Page 40 of Ruin
“I need to go out tonight,” I tell her. “Late.”
She doesn’t look up from the tablet in her lap. “The dock shipment?”
I go still. “How do you know about that?”
“Harris called Vincent this morning while I was reviewing the compliance files in your office. I wasn’t eavesdropping. He put it on speaker.” She scrolls once, calm as ever. “Also, your customs contact is routing manifests through a secondary serverto avoid formal logging. It’s clever. But it creates trace exposure if anyone audits upstream.”
“I haven’t read your report yet.”
“You should. Your operation is solid,” she says evenly. “But solid isn’t the same as insulated. I flagged three pressure points that Zhukov’s people would exploit first.”
That lands differently.
She’s not exposing stupidity. She’s identifying stress under wartime conditions.
“I want to come tonight.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t really a question.”
“And that wasn’t really a negotiation.” I cross to the bar cart and pour two fingers of whiskey, the crystal throwing fractured light across the ceiling. “The docks aren’t a boardroom. If things go wrong and bullets fly, I don’t want you anywhere near that.”
She steps closer and takes the glass from my hand before I can drink. Sips. Holds my gaze.
“I’ve already handled your captains,” she says quietly. “Marco didn’t shut up because I intimidated him. He shut up because I had numbers he couldn’t argue with. Natalia looped me into the gallery operation because I tightened her exposure window by six percent. And this morning I optimized your laundering structure so it survives a forensic audit, not just routine scrutiny.” She sets the glass back down. “I’m not staying home while you manage risk I can reduce.”
There’s a version of me from a year ago who would have told her to kneel and remember her place.
That version mistook control for strength.
This one understands leverage.
"You stay in the car," I say. "You stay with Peter. And if I tell you to leave, you fucking leave."
"Deal."
She kisses me on the jaw and walks back to her files. Like it's settled. Like it was always going to go her way.
It probably was.
The docks smelllike shit at any time of the day, but at night, the scent of fish and diesel blending together is enough to make anyone want to vomit.
Peter pulls the SUV to the loading zone behind Warehouse Nine.
Paul is already here with Lionel and four of our crew.
I can see their shapes moving near the warehouse entrance, backlit by the lights along the pier.
The container ship sits dark against the water, its hull groaning against the dock.
Selene is quiet in the seat beside me.
She's changed into black pants, flat shoes, and a dark jacket. No jewelry except the collar, which catches the dock lights and throws tiny sparks against the interior of the car.
She dressed for this. Practical. Ready.
"Stay here," I tell Peter. Then, to her: "I mean it."
