"Yes, Mr. Sokolov."
The drive to the docks takes thirty minutes in morning traffic. Lev is waiting in his black SUV, his expression grim. We walk the perimeter together, reviewing the situation. Three shipping containers that should have been unloaded yesterday are still sitting on the dock, surrounded by orange safety cones and official-looking paperwork.
"Same pattern as last week," Lev says, his voice low. "Complaints filed through proper channels, everything technically legitimate. But the timing is too precise. Someone knows our schedules, knows which shipments matter."
I study the containers, my mind calculating losses. The delays are costing money, but more importantly, they're making me look weak. My associates are starting to ask questions. My rivals are watching, waiting to see how I respond.
We spend another hour at the docks, issuing orders, reviewing security footage. By the time I return to the office, it's past noon. Eva is at her desk, efficiently handling phones and organizing files. She's made progress on everything I assigned, the color-coded system I use now perfectly implemented.
David Brennan is waiting in my office, his titanium-framed glasses reflecting the afternoon light. He stands when I enter, his expression professionally neutral.
"We need to talk about the dock situation," he says, settling into the chair across from my desk. "The delays are technically legitimate. Proper paperwork, official complaints through theright channels. Whoever is orchestrating this understands how to weaponize bureaucracy."
"Yakovlev." I don't phrase it as a question.
"Possibly. Probably. But we have no proof." David removes his glasses, cleaning them with methodical precision. "The lending company connected to your secretary's mother's debt is definitely part of Abram's network. We've confirmed that much. But whether Miss Markova knows about the connection…" He trails off, his green eyes sharp. "What's your assessment?"
I think about Eva's composure, her competence, the way she handles every task with quiet efficiency. "Either she's genuine, or she's the best plant I've ever seen."
"Then we need to know which." David replaces his glasses. "Soon. Before this escalates further."
After David leaves, I call Eva into my office. She enters with her notepad, ready to take dictation, but I have other plans. I hand her a file containing shipping manifests, the kind of documents that would mean nothing to a civilian but everything to someone looking for patterns in my operations.
"I need you to cross-reference these manifests with the quarterly reports," I tell her, watching her face carefully. "Look for any discrepancies in timing or quantities."
She takes the file, flipping through pages with focused attention. If she recognizes what she's looking at, she gives no indication. "What kind of discrepancies should I be looking for?"
"Anything that seems unusual. Trust your instincts."
She nods and returns to her office. I watch through the glass wall as she works, her brow furrowed in concentration. She makesnotes, cross-references documents, asks intelligent questions when she needs clarification. But she never shows recognition beyond what's necessary for the task. Never lingers on details that would interest someone gathering intelligence.
The afternoon drags on. I make calls, review reports, handle the endless business of running an empire. But my attention keeps drifting to Eva. The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear when she's thinking. The way she straightens papers that are already straight. The curve of her neck when she bends over her desk.
I want her. The attraction is becoming impossible to ignore, a constant hum beneath my skin. I imagine pulling that sleek bun loose, tangling my fingers in her blonde hair. Bending her over my desk and making her gasp my name. Watching those careful brown eyes go dark with desire.
Focus, you fool.
At five o'clock, Eva gathers her things and prepares to leave. I watch from my window as she exits the building, her small figure disappearing into the evening crowd. My phone is already in my hand, calling my security chief.
"Have her followed," I order. "I want to know everywhere she goes, everyone she meets. Report back tonight."
The order makes me feel like a paranoid bastard, but I didn't survive this long by ignoring signs. If Eva is working for Abram, I need to know. If she's innocent, I need to be certain.
I pour myself vodka and return to the window, watching the city lights flicker to life. Somewhere out there, Eva Markova is living her life, unaware that I'm having her followed, that I'mquestioning everything about her. The thought sits heavily in my chest.
My phone rings at 8:30. The docks.
"We have a situation," my security chief says, his voice tight. "You need to get here now."
The drive takes twenty minutes. Lev is already there, his expression grim in the harsh dock lights. He leads me to a shipping container at the far end of the pier. Inside, one of my men lies in a pool of blood, a single bullet hole in the back of his head. Execution-style.
5
EVA
The alarm on my phone doesn't wake me because I'm already awake, staring at the ceiling of my makeshift bedroom while dawn creeps around the edges of the curtain dividing our living room. Sunday mornings are always the hardest. I extract myself from the narrow bed with practiced silence, navigating around Megan's sleeping form on the other side of the fabric barrier.
The kitchen is barely big enough for one person, but I move through the familiar routine on autopilot. Coffee brewing, the cheap kind that tastes like burnt rubber but costs half as much as the good stuff. While it drips, I pull on an oversized sweater against the morning chill and grab my laptop.
