Page 11 of The Enemy Protector
“Use your best judgment, Viktor. You’ve always had good judgment.”
“Understood.”
I hang up and reach for my wine.
Tori stares at me.
“What?” I say.
“You know what.”
“Property management is complicated.”
“Sofia.” She says with a soft laugh. “That tenant is going to have a very bad night.”
“Or he’s going to make a smart business decision and everybody sleeps fine.” I shrug one shoulder. “His choice, really.”
She shakes her head slowly, but there’s no judgment in it. This is the thing about Tori. She knows who I am. She’s known for three years, and she’s still my friend. She doesn’t ask me to be something else. She just occasionally shakes her head.
I turn my phone face down on the table. Viktor will handle it. He’s been handling things like this since before I was old enough to know whathandling itmeant. The tenant will either pay or he won’t, and if he won’t, he’ll learn quickly that the Baranov name means the same thing whether Mikhail is sitting behind that desk or I am.
The people who think I’m soft are going to find out very quickly I’m not.
My father didn't raise me to be helpless. I think about the empire that's coming. I’m not afraid.
I’m hungry.
This is mine.
Let them mistake restraint for weakness. They’ll learn.
4
Sergei
I sip the shitty coffee I ordered to blend in. The café has outdoor seating and a clear sightline to the restaurant across the street where Sofia Baranova has lunch with her friend every Thursday at twelve-thirty.
Today they’re on the patio, taking advantage of the warm weather. She loves early spring. She’ll walk to school, the library, anywhere that buys her a few more minutes in the sun.
I hate when she sits outside. She’s exposed.
I’m in jeans and a navy dress shirt. Sunglasses, designer but not flashy. A book I’m not reading. I look like a man killing time before an appointment, which is exactly the point. An accountant. A lawyer. Some forgettable corporate bastard. Nothing about my clothes should earn a second look. My muscles, on the other hand, I can’t fully hide, and they tend to draw attention.
The street between Sofia and me isn’t too busy. Office foot traffic. Delivery trucks. Taxis and ride-shares rolling through ina steady loop. Sofia is at a table near the low iron railing. Her friend, Tori Johnson—I know because I ran a full background on her—is talking with her hands about something.
Sofia is laughing, hair pulled up in a ponytail. She’s heading to the gym after this. I know because she’s wearing those leggings that show the perfect curve of her ass.
I hate those leggings. They turn every man she walks past into a problem. That’s about the only thing her guards are good for. She gives a tiny signal, a tilt of her head to the left, and her guards step in. Threat over.
She has no idea I'm here. She's never had any idea. I know the sound of her laugh before I've ever heard her say my name. I know which table she prefers, which coffee she orders, which exit she'll take when she leaves. She knows nothing about me. Not really. Not the man sitting across the street watching her laugh. That has never bothered me before.
Today she laughed at something her friend said, and I had to put my coffee down.
My gaze returns to the street.
I watch it the way I watch everything: not one thing at a time, but all of it at once. The pace of the pedestrians. The speed of the vehicles. City life has a rhythm, and the totality of my adult life in this work teaches you real fast when something's off.
That’s why I see the fake bike messenger—I know it’s fake because I know what to look for—about five seconds before he becomes a problem.
