I know this set-up isn’t all that innocent, but I want to see Gela Jones in her element, want to breath the air she’sbreathing, want to tap into that mind of hers, want to see what it is that makes her who she is.
“So, you okay with this?” I ask, when she keeps standing.
She looks at me, and her gaze meets mine. Sharp. Ready. “If this is the only option…”
“It is,” I say, firmly.
“Okay then.” She eyes the setup cautiously, like it might be booby-trapped. “Thanks.”
“I had all the programs you requested installed, plus a secure line for client calls,” I explain, walking over to her desk. “The connection is encrypted and routed through several proxies and, most importantly, untraceable.”
“How thoughtful of my kidnapping mobster of a husband to provide such excellent tech support,” she says dryly as she moves to the desk.
I let the comment slide and hold back a smile. This mildly annoyed, snarky Gela is the version I like best.
“I'll be working here too,” I say. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
“I won't.” She doesn’t even consider it and proceeds to ignore me entirely as she sits down and powers up the computer.
She really doesn’t waste time getting down to business, does she?
Taking that as my cue to retreat, I head back to my desk and get down to work. But my mind keeps wandering, reminding me that I’m breathing the same air as Gela.
Far too often, I find myself watching her. She’s laser-focused, like the world could burn around her, but she won’tcare. There’s a determined little force behind every move she makes. Even the way she holds her pen screams perfection.
For the first hour, we work in silence. I answer emails and review security reports, all while stealing glances at Gela. She's completely absorbed, and I notice that when she’s in her flow, she gets this adorable little furrow right between her brows.
I find myself staring a little too long, and eventually, I begin to feel like a downright creep. But there’s something about her so damn captivating that I can’t seem to shake her off my skin.
After another hour, she starts making calls. I try not to overhear, but her voice filters in through all my barriers.
The first few are awkward, and I think it’s because she's clearly uncomfortable with me in the room. She keeps her voice low as she speaks. But by the third call, it’s like she forgets I'm even here.
“No, we're pivoting to a fully remote model,” she explains to someone on the other end. “It's actually perfect timing with the new campaign we're launching for Fitness Haven... Yes, exactly. Their demographic skews heavily toward mobile users anyway.”
I find myself forgetting my own work, mesmerized by her. In her domain, she’s so regally commanding, the queen of her castle. She speaks with authority on metrics and engagement rates, and the way she explains these complicated things shows me just how clear her head is.
“Trust me, this is going to work in our favor.” She leans back in her chair like a total boss babe. “Their competitors are all focused on equipment, but we're going to position them as selling lifestyle transformation. It's not about the treadmill—it's about becoming the person who uses it every day.”
Damn. She's good. Really good.
I try to refocus on my own work, but my attention keeps drifting back to her.
“Look, I understand the concern,” she says firmly to another client. “But the data doesn't lie. Your audience is spending three times as long on video content as on text. We need to adapt, or we're leaving engagement on the table.”
There's something intoxicating about watching someone excel at what they do. Even under these circumstances, with her life turned upside down, she continues to fight and push forward.
She’s remarkable.
Soon after she puts down the phone, I receive a text from Leonid about a situation with the Colombians that he urgently needs to discuss.
I shoot a glance at Gela and see that she’s on her computer. It’s too soon, I feel, for Bratva talk in her presence. Even now, I can’t forget the way her face paled when I told her who I was two nights ago.
I decided to call Leonid back, but I’ll keep it brief and professional, so she doesn’t feel uncomfortable.
“What’s the situation?” I ask in a low voice when Leonid picks up.
“The shipment's been flagged at customs,” he says. “Our contact says there's been an unusual tip-off, and we think it’s possible Zakharov interference.”
