Babies for the Boss (Forbidden Silver Foxes #20)

Chapter 1

MOLLY

My alarm goes off at six thirty, which feels like a personal attack considering I distinctly remember falling asleep sometime after two.

For a few seconds, I lie there staring at the ceiling of my tiny Brooklyn apartment, trying to remember why I agreed to live a life that involves mornings at all. Then the memories line up like dominoes.

Pavel Strakov. His schedule. The meetings. The men who show up unannounced at strange hours and leave even stranger instructions behind.

I groan, roll over, and slap at my phone until the alarm stops screaming at me. When the screen lights up, three new notifications are already waiting. That is never a good sign.

The first message is from Igor: Running late. Traffic.

The second is from the building security desk.

The third is from an unknown number and simply reads: Delivery arrived.

I stare at the messages for a moment while my brain attempts to boot itself into working order. Working for the most intimidating man in New York has taught me many things, but the most important one is this: when the day starts with cryptic messages, it’s going to be interesting.

I drag myself out of bed and shuffle toward the kitchen, where I make coffee strong enough to qualify as a controlled substance. The quiet of my apartment feels temporary, like the calm before a storm that already has my name on it.

Most people in the city have heard rumors about Pavel Strakov. They say he owns half the docks along the Hudson. Politicians return his calls before their own wives. People who cross him tend to disappear in ways that make the police very tired and very confused.

I don’t know how many of those stories are true, and it’s better that way. What I do know is that he runs an empire that never sleeps, and somehow I ended up being the one responsible for keeping his life in order.

By the time I’m dressed—pencil skirt, blouse, heels, and enough concealer to hide the fact that I sleep about as much as a caffeinated raccoon—I’ve already begun mentally rearranging Pavel’s schedule.

Eight a.m. meeting with a hedge fund manager who sweats when Pavel looks at him.

Nine thirty conference call with lawyers who pretend they don’t know exactly what kind of work our “consulting firm” does.

Eleven a.m., something that simply says Meeting, which is Pavel’s subtle way of telling me not to ask questions I probably don’t want answered.

Despite the chaos, I like the job. I really do.

There’s a strange satisfaction in keeping up with Pavel Strakov. The man moves through the world like a hurricane in an expensive suit, and I’m the one responsible for making sure the storm arrives on time. It’s a challenge, and I’ve always liked challenges.

The only real problem is Pavel himself.

Tall. Controlled. Deeply handsome in the kind of quiet way that sneaks up on you.

Silver trimmed hair, sharp eyes that miss absolutely nothing.

A presence that makes powerful men straighten their backs when he enters a room.

He rarely smiles. Or sleeps. When he speaks, it’s usually because whatever he says will become law within the next ten minutes.

Which means he is extremely off-limits.

I remind myself of that every morning on the subway ride into Manhattan. The rule is simple. Pavel Strakov is my boss. My terrifying, brilliant, completely unattainable boss. The line between us is professional and essential to my continued employment and survival.

The problem is that lately… he’s been watching me.

Not in a creepy way. But every once in a while I’ll glance up from my computer and find his eyes already on me, studying me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that refuses to behave. Each time it happens, he looks away almost immediately, as if the moment never existed.

Which is why I tell myself the same thing every time it happens.

The subway ride into Manhattan is crowded in the way only New York mornings can manage, a moving tin can full of people clutching coffee and glaring at their phones. I wedge myself between a woman in a blazer that probably costs more than my rent and a guy who smells faintly like onions.

Not exactly the glamorous life I thought I’d have in the city, but I’ll get there one day.

By the time we reach Midtown, I’ve mentally reorganized Pavel’s entire day twice and answered three emails from my phone without actually looking down at the screen. Multitasking is a survival skill here. If you can’t juggle twelve problems before breakfast, you’re not going to make it in New York.

When I step out onto the sidewalk, the city is already awake and roaring. Yellow taxis cut through traffic like aggressive fish, construction workers shout over the noise of jackhammers, and the glass towers of Midtown reflect the pale morning sun like a thousand silent witnesses.

Somewhere inside one of those towers sits the office where my day will unfold. Specifically, the top floor of the building that Pavel purchased three years ago in a deal that somehow made three competing developers quietly disappear from the negotiation process.

