"If you hurt her—" Tyler starts, his voice shaking.
"I won't." The promise comes out harder than I intend. "But your concern is noted."
Tyler holds my gaze for a long moment, trying to find something in my expression that will give him hope, some crack in my armor that suggests Eva might still be saved. He finds nothing. Finally, his shoulders slump in defeat.
"You'd better not," he whispers, then turns toward the elevator.
I watch him go, this lovesick fool who came here armed with nothing but courage and heartbreak. The elevator doors close on his dejected figure, and silence settles over my office.
Lev pulls out his phone, his fingers already moving across the screen. I don't need to give the order. He knows what needs to be done.
"Have him followed," I say anyway, making it official. "Twenty-four-hour surveillance. I want to know everywhere he goes, everyone he talks to, everything he does."
Lev nods, his dark eyes meeting mine with understanding. "You think he's a threat?"
I consider the question, thinking about Tyler's tears, his desperate love, his amateur investigation into my operations. "I think he's a lovesick fool who might do something stupid to 'save' Eva. Monitor him. Assess the risk. If he becomes a problem…"
I don't finish the sentence. I don't need to.
29
EVA
I'm reviewing quarterly reports when Natasha's voice crackles over the intercom, higher-pitched than usual. "Miss Markova, you have a visitor in reception."
I glance up from my computer screen, my brow furrowing. I'm not expecting anyone, and Roman's security doesn't typically let people through without advance notice. Through the glass wall separating my office from Roman's, I catch his eye. He's on the phone, speaking low Russian, but his blue gaze sharpens with interest at the interruption.
I stand, smoothing my navy dress over my still-flat stomach, and make my way to the reception area. The woman waiting there is stunning in a way that makes my stomach clench with immediate unease. She's tall, elegant, wearing an emerald dress that probably costs more than my old monthly rent. Her dark hair is swept up in a sophisticated chignon, and her green eyes assess me with the practiced precision of someone who knows exactly how to measure value.
I've seen her before, with Lev. His girlfriend, but we've never been properly introduced.
"Eva Markova?" Her smile is beautiful and completely calculated. "I'm Irina Titova. Lev's girlfriend."
I extend my hand, my professional armor snapping into place. "Of course. It's nice to meet you."
Her handshake is firm, her skin cool against mine. "I was hoping you might have time for lunch? After all, you're marrying the Pakhan, and Roman and Lev are practically brothers. We should get to know each other, don't you think?"
Every instinct I possess screams caution. There's something predatory in the way she watches me, something calculating behind that polished smile. But refusing would seem suspicious, would create tension I can't afford. I force warmth into my voice. "That would be lovely. Let me just grab my purse."
I return to my office, acutely aware of Roman's attention tracking my movements, then collect my bag and coat and pause at his doorway. He's ended his call, his blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Irina Titova wants to take me to lunch," I say quietly.
Something flickers in his expression, too quick to identify. "Be careful with her."
The warning makes my pulse quicken, but I nod. Roman stands, moving around his desk with that predatory grace that always makes my breath catch. He's wearing a charcoal suit today, the fabric stretching across his broad shoulders in a way that makes my fingers itch to touch. He stops close enough that I catch thescent of his cologne, and my body responds with embarrassing eagerness despite the professional setting.
"If you need anything," he says, his accent thicker than usual, "call me immediately."
I want to ask what he's worried about, what threat Irina might represent. But Lev's girlfriend is waiting in reception, and I can't afford to show weakness. "I will."
Roman's hand lifts, his fingers brushing my cheek with surprising gentleness. The touch sends heat flooding through me, and I see his pupils dilate as he notices my reaction. For a moment, I think he might kiss me right here, in full view of anyone who might pass by. Instead, he steps back, his jaw tight with restraint.
"Go. But remember what I said."
The restaurant Irina chooses makes my stomach clench with familiar anxiety. It's the kind of upscale Midtown establishment where a salad costs more than my old weekly grocery budget, where the waitstaff move with practiced deference and the clientele drip with old money. I follow Irina inside, my worn coat suddenly feeling shabby despite my best efforts to maintain appearances.
We're seated at a corner table with a view of the street, and I'm acutely aware of how out of place I feel. Irina orders a bottle of expensive wine without hesitation, her French pronunciation flawless. When the sommelier pours, she lifts her glass expectantly.
