"I was." He released my hand and stepped back, assessing me with those cool, analytical eyes. "My brother seems to think you can be useful to our legitimate operations. I'm reserving judgment."
"Then let me earn it." I kept my voice level, refusing to be intimidated. "Give me a real problem. Not a test designed to see if I'll crumble."
Semyon glanced at Vasily, who stood slightly apart, watching our interaction. Something passed between the brothers—a silent communication I couldn't interpret.
"She has teeth," Semyon observed. "Good. She'll need them."
"I told you she wasn't fragile."
"You told me many things." He turned back to me, his expression cooling into professional neutrality. "The study has been prepared. I'll have the relevant files brought there. Thirty minutes?"
He left without waiting for a response. I watched him go, my pulse elevated but my spine straight.
"That went better than expected," Vasily said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Did it?"
"You didn't let him dismiss you. He respects that, even if he won't show it." He moved closer, and I felt his proximity like a physical weight. "He'll push harder once you're working. Don't take it personally."
"I can handle being pushed."
"I know you can." He was close enough now that I could smell his cologne, could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. "That's why I suggested this. Because you're stronger than you give yourself credit for, Gabrielle. Stronger than anyone's ever recognized."
The words hit something tender inside me—some bruised place that still ached from years of never being enough. I looked away, not wanting him to see how much they affected me.
"I should go prepare," I said.
"Of course." He stepped back, giving me space. "I'll be in meetings most of the day, but I'll see you at dinner. Semyon will be joining us."
I nodded and walked away, feeling his eyes on me until I turned the corner.
***
The study had been transformed into a war room.
Papers covered every surface—spreadsheets, market analyses, organizational charts, quarterly reports. Semyon sat behind the massive desk, his laptop open, his attention fixed on a screen full of numbers I couldn't read from where I stood.
"Close the door," he said without looking up.
I did, then moved to the chair across from him. He let me wait, finishing whatever calculation had captured his focus, before finally raising his eyes.
"What do you know about import-export operations?"
"The basics. Supply chain logistics, customs regulations, tariff structures, market pricing fluctuations. I did some work with distribution companies in my previous role—analyzing consumer behavior patterns for shipping optimization."
"Your previous role." He said it flatly, without inflection. "Marketing analyst at a mid-level firm. Consumer behavior, demographic targeting, campaign optimization."
"You've done your research."
"I always do research." He slid a folder across the desk. "This is Aegean Shipping. One of our legitimate holding companies. We handle cargo transport across the Mediterranean—primarily legal goods, occasionally gray-market items that require creative documentation. Revenue has declined by twelve percent over two quarters. I want to know why."
I opened the folder. Financial statements, shipping manifests, client contracts, employee records—pages and pages of data, dense and intimidating. A test, just as Vasily had warned.
"What's your timeline?"
"I want preliminary analysis by dinner."
I looked up sharply. "That's six hours."
