Page 58 of Hunter

“No, Tilly,” Isabella responds. “I just know how to ask the right questions.”

They exchange a look, which tells me that they are potentially more aligned than I could ever imagine. For all of their secrets, I can find some solace in the idea that Tilly has a positive role model in Bella. It doesn’t, however, instill positivity that I will get my desired outcome. Bringing the two together was meant to settle Tilly over the coming days before the New Year’s ball, so she would attend and be on her best behavior. Now, I fear I have constructed an alliance which will ultimately cause me more of a headache than it’s possibly worth.

With the uncertainty surrounding our Russian friends, and the attempt on Tilly’s life that happened in Scotland, it’s more important now than ever that our union with Italy goes ahead—for all our sakes. Another warning arrived today, an email from Rodion, written in code, but there is no doubting the message when you understand like I do. I’ve used similar tactics myself.

Our relationship is frayed, and he will not accept any more failures. There was a further suggestion that my ongoing Italian deal would cause further problems, but Tilly’s marriage is non-negotiable. Rodion couldn’t offer me anywhere near the collateral Lombardi has in return for my niece’s hand.

As the thoughts whirl in my head of all the possible risks and implications of the coming days and weeks, I don’t notice Bella approaching me. She takes my fingers, squeezing softly to get my attention. When I look up, her concerned eyes run over my face.

“Tilly and I are going to get a bottle of wine and get to know one another a little better,” she says. It takes me a moment to compute what she’s saying. “We will be in the den.” Without waiting for my response, she rises on tiptoe and kisses my cheek. “See you later.”

I watch on as the two women wander out of the living room, hand in hand as if they’ve been friends for years. They chatter excitedly between one another, eyes locked as they discover little nuggets of information. Just as they walk out through the door, my niece glances over her shoulder and flashes me a wicked smile.

“Don’t worry, Uncle. We’ll behave…mostly.”

Resigned that I may have created a storm, I head to my office to go over some paperwork and make a few calls. On New Year’s Eve, I will be announcing Tilly’s engagement to the world, and I need to ensure it will go ahead without a hitch.

I throw myself down in my leather chair behind the expansive desk. Office and administration tasks aren’t really my forte. I tend to prefer to leave these jobs to the men in suits who have the patience for such nonsense, but you can only ignore a red alert for so long.

Rodion’s email from earlier sits pinned at the top of my inbox, blinking like a fucking warning light I don’t need. I knew attempting to navigate so many sensitive deals in parallel was dangerous, but I also knew if I didn’t, they wouldn’t get done.

A new email pops into my inbox as I stare at it blankly. I really don’t want to deal with this shit.

The top one is from Harrison. There’s nothing in the body, where you expect screeds of text to normally be. It’s only the title that’s been completed, a simple phrase,I got the fucking email too. It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what correspondence he’s talking about. I reopen Rodion’s message. It’s only midday, and already everything is slipping sideways.

Subject: Misplaced Confidence

Hunter,

It seems your shipping lanes are as unpredictable as the tides. Two ghosts now sail between the continent and our shores, and still no sign of cargo.

Our friends are growing restless. They value reliability and family.

In St. Petersburg, a man recently learned how quickly fortunes can turn when promises are broken. His wife no longer drives, his daughter no longer attends ballet. Both have breathed their last breath.

I trust this will not become a pattern.

Unless you can offer me something more appealing to soften the blow?

R.

There is no denying the open threat of the email coded enough to not spike the interest of bots but honest enough to lay the risk to my family out in the open. Rodion and his family had been extremely offended when I rebuked his offer to marry Tilly. His final line makes no attempt to hide what he’s suggesting.

He wants her, even if he doesn’t say the words out loud. Every missed delivery, every fallen promise, is not just about the money. It’s about her. About reminding me he sees her as his, and that I’m standing in the way.

It crosses my mind for a moment to renege on the Lombardi deal, but all that will do is move my enemies from being Russian to Italian. It won’t strengthen my foothold in London. It will only buy me some time before different shit hits the fan. The simple reality is, shipments are still going missing, either sunken or stolen. The players in the game are all moving into position, and I can never be sure who is truly on my side.

I delete the email. This shit is the last thing I want to be dealing with. The anxiety in my chest is a sensation I’m not used to. It’s the fear that something may happen to someone I love. Rodion alluded to a mother and daughter taken too soon, and it doesn’t surpass me that both my friends and I have wives to protect and potentially young children to nurture. It’s in times like these I regret the perceived luck of my birth. I may have been born into a family of power and wealth, but with it comes danger, which is fine until you have someone to lose.

Wanting to do something proactive, I do the only thing I can when my hands feel bound behind my back. I call Harrison. He answers on one ring, but I don’t give him time to speak. I don’t need a lecture on how he needs to protect his family… I fucking know.

“Waite,” I bark. “Do whatever is necessary to find those fucking cars. Whoever is responsible, bring them to me, I want to put a dagger between each fucking rib.”

I end the call without waiting for a reply, tossing the phone across the desk like it might burn me. My pulse is erratic, chest tight, fury sitting just beneath my skin like a loaded gun.

A soft knock comes at the door. Not urgent. Not hesitant. Measured. Only one person knocks like that.

“Come in,” I call, my voice rougher than I intend.

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