I need this job. Not just for the paycheck. For proof I still exist.
That my Maxim’s father, my former father-in-law, didn't erase me completely.
After Maxim's death, Aleksander Volkov made certain no bank or firm in New York would touch me. He blacklisted my name, froze my accounts, and shredded my reputation before Maxim's blood had dried on the pavement.
Aleksander knew I'd spent years begging his son to walk away—from the family business, the violence, the blood money that stained everything it touched.
My defiance, it seemed, cut deeper than his grief ever could.
Maxim died protecting me. Aleksander never could accept that.
In his mind, I stole everything. His son. His legacy. The grandson he'd been promised.
Easier to blame the widow than the empire.
The only man who offered me work was Vladimir. The one who saved my life. The one who everyone else feared.
He said he needed someone who didn’t scare easily.
Ofcourse he never promisedhewouldn’t try.
But the questions won’t let me sleep.
Why did Vladimir save me when he could’ve let me die?
Why hire me when everyone else wanted me gone?
And why does he look at me like I’m something fragile he’s afraid to break?
I knock once.
A brief pause.
“Come in.”
The door swings open to reveal Vladimir at the window, his back to me, the city beyond a canvas of white and gently falling snow. His shoulders are broad beneath a charcoal vest, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled just enough to show strong, ropey forearms.
One hand rests on the desk, the other in his pocket.
Coiled. Dangerous. Like a man who could end a life before his coffee got cold.
His massive office exudes power—sleek, modern lines of black and chrome, masculine and unmistakably him. The far wall is entirely glass, framing Manhattan like a painting.
The remaining walls are obsidian-black marble, minimalist and cold, accented only by a single abstract painting and shelves lined with leather-bound ledgers.
His desk, vast and polished to a mirror sheen, stands like an altar in the center of it all.
The air feels heavy here.
Expensive. Like even the silence costs money.
“Sit,” he says, without turning.
I do. My spine straightens as he turns slowly from the window.
Every time I see Vladimir Angeloff, my body forgets its loyalties.
My pulse stumbles. My breath fractures.
