The Kingpin Believed a Million-Dollar Tip Would Make a Desperate Bartender Grovel... Then She Followed Him Into the Snow and Stole the One Thing His Rivals Never Could

Harper woke up tied to a metal chair in a freezing, damp warehouse. The smell of rust and seawater told her they were at the docks. Her head throbbed violently, and her hands were bound with zip ties.

Alexei Volkov stood in front of her, smoking a cigarette, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

“The famous Harper Quinn,” Volkov sneered, walking around her chair. “I must admit, I don't see the appeal. You’re just a cheap bartender. Yet Blackwood is currently burning down my casinos to find you.”

Harper spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete floor. She raised her chin, channeling every ounce of Damian’s unyielding defiance. “If he’s burning your casinos, Alexei, you’re already a dead man. You just haven't stopped breathing yet.”

Volkov backhanded her across the face. Harper’s vision went white, but she didn't scream.

“We will see who is dead,” Volkov growled. He pulled out a phone and dialed Damian’s number. He put it on speaker.

Damian answered on the first ring. He didn't say a word.

“I have your little pet, Blackwood,” Volkov gloated. “Call off your men. Surrender the shipping yards to me, and I’ll send her back to you in one piece. If you don't, I’ll start sending her back in boxes.”

“Damian, don't give him anything!” Harper screamed into the phone.

Volkov struck her again, harder this time.

Over the speaker, Damian’s voice was eerily calm. “Alexei. Look out the window.”