Roman's office is even more impressive up close. The desk, the view, the careful arrangement of expensive furniture—everything speaks of wealth and power and control. He doesn't sit behind his desk. Instead, he leans against it, arms crossed, studying me with those piercing blue eyes.
"My assistant is leaving for maternity leave," he says, his accent making certain words more pronounced. "You will learn her position today and tomorrow. You will begin Monday. The hours are long—eighteen-hour days are common. The work requires absolute discretion. Perfection in every task. No mistakes. No questions. No excuses."
Each word is delivered with quiet authority, and I find myself nodding, agreeing to terms that should terrify me.
"Do you understand?" he asks.
"Yes, Mr. Sokolov."
His gaze lingers on my face for a moment longer than necessary, and I feel heat creep up my neck. There's something unsettling about his attention, the way he looks at me like he's solving a puzzle, cataloging every detail.
"Good," he finally says. "You may begin."
It's a dismissal. I turn to leave, but his voice stops me at the door.
"Miss Markova. Do not disappoint me."
The words send a chill down my spine.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of information. The outgoing assistant walks me through Roman's impossibly specific preferences. Coffee black with exactly two sugars, heated to precisely 185 degrees. Files organized by a color-coded system that makes sense only to him. Meetings scheduled to the minute, with buffer time built in that he never uses but requires anyway.
"He's exacting," she says, her voice kind but tired, "but fair. Do your job well, and he'll never bother you. Make mistakes…" She trails off, shaking her head. "Just don't make mistakes."
I notice things throughout the day that seem odd for a financial firm. Men in expensive suits who carry themselves like soldiers, their eyes constantly scanning, hands never far from their jacket pockets. Conversations in Russian that stop abruptly when I enter rooms. The way everyone seems afraid of Roman in a way that goes beyond normal corporate hierarchy—it's not respect. It's fear.
By evening, the assistant has left, and I'm alone in my new office, reviewing files and trying to memorize the systems I'll need to know by Monday. Through the glass wall, I watch Roman work. His focus is absolute, his movements precise and controlled. He's on the phone, speaking rapid Russian, his voice low and commanding.
Then he removes his cufflinks with deliberate precision, setting them on his desk. He rolls up his sleeves, and I catch a glimpse of his forearms.
Tattoos.
Not the trendy kind you see in coffee shops. These are old, faded, intricate. Russian prison tattoos. I recognize the style from documentaries, from whispered stories about the Bratva. Cathedral domes. Stars. Symbols that mean something in a world I don't understand.
My stomach tightens with unease. This isn't just a demanding boss. This is something else entirely.
I should leave, should walk away from this job, this money, this man with cold blue eyes and prison tattoos. But I think of Alexei, of Babushka Sasha, of the debt crushing me and the future I'm trying to build from the ruins of my mother's death.
I need this job too desperately to ask questions.
"Miss Markova."
His voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade. I look up to find him standing in the doorway of my office, his blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"My office."
His tone is sharp, commanding. I stand on shaking legs and follow him, my heart pounding. He's holding a file—one I organized earlier, trying to follow Jennifer's instructions about his color-coding system.
"This is incorrect," he says, his eyes boring into mine. He sets the file on his desk, his movements controlled but radiating displeasure. "The quarterly reports are filed by fiscal period, not calendar year. This is a basic error."
"I apologize, Mr. Sokolov. I'll correct it immediately."
"In my organization," he interrupts, his voice low and dangerous, "mistakes have consequences. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
The way he emphasizes "organization" makes my blood run cold. Not company. Not firm.Organization.
I meet his piercing blue eyes and realize with sickening clarity that this job might be far more dangerous than I imagined.
2
