Kaelen POV
I hang up the phone and place it back on the desk. The conversation was short, unimportant. My mind is already elsewhere.
I turn to look at the garden.
The afternoon light is golden, soft, falling through the glass doors of my study.
And there, on the grass, the nanny sits with Alex in her lap.
She holds him on her chest, his head resting against her shoulder.
His eyes are closed. His small hand grips the fur of his stuffed wolf.
He is sleeping. In her arms. My son, who flinches when I raise my voice, who hides behind doorways when strangers come, sleeps peacefully on the chest of a woman he met two days ago.
My jaw tightens.
I watch her. Naomi. She rocks gently, back and forth, humming something I cannot hear.
Her dark curls fall around her face. Her honey-colored eyes are closed.
Then she shifts, adjusting Alex's weight. As she slowly gets up, her shirt rides up just a little. Just enough.
My eyes catch something peeking out above the waistband of her jeans. Dark ink. A tattoo.
I lean forward, pressing my palm against the cool glass of the window.
The tattoo is small, delicate—a crescent moon, maybe, or a cluster of stars. I cannot see it clearly from here.
But the fact that she has one at all surprises me.
Naomi Abbot. Quiet. Broke. Fired from three jobs. And she has a tattoo hidden on her waist.
Interesting.
She carries Alex inside, cradling him gently, her movements slow and careful so she does not wake him.
I watch her until she disappears through the back door.
I turn away from the window and pick up my phone. I scroll through my contacts and press call.
Carlo answers on the first ring. "Boss."
"Carlo. What's the update?"
There is a pause. Papers shuffle in the background. Carlo's voice is tight when he speaks. "Boss, one of the shipments has arrived, but it seems the order was held at the Russian border.
Customs. They sat on it for three days before releasing it."
"Fuck." The word comes out low, sharp.
These bloody Russians are testing my patience. First, they destroy my gun shipment last month.
Now they delay my new order. This is not coincidence. This is a message.
"But the goods are complete and in good condition, boss," Carlo adds quickly. "We checked everything. Nothing missing."
I exhale through my nose. "And the shotguns?"
"Just like you wanted, boss. Twelve of them. Brand new. Still in the crates."
"Good." I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension settle in my neck. "I will be at the warehouse soon.
Do not open anything else until I get there."
"Yes, boss."
I hang up and grab my jacket from the back of my chair.
Henderson is already waiting by the door. He must have heard my voice.
He always knows when something is wrong.
"We have a problem," I say, walking past him.
"We always have a problem," he replies. His voice is dry, almost amused.
I do not smile. "This one involves the Russians."
His amusement vanishes.
---
The warehouse is on the outskirts of D.C., hidden behind a row of abandoned factories.
The air smells like rust and diesel. My shoes crunch on broken asphalt as I walk toward the loading dock.
Carlo meets me at the gate. He is a broad man, bald, with a scar running from his ear to his jaw.
He has worked for me for ten years. He does not scare easily. But today, his face is pale.
"This way, boss." He leads me inside.
The warehouse is vast, dimly lit, filled with wooden crates stacked to the ceiling.
The air is cold. My breath fogs in front of me.
Carlo stops in front of a row of long, narrow crates.
He pries one open with a crowbar, and the wood groans in protest.
Inside, nestled in foam padding, lie twelve shotguns. Black steel. Polished wood. Beautiful and deadly.
I reach in and pick one up. The weight is familiar, comfortable.
I turn it over in my hands, checking the barrel, the stock, the trigger guard.
Then I see it.
Engraved on the side of the barrel, small but clear, are words. Russian words.
I freeze.
My eyes trace the letters. I do not speak Russian fluently, but I know enough. I know what this says.
"I'm watching you."
My blood turns to ice.
I set the shotgun down slowly and pick up another. Same words. Another. Same words.
I check every gun in the crate. Every single one bears the same message.
Not a defect. Not a mistake.
A warning.
I look at Carlo. His face is gray. "We didn't see that until now, boss.
They were packed at the bottom of the crate. Hidden under the foam."
I do not answer. My mind is racing. The Russians are not just testing me. They are threatening me.
They are in my supply chain. They touched my guns.
They could have put anything in those crates. A bomb. Poison. Anything.
They chose words instead. Words that say: We can reach you anywhere.
"Where is Henderson?" I ask.
Carlo glances around. "He said he needed to check on our other warehouse. The one on Chesapeake."
I pull out my phone and dial Henderson. It rings once. Twice. He picks up on the second ring.
"Henderson. Where are you?" My voice is sharp. I do not have time for games.
"Boss." His voice is strained. Breathing hard. "The warehouse on Chesapeake—it's gone. Destroyed. Our men stationed there... they've been killed."
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. I grip the phone so hard the plastic creaks.
"How many?"
"Six. All of them. Shot execution style. The building is burned to the ground."
I close my eyes. Six men. Six families who will never see their fathers again.
"Find out who is behind this," I say. My voice is quiet. Deadly. "I do not care how long it takes.
I do not care what it costs. Find them, and bring them to me."
"Yes, boss."
I hang up and stand in the cold warehouse, surrounded by crates of guns that carry Russian warnings and the bodies of my men burning in another part of the city.
Something is coming. A storm I did not see.
And for the first time in years, I am not sure I am ready.
---
I arrive home long after dark.
The mansion is quiet. The staff has retired to their quarters.
The lights are low. I walk through the halls without seeing anyone, my footsteps muffled by the Persian rugs.
I need a drink.
I stride directly into my office, pour three fingers of whiskey into a crystal glass, and down it in one swallow.
The burn is good. Familiar. It reminds me I am still alive.
I pour another.
I need to retire for the night. Sleep. Forget the Russians, the warnings, the six dead men. But my body is restless, my mind too loud.
I leave my office and walk toward the staircase.
The hallway is dark, lit only by the pale glow of the moon through the windows.
Then I see it.
A door. Half open.
It is the door to Alex's room.
My heart stutters. I stop. I look into the room, and I am stunned at what I see.