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The quickest way to get killed in Helsinki is to look like you have something to hide.

I stepped into Cafe Ekberg at ten past eleven with powdered sugar on my black wool coat and a clipboard tucked beneath my elbow. To anyone sipping dark roast at the marble tables, I was simply an exhausted wedding planner running behind on floral invoices.

Matti sat in the back corner booth, hunched over a plate with two braided cardamom pulla buns. He looked like an overgrown dockworker squeezed into a soft merino sweater, mostly because he was an overgrown dockworker squeezed into a soft merino sweater.

I slid into the burgundy vinyl booth across from him. "Tell me you brought the insulated drums."

Matti didn't look up from his pastry. "I brought two. Reinforced stainless steel, double-walled vacuum liners, calibrated to three point four degrees Celsius. Just like you asked."

"Good."

He tore off a piece of dough with thick, calloused fingers. "The bad news is the price. Nitrogen chilling packs went up twelve percent this morning. Harbor tax."

"I don't care about harbor tax," I said, keeping my voice below the clatter of porcelain cups. "I care about the delivery window. The estate loading dock is locked until four in the morning. Satu Koivisto has night patrol walking the perimeter every twenty minutes."

Matti chewed slowly. "Four in the morning is tight, Eevi. We have fifteen minutes to load twenty crates before the catering van pulls into the south bay."

"We're not using the south bay doors," I murmured.

He stopped chewing. His pale eyes drifted up to meet mine. "Excuse me?"

"The south bay is monitored by private security," I said, leaning in. "Tuomas Aalto has camera coverage cycling across the courtyard every four seconds. If your van idles under the floodlights for more than ninety seconds, their internal guards will log your license plate before you drop the tail lift."

Matti put the pastry down. "Then how are we moving four hundred stems of live Luoto hybrid out of a private estate?"

"The old boiler room," I said. "There is a decommissioned coal chute under the west terrace. It empties directly into the lower cellar corridor, thirty feet behind the cold storage vault. We bypass the courtyard entirely."

Matti stared at me like I had lost my mind. "A coal chute?"

"Cast iron. Clean drop. Three-foot diameter." I tapped the table with my pen. "I checked the hinges this morning. It opens into the gravel path behind the greenhouse hedges. You back the refrigerated sprinter van into the tree line, run a padded canvas sleeve down the chute, and we slide the insulated cylinders straight into your cargo hold."

He blinked twice. "You scouted this during the ballroom walk-through?"

"Between arguments about table linens," I said dryly. "Tuomas thinks I was obsessing over guest sightlines."

"That man is going to catch you," Matti muttered. "I saw him at the harbor terminal last month. He was auditing manifest logs for Baltic shipping lines. He looks at cargo sheets the way customs dogs look at meat."

"He won't catch me," I said.

A lie. A necessary one.

The memory of Tuomas in the subterranean passage—his hand brushing my wool collar, the quiet intensity of his voice—flashed across my mind. My throat tightened. I forced it away.

"He won't catch me because you're going to be five minutes early," I told Matti. "Three-forty-five sharp. You kill the engine, cut the headlights at the outer gate, and wait for my signal on the secure frequency."

"And if Aalto is standing by the chute?"

"Then I deal with him."

Matti picked up his coffee cup. "You're playing with live wires, Eevi. The Koivistos don't call the police when people steal their proprietary pharmaceuticals. They call a salvage crew."

"I know who they call," I said. "Get the drums ready. I'll confirm the final crate count by midnight."

I slid an envelope across the vinyl seat. Cash. Enough to cover the nitrogen packs and buy his silence for another forty-eight hours.

Matti slid the envelope into his coat pocket without counting it. "Watch your back out there. The harbor gossip is getting ugly. People are saying Joona Laaksonen wants a piece of the winter crop."

"Joona is an idiot with a rented boat," I said.

"He's an idiot with six armed cousins," Matti countered. "That makes him dangerous."

I didn't answer. I gathered my clipboard, stood up, and buttoned my coat against the damp coastal chill waiting outside.

The bell above the bakery door chimed as I walked out into Bulevardi. The morning air smelled of sea salt, diesel exhaust, and roasting coffee. I turned down the narrow alley between the stone buildings, heading toward my parked sedan on Fredrikinkatu.

The alley was quiet. Too quiet.

A black Mercedes van sat idling beside the commercial dumpsters, its exhaust pipe puffing white smoke into the grey mist.

Before I could turn around, two men stepped out from the shadow of the brick archway. Both wore heavy track jackets and dark beanies. Both had their hands buried deep in their pockets.

"Eevi Rantanen," a voice rasped from behind the van.

Joona Laaksonen stepped out into the damp light.

He hadn't changed since our last encounter in Kotka. Thick neck, broken nose that had healed crooked, and small, predatory eyes that tracked every shift in my posture. He smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap energy drinks.

"You're far from your harbor slip, Joona," I said smoothly, keeping both hands visible on my leather folder.

