handles her business without flinching.

The sound of footsteps rushing towards me cuts through the haze of my discomfort, and then Roman”s there, his voice laced with concern. ”Are you alright?”

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, straightening up as I fight to regain my composure. ”Yeah, I”m fine,” I lie, pushing away the concern in his eyes with a forced smirk. ”Just swallowed wrong. You know how it is.”

Roman doesn”t look convinced, his brows furrowing as he studies me, but he doesn”t push it. ”If you say so,” he says, but there”s a note in his voice that tells me he”s not buying it.

I need to get a grip, to control these damn symptoms before they give me away. I can”t afford to show any weakness, not when I”m leading a syndicate in a world where vulnerabilities can be fatal. ”Let”s get moving,” I command.

Roman, Grigori, and I head to our separate cars, leaders each in our own right, steering this ship through stormy seas. The city unfolds before us, lights blurring past as we drive through the veins of Los Angeles, each taking a different route, a precaution against anyone foolish enough to follow. The night”s events replay in my mind, a reminder of the delicate balance we maintain. Power, fear, respect—it”s a dance, and I”m leading the charge.

The road stretches out, endless and full of possibilities. Tonight, we”ve sent a message, loud and clear. And as the city sleeps, we drive on, guardians of our own destiny, masters of the night.