A ruthless mob boss tried to insult me in Russian at his restaurant table, completely unaware I understood every word.

On the thirty-fifth floor of a high-rise building overlooking the Chicago River, Alexi Vulov stood in front of a floor-to-ceiling glass wall. The storm had washed the city clean, leaving the skyline razor-sharp against the dawn light.

Kirill walked into the spacious office, placing a thick manila folder on the polished obsidian desk.

"Everything?" Alexi asked without turning around.

"Everything that exists on paper," Kirill replied, his voice heavy with skepticism. "Mara Ellison. Twenty-six years old. Born in Washington D.C., raised in Chicago. Her father was Richard Ellison, mid-level State Department officer attached to the U.S. Consulate in Saint Petersburg. He died in a car crash in Russia ten years ago."

Alexi turned slowly, picking up the folder. "A diplomat's daughter."

"Mother died eighteen months ago from pancreatic cancer. Left behind nearly two hundred thousand dollars in medical debt to private collection agencies," Kirill continued, pacing the room. "Her brother is on a partial academic scholarship at Northwestern. She pays the rest of his tuition out of pocket. She works sixty hours a week between Ardane and a small translation service online."

Alexi opened the file. A photograph of Mara snapped two years ago during her mother’s funeral sat at the top. Her gray eyes stared directly into the camera—unblinking, fierce, and entirely devoid of self-pity.

"She has no record," Kirill added. "No criminal ties. No connection to Saranov or any local crews. She’s clean, boss. Too clean."

"A clean person with an appetite for pride," Alexi murmured, tracing the edge of her photograph with his thumb. "She took my money because she needs it, but she insulted you because she respects herself. That makes her reliable."

"It makes her unpredictable," Kirill countered sharply. "She threw your card in the trash, Alexi. In front of the manager. She doesn't fear you."

"Fear makes people stupid," Alexi said quietly, closing the folder. "I don't need her to fear me, Kirill. I need her to listen."

He walked over to his desk and sat down, looking out at the waking city. "What about Saranov’s arrival?"

"His private jet lands at Midway on Monday at five. He's bringing six men. Word on the street is he brought Nikolai."

Alexi’s expression hardened, his dark eyes darkening further. Nikolai was Saranov’s personal enforcer—a man known in the Moscow underworld as The Butcher of Izmailovo. If Saranov brought Nikolai to a neutral sit-down, he wasn't planning on negotiating. He was planning on executing a takeover.

"Increase security around Ardane for Monday night," Alexi ordered calmly. "And Kirill?"