"Funny," Joona said, walking closer until he stopped four feet away. "I was just thinking the same thing about you. High-society wedding coordinator. Silk scarves. Fancy client meetings. You almost look legitimate."

"I am legitimate," I said. "Unlike your crew, I pay taxes on my catering margins."

One of the men behind him chuckled. Joona didn't.

"You took the Koivisto contract," Joona said, taking another step. "All four hundred stems of the Luoto harvest. My buyer in Stockholm wants that oil, Eevi. He's paying six figures for pure pharmaceutical grade."

"Then you should have bid on the contract," I replied.

"The Koivistos don't take bids from people like me," Joona spat. "They hide behind lawyers and fancy private security. But you... you're a courier. A middleman. You slip in through the service door and slip out before the guards notice."

"And what do you want, Joona? A wedding invitation?"

His jaw hardened. "Fifty percent."

"Fifty percent of what?"

"Fifty percent of whatever comes out of that estate on Saturday night," he said, tapping a heavy index finger against my shoulder. "Or I call Satu Koivisto's security chief. I tell him exactly who is running logistics for his centerpieces. I give him your name, your van plates, and your harbor drop in Kotka."

The touch on my shoulder made my blood boil, but my face remained completely still.

I took a single, deliberate step forward, closing the distance between us until my nose was six inches from his crooked chin.

"You do that," I whispered.

Joona blinked, startled when I held my ground. "What?"

"Call them," I said, voice flat as glass. "Satu Koivisto's security chief doesn't negotiate with harbor thugs. If you call that number, the first thing they will do is cross-reference their staff roster. And do you know what they'll find?"

Joona's eyes narrowed.

"They'll find three of your cousins listed as centerpiece handlers on the syndicate payroll," I said, leaning in further. "I saw the paperwork this morning. Mika, Antti, and Ville. All registered under fake security badges."

The enforcer on the left shifted uneasily on his boots.

"If Satu Koivisto finds out there's a leak," I continued, "she won't just fire them. She will lock down the estate, seal the gates, and hand your entire crew over to the National Bureau of Investigation. And before the police even arrive, her private tactical unit will dismantle your harbor warehouse in Vuosaari brick by brick."

Joona's throat bobbed. "You're bluffing."

"Try me," I said softly. "I have sole operational authority over the loading docks. If I see one of your men out of line, I pull their clearance badges before they can unload a single bucket of water. You get nothing. Your Stockholm buyer gets nothing. And you spend the next five years explaining to your cousins why they're in a maximum-security prison in Vantaa."

Silence settled over the alley, heavy and cold.

Joona stared at me. I could see the wheels turning in his head. A man like him understood violence, but he understood money better.

"Forty-eight hours," Joona growled after a long pause. "You keep your mouth shut about my boys on the crew. And when that truck leaves the estate, we talk about the split."

"We don't talk about anything until the wedding is over," I said, stepping around him toward the street. "Tell your cousins to keep their gloves clean and their mouths shut. If they drop a vase, I'll fire them myself."

I didn't run. I walked at a steady, measured pace out of the alley, my heels clicking sharply against the wet asphalt.

My heart was pounding against my ribs, but my hands remained steady.

One crisis handled. Barely.

I made it to my car, slid behind the wheel, and locked the doors before letting out a long, ragged exhale. My fingers gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

The walls were closing in from every side. Joona was breathing down my neck. Satu Koivisto was watching the bottom line. And Tuomas...

Tuomas was everywhere.

I started the engine and drove through the rain-slicked streets toward Punavuori.

My office was on the second floor of a converted brick warehouse on Pursimiehenkatu. It was my sanctuary. A quiet, private space with high ceilings, wide birch desks, and walls covered in floor plans, fabric swatches, and color palettes. Nobody came here without an appointment. Nobody had a key except me.

I climbed the narrow wooden stairs, shaking the water from my umbrella.

I pulled out my brass key, slid it into the lock, and pushed the heavy oak door open.

The scent hit me first.

Cedar. Freshly brewed dark roast coffee. And the faint, sharp tang of expensive wool.

My breath caught.

The overhead lights were off, but the green glass banker's lamp on my desk was glowing warm in the overcast light.

Sitting behind my desk, leaning back in my leather swivel chair with absolute composure, was Tuomas Aalto.

He had removed his dark tailored coat and draped it over the back of my chair. His crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up twice to reveal strong, vascular forearms resting casually on the blotter.

Between his hands lay three red manila folders.

My folders.

The locked drawer of my filing cabinet stood open two inches.

"You're late," Tuomas said evenly.

I stood frozen in the doorway for three seconds.

Outrage surged through me, hot and sharp, instantly overtaking the lingering adrenaline from the alley.

"What are you doing in my office?" I demanded, slamming the door shut behind me.

Tuomas didn't flinch. He didn't even look up from the document in his hands. "Your lock is a five-pin tumbler from the late nineties. It took me fourteen seconds with a tension wrench."

"That is breaking and entering," I said, marching across the room until I stood directly across the desk from him. "Get out of my chair."

He raised his eyes slowly.

