"So we find proof." Lev's dark eyes are flat, professional. "We grab one of his soldiers, make him talk. Someone knows who's orchestrating this."
"Do it. But carefully. I want information, not a body count that draws federal attention."
Lev nods and leaves, and I'm alone again with my thoughts and the view of Eva through the glass wall. She's on the phone now, her voice too low for me to hear, her expression professionally neutral. Is she talking to a client? Or to someone else? Someone who's using her to destroy me from the inside?
I make my decision with cold pragmatism. I need to know if she's the enemy or just a pawn in Abram's game.
I press the intercom. "Miss Markova. My office."
She appears moments later, her notepad in hand, her brown eyes carefully avoiding mine. "Yes, Mr. Sokolov?"
"You'll be working late tonight. I have several projects that require your attention, and they can't wait until tomorrow."
Something flickers in her expression—fear, maybe, or resignation. "Of course. How late should I expect to stay?"
"Until I dismiss you." I let my gaze linger on her face, watching her pulse flutter at her throat. "Is that a problem?"
"No, Mr. Sokolov." Her voice is steady, but I see her press her thumbnail into her index finger. "I'll make the necessary arrangements."
She turns to leave, and I allow myself one moment to watch the sway of her hips, the way her ass moves so intoxicatingly, before forcing my attention back to the documents on my desk.
My phone buzzes with a text. My security chief.
The girl received a call last night. Traced to Yakovlev's people. She's been contacted.
The words blur on the screen as cold fury floods my veins. Eva Markova has been lying to me.
9
EVA
The office feels different after dark. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across the empty desks, and the silence is so complete, I can hear the hum of the building's ventilation system. Everyone left hours ago, even Natasha with her nervous goodbyes and pitying glances. Now it's just Roman and me on the forty-second floor, separated by glass walls that suddenly feel far too transparent.
I try to focus on the spreadsheet glowing on my screen, cross-referencing shipping dates with invoice numbers like Roman requested. But my attention keeps drifting to him through the glass. He's at his desk, his jacket discarded over the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up to reveal those tattoos I'm trying not to think about. The desk lamp casts his face in sharp relief, all hard angles and controlled intensity as he reviews documents and makes calls in low Russian.
His voice carries through the glass, that accent wrapping around words I can't quite hear. I watch his hands move as he talks, those long fingers gesturing with precise economy. The same hands that corrected my filing error last week, standing so closeI could feel the heat radiating from his body. The same hands I've caught myself imagining on my skin, sliding up my thighs, gripping my hips.
Stop it.
I force my eyes back to my screen, my cheeks burning. This is exactly the kind of distraction I can't afford. Roman Sokolov is my boss. He's dangerous. He might be a criminal. And I'm sitting here fantasizing about his hands like some desperate fool.
But then he stands, stretching his arms above his head, and I can't help watching the way his dress shirt pulls tight across his broad shoulders and chest. The fabric strains against muscle, and I imagine what he looks like underneath. All that controlled power, that barely leashed violence, pressed against me.
My thighs clench involuntarily.
Jesus, Eva. Get it together.
The intercom on my desk crackles to life, making me jump. "Miss Markova. Take a break."
His voice is low, commanding, and I feel it like a physical touch. I stand on shaking legs and smooth my dress, acutely aware that he can see me through the glass. Can he tell what I was just thinking? Does he know I've been watching him, imagining things I have no business imagining?
I walk to his office, my heels clicking against the marble floor. He's standing by the windows now, his hands in his pockets, his profile sharp against the city lights beyond. When he turns to look at me, those piercing blue eyes seem to strip away every defense I've built.
"I've ordered dinner," he says. "You should eat before we continue."
The gesture surprises me. In the two weeks I've worked here, he's never shown concern for my basic needs. I'm a tool to be used, a secretary to handle his tasks. But now he's ordering me to eat, and there's something almost… protective in his tone.
"That's very kind of you, Mr. Sokolov."
