“I’ll deal with her if she steps out of line. She knows better than to cross me.”
“Shethinksshe knows,” Luk says, a little too amused.
Lev shakes his head. “I still don’t like this, brother. Not one bit. She has no idea what she’s walking into.”
He’s right. She has no idea she’s the last thread of a story that should’ve ended decades ago. She doesn’t know the walls have eyes. That the man signing her paycheck is the one who’s been pulling the strings behind the curtain since she was a child.
She’s the last open loop in a plan my father started and I intend to finish.
But if she proves more threat than asset, if she gets in the way, well…. Even blood ties can burn.
I rise from the chair and straighten my cuffs. “Anyway, she starts tomorrow. I’ll keep you all informed.”
Lev cracks his knuckles. Luk nods curtly.
The meeting ends.
And the trap sets.
CHAPTER 7
ASTRID
Ivanov Holdings towers over the street like it owns Chicago. A mirrored monolith of black steel and power, the building looms, larger than life, cold and precise.
Just like the Ivanovs themselves.
I stand on the curb, heels anchored, breath misting in the morning air, trying not to look like a woman walking straight into the mouth of something that might eat her alive.
It’s going to be fine.
I smooth my blouse—cream silk tucked into charcoal slacks—and adjust the strap of my leather tote. I spent forty-five minutes getting ready this morning, reapplying lipstick three times before deciding on “confident nude” instead of “nervous red.”
“First day?” the doorman asks as I pass.
God, is it that obvious?I nod. “Interview.”
He smiles, professional but warm. He checks my ID, then prints out a temporary building pass.
Inside, the lobby hits me like an ice bath. Everyone walks fast, speaks quietly, and looks like they know exactly what they’re doing.
A receptionist greets me, glancing at my temp pass. “Miss Jones? Mr. Ivanov will see you on the top floor.”
Top floor. Of course.
I mutter thanks and scan the area as I follow a security guard toward the elevator bank. Cameras are tucked subtly into the crown molding, biometric eyes disguised as decorative panels.
The whole place feels like a panther at rest—beautiful, sleek, and dangerous.
Less like a finance firm, more like a fortress.
The elevator dings. I step inside alone, glancing at my reflection in the mirrored interior. My pulse thuds at my throat.
You are Astrid Jones. Nobody knows you’re here.
Once at the top, the doors open to a floor that feels like a different world—quieter, more elegant, the air itself richer somehow. I’m met by another assistant with a clipboard wearing a headset. She greets me with an all-business, brisk tone as she gestures toward an open set of glass doors at the far end of the floor.
“He’s ready for you.”
