"It's practical." His expression doesn't change, but I catch something flickering in his eyes. "You're no use to me if you collapse from hunger."
Right. Practical. Not kind. I need to remember that.
The food arrives twenty minutes later, delivered by one of the building's security guards who doesn't quite meet my eyes. Roman leads me to the conference room, and we settle at opposite ends of the long table. The Thai food smells amazing, and my stomach reminds me that I skipped lunch. Again.
We eat in silence that feels heavy with unspoken things. I'm hyperaware of every movement he makes. The way his throat works when he swallows. The flex of his forearm as he reaches for his water glass. When he leans back in his chair, I catch a glimpse of his flat stomach where his shirt has come slightly untucked, and heat pools low in my belly.
"Tell me about your brother," he says suddenly, his accent making the words sound more intimate than they should. "Alexei. What does he want to study?"
I swallow my bite of Pad Thai, buying time to compose myself. "Engineering. He's brilliant with math and physics. Top of his class."
"You're proud of him."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes. He's going to do amazing things. He just needs the opportunity."
Roman's blue eyes study me with that calculating intensity I'm starting to recognize. "And you're providing that opportunity. Working yourself to exhaustion, sending money home, sacrificing your own future for his."
The observation feels too close, too personal. "He's my brother. It's what family does."
"Not all family." Something dark crosses his expression. "Some family takes. Uses. Destroys."
I want to ask what he means, but his phone rings before I can form the words. He glances at the screen, his jaw tightening.
"Excuse me." He stands, already moving toward the door. "I need to take this."
Then I'm alone in the conference room with the remains of our dinner and the documents Roman left scattered across the table.
I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't. But my eyes drift to the papers almost against my will, and once I start reading, I can't stop.
They're in Russian, mostly. Financial records, shipping manifests, names and dates and numbers that make my pulse quicken. Large amounts of money moving through accounts I don't recognize. Shipment schedules that seem deliberately vague. And one name appearing over and over. Yakovlev.
The same name Roman asked me about yesterday. The name I Googled and found connected to organized crime, federal investigations, the Russian Mafia.
My hands shake as I realize what I'm looking at. This isn't legitimate business. These aren't normal financial records. This is evidence of something illegal, something dangerous, something I should never have seen.
"Do you read Russian?"
Roman's voice cuts through my panic like a blade. I jerk my head up to find him standing in the doorway, his blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. How long has he been watching me? Did he leave these documents here deliberately, testing me?
"Yes." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I lived in Russia until I was nineteen. Before we moved to the US."
He moves into the room with that predatory grace that always makes my skin prickle with awareness. He's not touching me, but I feel trapped anyway, pinned by his gaze like a butterfly on a board.
"And what did you see?" His accent is thicker now, his voice dropping to that low register that does things to my body I can't control. "In those documents you were studying so carefully?"
"Numbers. Names. I don't… I wasn't trying to…" I'm stammering, and I hate it. I force myself to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have looked."
Roman gathers the documents with methodical precision, his movements controlled but radiating displeasure. When he looksat me again, his expression is carefully neutral, revealing nothing.
"You can go home, Miss Markova."
The dismissal is abrupt, almost cold. No explanation. No reassurance. Just a command delivered in that low voice that makes my stomach clench with something that's not entirely fear.
I stand on shaking legs, my appetite completely gone. "Yes, Mr. Sokolov."
As I turn to leave, I catch him watching me, his blue eyes tracking the movement of my body in a way that makes heat flood my cheeks. Even now, even terrified, I'm aware of his gaze on my ass, my legs, the curve of my waist. And God help me, part of me wants him to keep looking.
I gather my things from my office with hands that won't quite stop trembling. My worn coat feels heavier than usual as I pull it on, and I'm acutely aware of Roman standing at his windows, his back to me but his attention palpable. I don't look at him as I walk toward the elevator. I can't.
