Page 64 of Bratva Baby

“It’s better than not bad.”

He laughs softly. “It is.”

I turn toward him fully. “And we need proof that can survive his story.”

Anton’s face settles into that look he gets when he’s already deciding who is about to have a terrible week. “I can get men on the relay. Quietly.”

“I know.”

“I can get eyes on the next cold-chain movement.”

“I know that too.”

His hand lifts and catches a loose strand of my hair, then tucks it back behind my ear in a gesture so casual and intimate, I almost lose the thread completely.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs.

I force myself to stay with the point. “Because you’re good at this.”

His eyes drop to my mouth. “You say nice things very carefully.”

“I’m trying not to encourage you.”

“That ship sank in Prague.”

I close my eyes for half a second. Dangerous man. Vile timing. Good hands. Worse mouth. No respect for the way my body turns toward him before the rest of me agrees.

When I open my eyes again, he’s still watching me, and the heat between us is suddenly right there again, alive and impossible to ignore. I put the pen down before I do something reckless with it.

“We also need one more thing,” I say.

“What?”

“A way to force Maks to move too fast.”

His expression shifts back to business. “Go on.”

“He’s setting the story already. That means he thinks he has enough control to shape things before facts land. If somebody starts leaning on the wrong side of his structure, not hard enough to blow it open, just hard enough to make him nervous, he’ll start tightening faster. Men make mistakes when they speed up.”

Anton’s mouth curves. “You say that like you’ve watched it happen before.”

“I grew up in freight. I’ve watched men ruin themselves over smaller things than pride and hidden money.”

He takes the pad and looks at the page in silence for a second. “So. Next steps.”

I nod. “You hit the relay. I go through every name I still remember from my father’s side and separate the men who could be turned from the men who’d die before speaking. We build the map from both ends.”

“You’re not leaving the penthouse.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s what I’m saying.”

I glare at him. “You really can’t help yourself.”

“Not with you, no.”

I should shove him. Instead, I say, “Then I want full access to the library files, the news feeds, the freight summaries, and anything your men are saying about Baltic movement.”