Page 149 of Sexting the Boss

It’s not a question.

I don’t answer.

Roman sighs, pushing off the table and clapping a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve done harder things than this.”

Yeah, but not like this.

He squeezes my shoulder once before stepping away. “Whatever you decide, I’ve got your back. You know that, right?”

I nod slowly, throat tight.

Yeah. I know.

* * *

The smell hits me first.Smoke.

Not cigar smoke, the kind curling off Roman’s lazy mouth during late-night briefings. No—this is acrid, bitter, the kind that clings to your skin and sinks into the lining of your suit jacket.

Oleg and I step out of the SUV before it’s even fully stopped.

The warehouse ahead of us is still smoldering, half the roof collapsed in, steel beams glowing faintly red beneath the char.

Two of our trucks are nothing but twisted, blackened husks. A third is missing entirely.

“Where’s the damn security footage?” I bark.

Maksim—young, jumpy, still trying to prove he belongs—rushes up, wide-eyed and pale under the grime smeared across his cheeks. “Gone, boss. The system’s fried. It was targeted.”

Of course it was.

Oleg lets out a sharp string of curses in Russian, already dialing on his phone to reroute backup to the southern lot.

I walk through the debris, stepping over shattered glass and scorched concrete, the soles of my shoes crunching with every step. This was no warning. No message.

This was precision. This was war.

“Casualties?” I ask without turning.

“One of our drivers didn’t make it out.” Maksim’s voice is quiet now. “Anton. He…he was supposed to finish his shift early. He stayed back to load the last batch.”

My jaw clenches so tight my molars hurt.

“I’ll go scope out the boundary,” Roman says, taking his gun out.

“Stay here with Damien, I’ll go,” Oleg offers.

“No, you stay,” Roman insists. “I’ll track.”

“Go,” I say.

I stop in front of what used to be the freight office. There’s nothing left but bent rebar and the melted remains of a coffee machine. On the charred wall, right above where the safe used to be, is a mark.

A spray of paint.

A symbol.

Three black slashes.

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