"Set it up," I say. "This week. And get me everything we have on their recent activity. Financials, movements, associates. I want to know what Luca knows before I sit down with him."
"Done." A pause. "And the omega?"
"What about him?"
"If the Castellanos put him here, a sit-down is where they'll use it. Luca will want to see how you react when he mentions him."
I shrug. “We didn’t throw him out. They’ll know he’s here. They’ll know we kept an omega. Whatever they say, it’ll give us more information.”
“Sir—"
"I'll handle Luca," I say.
"You keep saying that."
"Because I keep meaning it."
Viktor looks at me for a long moment. Then he nods and leaves.
I go back to the window and stand there until the fog begins to burn off.
I should work on the quarterly projections. They're due to my father by Friday and if the numbers don't improve, the conversation that follows will be one I'd rather avoid.
Nikolai Novikov does not accept narrative explanations for falling revenue. He accepts solutions or he accepts your resignation, and in our line of work, resignation carries its own implications.
I sit at the desk and open the projections file. I make it through two pages before I pull up the surveillance feed again.
Theo is still at the desk. He's taken off the too-big shirt and is sitting in a plain white t-shirt underneath. It fits him better. I can see the line of his shoulders, the shift of muscle in his arms as he types. He's thin. Too thin. My omega doesn’t look like he eats properly.
I call the kitchen.
"Send a lunch tray to the office on twenty," I say. "The small one at the end of the corridor."
"What would you like on it, Mr. Novikov?"
I have no idea what he eats. I think of the minibar report from his suite last night. Four packets of cashew nuts.
"A club sandwich. Soup. Whatever the kitchen is running today. Coffee, Fruit. Water."
"Right away, sir."
I hang up and go back to the projections. Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen runner appears on the feed, setting a tray beside the keyboard. Theo glances at it.
He pulls the coffee toward him and drinks it black, without pausing in his work. After a few minutes he picks up the sandwich, takes a bite, sets it down, keeps typing. He eats the whole thing in stages over the next half hour, never fully stopping.
I force myself to close the feed and work on the projections. Two hours. Three calls. A security briefing for a VIP event scheduled for next week. Normal work. The work that keeps the empire standing.
I can’t help it. He’s right there on my screen where I can see him. I keep watching.
Theo is leaning back in his chair. He stretches his arms above his head. The t-shirt rides up. A strip of pale skin appears between the hem and the waistband of his pants. His stomach is flat, the ridge of his hip bone visible for a second before the shirt falls back.
My mouth goes dry.
He runs his hands through his hair. He pushes it back from his forehead and the movement exposes his neck.
I should close the feed. There is a long list of things I should be doing and none of them involve this.
He leans forward again, reading something, his lips moving slightly. His fingers are long and delicate. I watch them and I think about them and I think about where I want them.
