Tyler's brown eyes light up with interest. "That's great! What kind of finance?"
"Import-export, investments, that sort of thing." The vague answer is becoming practiced. "Pretty standard corporate stuff."
Except it's not standard at all, but I can't explain why without revealing things I don't fully understand myself.
Tyler launches into a story about his thesis project, something involving cybersecurity and encryption that's probably fascinating if I could focus. But I'm acutely aware of the way he looks at me, the hope in his expression, the sweetness that makes me want to scream because he deserves someone who can love him back.
He's safe. He's kind. He's exactly the type of man I should want.
But when I close my eyes, I see Roman Sokolov's cold blue gaze, feel the heat of his body when he stood close to correct my filing error, hear his accented voice making my name sound like something intimate and dangerous.
I'm attracted to a man who might be a criminal. Who definitely has prison tattoos. Who watches me with an intensity that should terrify me but instead makes my skin prickle with awareness I can't afford.
"Earth to Eva." Megan waves her hand in front of my face. "You okay?"
"Sorry, just tired. Long week."
We finish brunch, Tyler insisting on paying despite my protests, and I endure his hopeful goodbye with gentle deflection that's becoming a practiced art. He's sweet and safe and completely wrong for me, but I can't bring myself to crush his feelings entirely.
Back at the apartment, I open my laptop and pull up my budget spreadsheet. The numbers stare back at me, unforgiving in their mathematics. No matter how I calculate, how I shift things around, I'm barely staying afloat.
I need this job. I can't afford to lose this job. Whatever Roman Sokolov is, whatever his organization actually does, I have to make this work.
My phone buzzes on the desk with an email notification, and my heart stops when I see the sender, Sokolov Financial Group’s HR Department. The subject line reads,URGENT: Performance Review Scheduled.
My hands shake as I open the email.
Ms. Markova,
An appointment has been set up for you to report to Mr. Sokolov's office Monday at 8:00 a.m. for a performance review. Please be prompt.
Human Resources
Sokolov Financial Group
A performance review. After one week.
Either I've done something wrong, or he's discovered something about me, or this is about something else entirely.
6
ROMAN
Iarrive at the office before dawn, the city still dark beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Sleep has been impossible since Friday night's call about the dock murder. I've spent the weekend in constant motion—reviewing security footage, coordinating with my team, making calls to associates who might have information. Now, standing in my empty office with only the hum of the building's systems for company, I finally allow myself to stop moving.
The execution was professional. A single shot to the back of the head, the body positioned in a shipping container where it would be found quickly. Not hidden—displayed. A message written in blood and gunpowder, the language I've spoken since I was seventeen. I know Abram Yakovlev's signature when I see it. The brutality, the theatrical positioning, the timing designed to maximize my vulnerability. It's his work. But knowing and proving are different things, and without proof, I can't retaliate without triggering the war he wants.
My phone buzzes. David Brennan, confirming he's on his way up. The lawyer is early, which means he's as concerned as I am about the implications of Friday's murder.
I move to my desk, pulling up the security reports my team compiled over the weekend. Surveillance footage from the docks shows nothing useful. The cameras in that section mysteriously malfunctioned for exactly forty-seven minutes, long enough for the killer to do his work and disappear. The dock workers who discovered the body are clean, no connections to any organization. The victim was one of mine, a low-level soldier who handled shipment logistics. Not important enough to warrant this kind of attention unless the goal was sending a message rather than eliminating a threat.
The elevator chimes. I don't look up from my laptop as David enters, his footsteps measured and precise across the marble floor. He's wearing one of his three-piece suits, charcoal with subtle pinstripes, his titanium-framed glasses catching the early morning light filtering through the windows.
"Roman." He settles into the chair across from my desk, setting his leather briefcase on the floor with careful precision. "We have a problem."
"Several problems," I correct, my voice low. "Tell me about the legal exposure."
David removes his glasses, cleaning them with methodical attention that I recognize as his way of organizing his thoughts. "The police are treating it as a homicide, obviously. They're interviewing dock workers, reviewing manifests, asking questions about who had access to that section. So far, they're treating it as random violence—wrong place, wrong time. Butif they start digging deeper, if they connect the victim to your operations…"
