Then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounds impossibly loud in the sudden silence.
I stand frozen, my coffee forgotten, my hands trembling against the counter. Lev's words echo in my mind, each one a warning I should heed but know I won't. Because he's right. I'm already in too deep. I'm attracted to Roman in a way that defies logic, that ignores every survival instinct I possess.
I force myself to finish making the coffee, my movements mechanical. When I finally return to my desk, I can feel Roman's presence through the glass wall even before I look up. He's at his desk, his attention focused on documents, but I know he's aware of me. He's always aware of me.
I watch him through the glass, seeing him with new eyes after Lev's warning. The controlled violence in the way he moves, precise and economical. The cold calculation in his blue eyes when he's on the phone, speaking rapid Russian in that low voice that does things to my body I can't control. The way his jaw tightens when he's displeased, the flex of his forearms when he removes his cufflinks and rolls up his sleeves.
He's dangerous. Violent. A man who destroys innocent things.
And God help me, I want him anyway.
The morning drags on with agonizing slowness. I handle calls, organize files, prepare documents for Roman's afternoon meetings. But my mind keeps circling back to Lev's warning, to the certainty in his dark eyes when he talked about Roman's capacity for destruction.
The elevator chimes in the early afternoon, and I glance up automatically. A woman steps onto the floor, and my breath catches.
She's tall—maybe five-nine in her designer heels—with sleek dark hair worn in a severe bob that frames sharp cheekbones and ice-blue eyes. Everything about her screams money and breeding, from her Chanel suit to her Hermès bag to the diamond studs glittering in her ears. She moves through the office like she owns it, her gaze sweeping over thespace with proprietary assessment before landing on me with contemptuous dismissal.
I stand, my professional armor snapping into place. "Good afternoon. Can I help you?"
"I'm here to see Roman." Her English is flawless but heavily accented, each word clipped and precise. She doesn't slow down, doesn't wait for my response, just continues walking toward Roman's office like I'm an obstacle to be ignored.
I move quickly, intercepting her before she can reach his door. "Mr. Sokolov is in a meeting and can't be disturbed. If you'd like to make an appointment?—"
"I don't need an appointment." She stops, finally looking at me directly, and the contempt in her ice-blue eyes makes my skin prickle. "I'm Daria Borisova. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
The name means nothing to me, but something in her tone suggests it should. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Sokolov's schedule is full this afternoon. If you'd like to leave your contact information?—"
"You don't understand." Her perfectly made-up face twists with anger, her voice rising slightly. "I don't need an appointment to see my fiancé. Now move aside before I have you fired."
The word hits me like a physical blow. Fiancé.
My mind goes blank, my body frozen in place as the implications crash over me. Roman has a fiancée. He kissed me, touched me, made me feel things I've never felt before, and he has a fucking fiancée.
Daria uses my shock to push past me, her shoulder connecting with mine hard enough to make me stumble. I watch helplesslyas she strides into Roman's office without knocking, her voice carrying through the glass walls.
"Roman, darling! I've been trying to reach you all weekend."
Through the glass wall, I see Roman's expression transform. Not surprise. Not pleasure at seeing her. Pure, cold fury that makes the temperature in the room seem to drop ten degrees. He stands slowly, his movements controlled but radiating displeasure, and his blue eyes flick to me for just a moment.
What I see in that brief glance makes my chest tighten with something I don't want to examine. Not guilt. Not apology. Something darker, more possessive. Like he's furious that Daria has revealed this connection, that she's disrupted whatever game he's been playing with me.
I turn away, my hands shaking, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. I sink into my desk chair and stare blindly at my computer screen, Lev's warning echoing in my mind with new, devastating clarity.
Roman's world destroys innocent things.
And I've just discovered exactly how right he was.
16
ROMAN
The call comes through at dawn, and I'm already awake, standing at my bedroom window with vodka in hand, watching the city emerge from shadow. My security chief's voice is controlled, professional, but I hear the satisfaction beneath it.
"We found him. The shooter from the docks. Low-level soldier, works for Yakovlev's crew out of Brighton Beach. We've got him at the Red Hook location."
Finally. A target for the rage that's been building since I found my man executed in that shipping container. I drain the vodka, feeling the burn settle in my chest. "I'll be there in an hour. Don't touch him until I arrive."
"Understood."
