My boss is a criminal. Not just involved in something shady, not just bending rules. He's a violent man who does violent things. The kind of things that leave blood on expensive shirt cuffs.
The realization should make me quit, should send me running from this gleaming office, from the man who watches me like a predator deciding whether to strike. But I think of Alexei'stextbooks, Babushka Sasha's medications, the debt that never shrinks no matter how much I pay. I need this job too desperately.
And that makes me complicit in whatever Roman does.
"You may return to work, Miss Markova." His voice is low, dismissive, and I stand on shaking legs.
I walk back to my office, feeling his eyes on me the entire way. Through the glass wall, I watch him roll down his sleeves, covering the prison tattoos and whatever else he doesn't want me to see. My stomach churns with a sick mixture of fear and something darker I don't want to examine.
The next two weeks pass in a haze of hypervigilance. I pay obsessive attention to everyone who enters the office now, cataloging details I'd previously ignored.
The men in expensive suits who carry themselves like soldiers. I notice the bulges under their jackets now, the way their hands drift toward their hips when someone approaches too quickly. Weapons. They're carrying weapons in a corporate office, and no one seems to think this is strange.
I watch how they defer to Roman with a fear that goes beyond professional respect. They don't just respect him. They're terrified of him. The way they straighten when he enters a room, the careful neutrality of their expressions, the speed with which they obey his commands. This isn't normal corporate hierarchy. This is something else entirely.
Lev Baranov moves through the office like smoke, his dark eyes calculating and dangerous. I catch him watching me sometimes, his expression unreadable. Does he know I've figured it out? Is he waiting to see what I'll do with the knowledge?
David Brennan, the lawyer, speaks in careful legal language during his frequent visits. But I notice things now. The way he arrives after hours. The files he carries that never make it into the digital system. The conversations that stop abruptly when I enter Roman's office with coffee. He's not handling mergers and acquisitions. He's cleaning up messes that have nothing to do with corporate law.
Even the clients who visit Roman's office. I study their faces now, their body language, the way they speak. Some are clearly legitimate businessmen, nervous and deferential. But others carry themselves with the same dangerous confidence as Roman's men. I wonder which ones are criminals like him, which ones are here to discuss things that would make my blood run cold.
And then I remember our conversation a while ago, when I found out Roman was having me followed for "protection". He'd told me he was a Pakhan, a Mafia boss, but for some reason, that flew over my head. Why hadn't I listened to him then? But I was extremely angry at that time because he was invading my life with security.
Only Natasha seems innocent, and I find myself gravitating toward the nervous secretary during breaks. We drink coffee in the kitchen, and she confides things she probably shouldn't.
"I've been terrified of him for three years," she admits one afternoon, her pale blue eyes red-rimmed. "But the money is too good to leave. My daughters need things. My husband's construction work isn't steady." Her hands shake as she clutches her coffee mug. "So I stay. I do my job perfectly. I don't ask questions."
I understand that calculation intimately. The way desperation makes you compromise your morals, makes you accept things you know are wrong. We're both trapped by our needs, both complicit in whatever happens in this building.
I avoid Roman as much as possible, maintaining professional distance, speaking only when necessary. I bring him his coffee at precisely the right temperature, organize his files with meticulous care, handle his calls with practiced efficiency. But I don't meet his eyes. Don't linger in his office. Don't allow myself to remember the way his hands felt on my body, the heat of his mouth against mine.
But I feel his attention constantly. Through the glass wall, I catch him watching me. His blue eyes track my movements as I work, as I walk past his office, as I lean over my desk to retrieve a file. The knowledge makes my skin flush with heat I have no right to feel.
He doesn't push. Doesn't demand explanations for my coldness. He simply watches and waits, and somehow, that's worse than if he'd confronted me. It's like he knows I'll break eventually, that the attraction between us is too strong to ignore forever.
At night, alone in my narrow bed, I hate myself for the way my body responds to memories of him. The way my thighs clench when I remember his hands gripping my hips, his mouth claiming mine with devastating precision. I'm attracted to a monster, and I don't know how to make it stop.
The Sunday video calls with Alexei become torture.
I sit on the fire escape with my laptop, watching my brother's face fill the screen. He's so excited about his engineering project, explaining load-bearing calculations with enthusiasmthat makes my chest ache. He got top marks in physics again and the professor thinks he should start visiting universities.
"Maybe MIT," Alexei says, his eyes bright with hope. "Or Stanford. Can you imagine, Eva? Me at an American university?"
I can imagine it. I imagine it constantly. But I also imagine the cost, the impossibility of making his dreams real when I'm drowning in debt and working for a man who might be a murderer.
"That's wonderful,malysh," I manage, my voice thick with unshed tears.
After the call ends, I sit on the fire escape and cry quietly, careful not to wake Megan. I'm working for a monster to pay for my brother's dreams. The knowledge sits heavily in my chest, crushing the air from my lungs.
Babushka Sasha calls later, her lined face filling the screen with concern. "Something is wrong,vnuchka. I can see it in your eyes."
"I'm fine, Babushka. Just tired from work."
"You work too hard. You look thin. Are you eating enough?"
I lie smoothly, promises spilling from my lips like water. Everything is fine. The job is good. I'm taking care of myself. Each lie tastes like ash on my tongue, but I can't tell her the truth, can't admit that I'm trapped in a cage of my own desperation.
By Friday evening, I'm exhausted and emotionally drained. The weight of what I know, what I'm choosing to ignore, presses down on my shoulders like a physical burden. I just want to gohome, crawl into bed, and pretend for a few hours that my life is normal.
