I close the envelope slowly, my mind spinning.
Part of me is genuinely annoyed—this was pushy, borderline rude, and completely outside how I normally take on clients. But another part, the same traitorous part that had fallen apart in the shower earlier, feels a strange flutter of excitement. Kirill hasn’t forgotten. He’s followed through exactly as he’d said he would.
Just like a Daddy might…
“Urgh,” I grumble. “No.”
I take a slow sip of my now-lukewarm protein shake and looked out the window again.
“Bossy much?” I mutter under my breath, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips despite myself.
Still, as I save the new client details into my spreadsheet and try to refocus on my plans, one question keeps circling:
What exactly had I just gotten myself into?
Chapter 4
Kirill
The realtor fumbles slightly with the heavy brass key as we step into the foyer of the apartment.
The building is one of those old-money relics that still stands proud in the city’s historic district—pre-war construction with bones that no modern glass tower can match.
Mahogany paneling lines the walls, rich and dark, absorbing the light in a way that makes the space feel both intimate and imposing. High ceilings soar above us, adorned with intricate crown molding and subtle plasterwork that speaks of a time when craftsmanship matters more than speed.
This is a place fit for a pakhan, there’s no doubting that.
A grand fireplace dominates the living room, its marble surround veined with gray and gold. It is functional, the realtor has assured me—gas logs now, but the original chimney still draws perfectly. I can already picture a low fire crackling on colder nights, casting flickering shadows across the room while I conduct business or simply allow myself a rare moment of stillness.
“Rent is twenty-eight thousand per month,” the realtor says, his voice carefully modulated.
He keeps his eyes slightly lowered, shoulders straight but not challenging.
Smart man.
Word travels fast in certain circles, and even if he doesn’t know the full extent of who I am, he senses enough. Messing with Kirill Antonov is not a wise career move.
“Utilities included in the maintenance fee,” he continues. “The building has excellent security. Doorman, cameras, private elevator access for this unit.”
I walk slowly through the open-plan living and dining area, my shoes echoing softly on the polished hardwood.
The kitchen is modernized but respectful of the original architecture—black granite counters, stainless appliances that gleam under recessed lighting, yet the cabinetry retains warm walnut tones. No cheap flips here. This place has history.
“Acceptable,” I say, my voice low. Money is irrelevant. The Antonov family has more legitimate and less legitimate streams of income than most corporations.
What matters is the feel.
Defensibility.
Privacy.
It needs to be a place where I can think without the constant hum of the city pressing in too closely, yet still close enough to the financial district and our key operations.
The realtor nods quickly. “Of course, Mr. Antonov. The previous tenant was a diplomat who appreciated the discretion of the building.”
I stop near the tall windows overlooking the street. “I will take it. But I want time alone to walk through. Make sure it fits.”
The realtor doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. Take as long as you need. I’ll wait downstairs in the lobby. Just let the doorman know when you’re ready to leave, and I’ll handle the paperwork this afternoon.”
