I force my attention back to my computer screen, but I can feel his gaze through the glass wall of Roman's office. They're talking in low voices, occasionally glancing in my direction, and paranoia creeps up my spine like ice water.
By lunch, I can't take it anymore. I grab my purse and head down to the building's lobby, needing space, needing air, needing to think. The marble floors echo with my footsteps as I find a quiet corner near the windows and pull out my phone.
My fingers tremble slightly as I type "Yakovlev" into the search bar.
The results load slowly, and at first, they're innocuous. Legitimate businesses. Import-export companies. Real estate holdings. But I keep scrolling, digging deeper, and that's when I find them. News articles buried in the search results, some years old, some more recent. Words jump out at me—organized crime, Russian Mafia, federal investigation, racketeering charges.
My stomach drops to my feet.
I clear my search history immediately, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. What if Roman can see what I looked up? What if the company monitors internet usage? I'm being paranoid, I know I am, but the fear is real and visceral.
The afternoon passes in a blur of forced normalcy. I answer phones, organize files, prepare Roman's coffee to his exact specifications. But I'm acutely aware of his eyes on me through the glass wall, the way he watches me like he's waiting forsomething. Waiting for me to crack, maybe. Or waiting to see if I'll run.
Around four, Natasha appears at my office door with two cups of coffee from the break room. Her pale blue eyes are red-rimmed, like she's been crying, and she gestures toward the small table in the corner of my office.
"Do you have a minute?" Her voice is soft, hesitant.
We settle into the chairs, and Natasha wraps her hands around her coffee cup like she's trying to warm herself despite the perfectly climate-controlled office. For a long moment, she doesn't speak, just stares into the dark liquid.
"I've worked here for three years," she finally says, her accent thicker than usual. "And I'm terrified of him. Every single day."
I don't have to ask who she means.
"I've seen things." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper. "Men with guns. Conversations in Russian that stop the moment I enter a room. The way everyone fears his silences more than his anger." She looks up at me, and there's genuine concern in her expression. "Be careful, Eva. Do your job perfectly. Keep your head down. Never ask questions."
"What kind of things have you seen?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
Natasha's face goes pale. She stands abruptly, her coffee forgotten. "I've said too much. Just… be careful."
She's gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and growing dread.
The rest of the day crawls by with agonizing slowness. Every time my phone rings, I jump. Every time someone walks past my office, my shoulders tense. I catch Roman watching me through the glass wall, his blue eyes unreadable, and I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. A competent secretary? A potential threat? Something else entirely?
At five o'clock, I gather my things with hands that won't quite stop shaking. My worn coat feels heavier than usual as I pull it on, and I'm acutely aware of Roman's gaze following me as I walk toward the elevator. I don't look back. I can't.
The lobby is crowded with people leaving for the day, and I let myself be swept up in the tide of bodies heading for the revolving doors. The evening air hits my face, cool and sharp, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
That's when I see it.
A black car parked across the street, engine idling. The same car that's been there every evening this week, I realize with sudden, sickening clarity. The same driver behind the wheel, his face shadowed but his attention fixed directly on me.
I'm being followed.
8
ROMAN
The cold seeps into my bones first. Always the cold.
I'm nineteen again, standing in the exercise yard of the Siberian prison camp, my breath forming clouds in air so frigid, it burns my lungs. The guard's baton cracks against my ribs, and I taste copper. Blood freezes on my lips before I can spit it out. Around me, men fight over scraps of bread, cigarettes, and nothing at all because violence is the only language we speak here. The only currency that matters.
Survive. Just survive.
I wake gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape my chest. The silk sheets beneath me are drenched with sweat despite the perfectly climate-controlled bedroom. For a disorienting moment, I don't know where I am. Then the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows remind me. I'm not in Siberia. I'm in my estate. I conquered this city. I survived.
Fuck.
I throw off the covers and stand, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor as I move to the windows. The skyline spreads before me like a kingdom I claimed through blood and ruthless ambition. Somewhere out there, Eva Markova sleeps in her cramped apartment, unaware that I'm standing here thinking about her. Unaware that I had her followed yesterday. Unaware that she's become the latest pressure point in my life, triggering nightmares I haven't had in years.
