Page 9 of The Bratva King

The tall man in black turns toward me.

Only then do I notice how tightly I’m gripping the edge of the table.

“Are you okay?”

Up close, he is—I don’t have a better word for it—severe. Angular jaw, thick dark brows, and the hint of a tattoo peeking from above his collar. There’s a stillness about him that feels like he’s controlling the air.

Standing this close, I feel it pressing against my skin.

He’s watching me with those pale eyes and waiting for my answer. My brain stutters. I need to speak. Words, Gabby. Find the words.

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you. You didn’t have to… I had it.”

He shows me nothing. I couldn’t say if he is angry or indifferent. His expression gives nothing away, but his eyes do. He’s pissed, but not at me.

That’s when I realize I’m looking at Nikolai Sokolov. I’ve worked here for three months but never met the man. He’s intimidating. At least he might be if I hadn’t stared evil in the face for a year straight. I know evil. He isn’t it.

“He called you a bitch,” Nikolai says.

“I’ve been called worse.” I immediately wish I hadn’t said that. It was too honest.

Something in his expression goes cold. His jaw tightens.

He really didn’t like that.

“Take a break.” It’s not unkind, but it’s also not a suggestion.

“I’m actually off,” I say. “As of ten minutes ago.”

“Then go home.”

I look at him. He looks at me. He snaps his finger and Vadim, one of the managers, rushes over.

“Where’s the replacement?”

“Late, sir.”

He looks at me again. “Go.”

I’m not going to argue. I can’t afford to lose my job.

“Right,” I say. “Yes. Okay.”

I move around him, finish the chip count, and walk away. I know he’s watching me the whole time. I can feel his gaze between my shoulder blades.

I don’t look back as I make my way to the employee area.

But damn, I want to.

I cannot have a crush on my boss. I cannot have a crush on anyone. Luke is the only man in my life.

And I know what those tattoos mean. It's the same world I ran from, and I will not do that again. There will be no falling for a mafia man, Gabby.

The employee locker room smells like hairspray and cheap perfume. I grab my purse from the narrow metal locker and trade my heels for the flats I keep stuffed in the bottom. The relief is immediate.

I check my phone. Three texts from the babysitter. The last one has a period at the end of it, which is never good.

I move fast through the lower-level corridor with my badge out, swipe through two doors, and head for the parking garage. I take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.