The Emerald Silhouette

Victor Ivanov recovered his composure faster than any of the men around him, though his hands trembled slightly as he grabbed a linen napkin to mop up the spilled wine. A dark, ugly scar ran from behind his left ear down to his collarbone—a souvenir from a St. Petersburg turf war a decade ago.

"Well, well, Gabriel," Victor rasped, his voice thick with a heavy Russian accent, a predatory grin stretching across his wide face. "You bring a queen to a butcher's shop. For two years, my contacts told me your secretary was a gray mouse who filed papers and smelled like copier toner. This... this is not a mouse. This is a predator."

Gabriel did not sit down immediately. His dark eyes remained fixed on Clara, who walked gracefully to his side, pulling out her own chair and seating herself with the poise of royalty. She did not look like an employee; she looked like a sovereign taking her throne.

"Clara," Gabriel said quietly, keeping his voice low enough that only she could hear as he leaned down. "What is the meaning of this? Who are you?"

"I am your secretary, Mr. Castile," she replied smoothly, her amber eyes locking onto his without a flicker of fear. "You asked me to attend. You did not specify the packaging."

Victor laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed off the high vaulted ceilings of Le Jardin Noir's private salon. "I like her, Castile! I like her a lot. Ivanov Logistics could use someone with such... dramatic flair. How much does he pay you, beauty? Double. Triple. Come work for people who appreciate art."

Gabriel’s jaw tightened. A muscle pulsed in his cheek. He stepped around the table and sat down opposite the Russian, his presence instantly reasserting dominance over the room. His enforcer, Mateo, stood silently in the dark corner by the door, his hand resting casually inside his jacket.

"Keep your eyes on your own glass, Victor," Gabriel said, his tone dropping several degrees into a lethal chill. "We came here to talk about the Baltimore ports, not my staff."

"Ah, Baltimore," Victor leaned back, steeple-fingered, his eyes darting back to Clara with lingering suspicion. "The ports are congested, Gabriel. Shipments are missing. Containers are being opened by someone who knows our encryption codes. Someone with high-level clearance. Someone who understands the syndicates from the inside out."

Victor leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "And looking at your new assistant tonight... it reminds me of a ghost from the Saint Petersburg archives. A ghost the Brighton Syndicate spent five million dollars trying to find five years ago. Agent Victoria Vance. The deep-cover operative who dismantled half our shipping lanes before vanishing into thin air."

The entire room seemed to drop ten degrees in temperature.

Mateo’s hand tightened inside his jacket. Gabriel’s gaze snapped from Victor back to Clara.