They were a striking, clear slate grey, intelligent and completely unreadable. Under the warm glow of the banker's lamp, the harsh lines of his jaw and the sharp bridge of his nose seemed softer, more dangerous.

"We have an event in four days," Tuomas said, his voice maddeningly calm. "You disappeared for an hour right after our walk-through. I needed to verify the catering contracts."

"Those are private client files," I snapped, reaching across the desk to snatch the folder from his hands.

His hand shot out with terrifying speed, his long fingers wrapping around my wrist.

His grip was firm, not painful, but unbreakable. The warmth of his skin against my pulse point sent a sudden jolt straight up my arm.

I stopped breathing.

I froze, staring down at him. Our faces were barely two feet apart. I could see the faint shadow of dark stubble along his jaw, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the faint, focused crease between his brows.

Neither of us moved.

"Let go of me, Tuomas," I said quietly.

He didn't let go immediately. His thumb rested directly over my racing pulse. Judging by the pressure of his thumb, he didn't miss a single beat.

"Your heart is beating at ninety beats a minute, Eevi," he murmured, his thumb shifting a fraction of an inch against my skin. "Where were you?"

"I was having lunch," I lied, refusing to pull away and show weakness. "And getting coffee."

"At Cafe Ekberg," he stated.

My stomach sank. "You followed me?"

"I don't need to follow you," he said, releasing my wrist with agonizing slowness. His fingers trailed lightly against the inside of my palm before resting back on the mahogany desk. "You smell like cardamom and damp rain. And you left your umbrella dripping on my floor."

"It's my floor," I spat, rubbing my wrist where his heat still lingered.

"Not this week," he said, tapping the manila folder. "This week, everything belongs to Satu Koivisto."

I grabbed the back of the visitor's chair, steadying myself. "What did you find in my files, Tuomas? Aside from perfectly balanced spreadsheets?"

Tuomas picked up a printed invoice and turned it toward me.

"The catering subcontract," he said, pointing a clean, manicured finger at the third line item. "You booked a specialty refrigerated transport unit from a boutique logistics firm in Kotka. Rantanen Logistics."

My chest tightened.

"It's a family business," I said smoothly. "My uncle's fleet. They provide sub-zero temperature control for imported seafood and fragile botanical arrangements."

"Your uncle died in 2021," Tuomas said without missing a beat. "The company's commercial license was transferred to a holding corporation registered in Cyprus. And the sole signatory on that account is Eevi Rantanen."

I stared at him, my jaw tight.

"You already brought up Kotka in the coal chute," I said, voice low. "Now you're digging through Cypriot corporate registries during my lunch break?"

"It took forty minutes," he replied smoothly. "I had to wait twenty minutes for the maritime registry server to reboot."

I let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You're psychotic."

"I am thorough," Tuomas replied, leaning forward on his elbows. The movement brought his shoulders closer, casting a broad shadow across the scattered papers. "I don't care if you run a side business moving grey-market caviar or unbonded French wine. But you are not running contraband through the Koivisto estate while my name is on the security roster."

"I am running a wedding," I said through clenched teeth.

"You are running a game," he countered softly.

He stood up.

Tuomas was tall—over six feet of broad, disciplined muscle packed into an impossibly sharp frame. Standing behind my modest wooden desk, he dominated the entire room.

He walked around the corner of the table until he was standing directly in front of me.

He didn't crowd me, but his presence was overwhelming. The clean scent of cedar and laundry soap filled my lungs.

"Let me make something clear, Eevi," he said, his voice dropping an octave, rich and low. "Satu Koivisto's security team is not a private security firm. They are former military intelligence operatives. If they catch you moving unauthorized cargo off that property, they will not call the police. They will erase you."

I looked up into his grey eyes, refusing to blink. "Are you threatening me, Tuomas?"

"I'm warning you," he said.

He reached out. For a second, I thought he was going to touch my face. My skin prickled with heat, a traitorous thrill spiking through my stomach.

Instead, his hand brushed past my cheek, his fingers catching a loose strand of dark hair that had escaped my updo, tucking it gently behind my ear.

The brush of his knuckles against my jaw made the air freeze in my chest.

He lingered there for a fraction of a second. His gaze dipped to my lips, heavy and dark, before rising back to meet my eyes.

"Don't do anything stupid on Saturday," he murmured.

He pulled his hand back, stepped around me, and reached for his coat on the chair.

I stood anchored to the floorboards, every nerve ending in my neck burning where his fingers had grazed me.

"Tuomas," I called out as he reached the door.

He paused, one hand on the brass door handle, his coat draped over his arm. He looked back over his shoulder.

"The catering schedule stands," I said, my voice steady, iron-hard. "Intake at four in the morning. South bay."

A faint, dry smile touched the corner of his mouth.

"We'll see," he said.

He opened the door and walked out into the stairwell, closing it quietly behind him.

I stood alone in the warm lamplight, listening to the echo of his footsteps descending into the rainy street.

The air still carried the scent of cedar and rain.

I looked down at the open folders on the blotter.

Saturday was coming.

And neither of us was going to back down.