"Tell me about the docks," I say, changing the subject.
Lev's expression shifts to business. "Three shipments delayed in the past two weeks. Different excuses each time. Safety concerns, paperwork issues, dock worker complaints. But the pattern is consistent."
"Someone's testing us."
"That's my assessment." Lev pulls out his phone and swipes through photos. "The delays are costing us money, but more importantly, they're making us look weak. Our associates are starting to ask questions."
I study the photos. Shipping containers, dock manifests, time stamps. Small problems, individually insignificant. But together, they form a pattern I don't like.
"Increase security at the docks," I order. "I want surveillance on every worker who filed a complaint. Find out who they're connected to."
"Already in progress." Lev pockets his phone. "But Roman, if this is Yakovlev…"
"We need proof before we move." I cut him off. "Abram is careful. He won't leave evidence that traces back to him."
"Then we make him careless." Lev's smile is cold. "Apply pressure. See where he breaks."
We spend the next hour discussing strategy, making calls, issuing orders. This is what I'm good at. Control. Planning. Executing with ruthless efficiency. My world makes sense when I'm handling business, when I'm the Pakhan making decisions that affect hundreds of lives.
But throughout it all, I'm aware of Eva still working in the adjacent office. Her silhouette visible through the glass. The light from her desk lamp creating a halo around her blonde hair.
When Lev finally leaves, it's past ten. The forty-second floor is empty except for Eva and me. I should go home. Should let her finish her work and leave. But instead, I find myself walking to her office.
She looks up when I enter, surprise flickering across her face before she masks it with professional composure.
"Mr. Sokolov. Do you need something?"
"You should go home." I lean against her doorframe, my arms crossed. "You've done enough for your first day."
"I wanted to finish reorganizing these files." She gestures to the neat stacks on her desk. "Make sure everything is correct."
"It can wait until tomorrow."
She hesitates, then nods. "Of course."
I watch as she gathers her things. Her movements are efficient, practiced. She pulls on a coat that's seen better days, the fabric worn at the cuffs.
"Goodnight, Mr. Sokolov." She moves past me toward the elevator, her perfume lingering in the air.
"Eva." Her first name feels strange on my tongue. Intimate. She turns, her brown eyes questioning. "You did well today. Despite the mistake."
Something softens in her expression. "Thank you."
Then she's gone, the elevator doors closing on her tired but determined face.
I return to my office and pour myself vodka, neat. The city spreads out below my windows, lights glittering like stars. My kingdom. Everything I've built from nothing, from blood and ambition and the willingness to do what others won't.
I should review the shipping manifests Lev left. Should make more calls, handle more business. But instead, I open my laptopand pull up the background check my security team compiled on Eva Markova before she was hired.
Standard procedure. We investigate everyone who works in this building, especially anyone with access to my floor. I skim through the information I already know—born in Russia, immigrated at nineteen, mother died of cancer two years ago. Student loans, medical debt. A brother and grandmother still in Russia.
Then I see it. A detail buried in the financial records that raises my hackles.
Eva's mother's medical debt was financed through a company called MediFund Solutions. The name is familiar. Too familiar. I pull up another file, cross-referencing the information.
There.
MediFund Solutions has been flagged in my organization's intelligence reports as a predatory lending scheme. One that's possibly connected to Abram Yakovlev's operations. They target immigrant families, offering financing for medical emergencies at interest rates that ensure the debt can never be repaid. It's a trap designed to create leverage, to own people through their desperation.
