I know he's right, but the thought of Eva in Abram's crosshairs makes something primitive and violent surge in my chest. She's mine. My woman. And I'll burn this entire city down before I let him touch her.
"Double her security," I order. "But keep it discrete. I don't want her more frightened than she already is."
Lev nods, already texting instructions. We spend the next hour dissecting the meeting, analyzing every word, every gesture. But we keep coming back to the same conclusion. Abram is behind everything, and we still can't prove it.
"The Chinese are threatening to break the alliance completely," Lev says, reviewing reports on his phone. "Another gambling operation was hit last night. They're convinced it's us."
"And the Irish?"
"Demanding a sit-down. They want 'assurances' about our territorial intentions." Lev's tone makes it clear what that really means. An ultimatum.
My empire is crumbling, and I'm powerless to stop it without proof. The frustration is suffocating.
"What about the financial exposure?" I ask.
"David is running out of legal maneuvers. The IRS audit is expanding, more banks are freezing accounts. Whoever is feeding them information has access to real-time intelligence about our operations."
I drain my vodka, the burn familiar and useless. "We're running out of time."
"Yes." Lev's expression is grim. "We need to move against Abram soon, proof or not. Before he destroys everything."
But moving without proof means war. Means uniting the other families against us. Means risking everything I've built on a gamble that might fail.
After Lev leaves, I try to focus on the documents spread across my desk. Financial reports, shipping manifests, legal briefs. But my attention keeps drifting to Eva through the glass wall.
She's reviewing files, her brow furrowed in concentration. The afternoon light catches the blonde strands that have escaped her bun, and I remember how that hair felt tangled in my fists, how she gasped my name when I pulled it loose. My cock hardens at the memory, and I shift in my chair, trying to focus on anything except the way her dress hugs her ass when she stands to retrieve something from her filing cabinet.
Fuck, I want her. Want to strip away that professional armor and remind her how good we are together. Want to make her forget the fear, the violence, everything except the way I can make her body sing.
But she's been keeping her distance since the shooting, and I've let her, given her space to process, to heal. Even though it's killing me.
I force my attention back to the quarterly report in front of me, scanning the numbers with practiced efficiency. Then I see it. An error in the calculations. A transposition that throws off the entire projection.
My jaw tightens. This is the kind of mistake Eva never makes. She's meticulous, obsessive about accuracy. Something is wrong.
I press the intercom. "Miss Markova. My office."
Through the glass, I watch her stiffen at my tone. She gathers her notepad and stands, smoothing her skirt with hands that tremble slightly. When she enters, her professional mask is firmly in place, but I see the exhaustion beneath it, the shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide.
"You called for me, Mr. Sokolov?"
The formality grates. We're back to this. Professional distance. Careful politeness. Like we haven't been inside each other, like I haven't made her scream my name.
I hold up the file. "This report has errors. Significant errors that could have cost us in negotiations."
Eva's face goes pale. She reaches for the file with shaking hands, her brown eyes scanning the pages. "I… I'm so sorry. I don't know how I missed that. I'll correct it immediately?—"
"This isn't like you." I keep my voice controlled, but frustration bleeds through. "You're always perfect. Meticulous. What's going on?"
For a moment, she just stares at the file, her hands trembling. Then her face crumples. Tears spill down her cheeks, and before I can process what's happening, she's rushing from my office toward the bathroom, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
I stand frozen, the file forgotten in my hand. Eva doesn't cry. Not when I interrogated her about her mother's debt. Not when I had her followed. Not even after the shooting, when she had every right to fall apart.
But now she's crying over a filing error.
Suspicion coils in my gut, cold and sharp. Something is very wrong.
21