I didn’t ask questions then, and I’m certainly not starting now.

The lobby security guard nods when I walk in, the way people do when they recognize someone who works for a man like Pavel. It’s not fear exactly, but it lives in the same neighborhood. “Morning, Miss Bennett,” he says as I approach the elevator bank.

“Morning, Joe,” I reply brightly, because someone around here has to be cheerful. “Everything quiet today?”

Joe hesitates. That’s never a good sign. “Igor is upstairs waiting.”

That earns a small frown from me. “Great,” I mutter, pressing the elevator button. “Love that.”

It’s not that I don’t like Igor—he seems okay enough. But there’s always been something about him that doesn’t settle with me. He’s Pavel’s sovetnik, and as his advisor, he’s cunning and methodical and has a tendency to look like he’s overthinking every choice anyone has ever made.

The ride up to the top floor is smooth and fast, the elevator doors sliding open to reveal the quiet luxury of Pavel’s office suite.

Glass walls, polished marble floors, and wide windows that offer a breathtaking view of Manhattan stretching out like a glittering kingdom. It’s dramatic without being flashy.

Igor leans against my desk. That alone is strange enough to make me stop short.

Igor Tabakov does not lean.

His hair is a short white undercut that makes him look older than he is.

He’s a white man, but that’s an understatement.

He might be the whitest man; he’s so pale.

But his eyes are so dark they could be mistaken for black.

He’s dressed in his usual dark blue suit, his thin frame eaten up by it.

Not that he’s slight—just that he always buys suits a little too big for him. I’m not sure exactly why.

Because it’s easier to conceal a gun in a loose suit.

I shove that errant thought away. Don’t need to know the details. That’s why I’m overpaid for my work. I don’t ask questions I don’t need the answers to. No matter how much they eat at me.

I tilt my head at him. “I thought you were running late.”

“Traffic cleared.”

“How convenient.”

One corner of his mouth almost twitches. Almost. Igor’s version of humor is subtle enough that most people miss it entirely. I’ve learned to recognize the signs.

I drop my bag on the desk and glance toward the hallway that leads to Pavel’s office. The door is closed, which is unusual at this hour. Normally, I’m the first one here, giving me time to organize the day before Pavel arrives like a very expensive thunderstorm that rains on my parade.

Igor folds his arms, which somehow makes him look even smaller. “A gentleman is inside the office.”

I stare at him for a moment. “And you just let him sit in there?”

Igor shrugs. “He insisted.”

“That seems like something you could push back on.”

“He said Pavel would want to see him comfortable when he arrives.”

“Well, that’s ominous.”

Igor studies my expression, clearly weighing whether the situation is about to become my problem. After a moment, he nods toward the hallway. “You should get him coffee. Wouldn’t want Pavel’s guests to want for anything.”

If this guy is important enough to throw his weight around without telling Igor who he is, then Igor is right. Pavel has a variety of guests, some with names I never learn, so this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, but I hope it’s the last.

I smooth my skirt, take a breath, and start walking toward Pavel’s door.

The glass panel beside the door is frosted, which means I can’t see inside, but I can feel the presence of someone in there the same way you can feel when someone is standing too close behind you in line at the grocery store.

It’s a strange awareness that prickles at the back of my neck.

Behind me, Igor is pretending not to watch.

If this goes badly, he’ll be here before I can blink. That thought gives me just enough confidence to knock lightly on the door.

No answer. Which is mildly rude, considering someone is definitely inside.

I open the door anyway. “Good morning,” I call out in my most professional voice as I step inside the office.

Pavel’s office is deceptively intimidating. The desk is enormous and dark wood, the chairs across from it deliberately uncomfortable-looking, and the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk frame Manhattan like the city itself is reporting for duty.

Sitting in one of the guest chairs, facing the windows, is a man. He turns slowly when he hears my voice. For a moment, we just look at each other.

He’s tall, even seated. Mid-forties, white. Dark hair, sharp features, the kind of face that looks like it’s used to making decisions that ruin other people’s days. His suit is expensive but slightly rumpled, as if he’s been traveling or simply doesn’t care how he looks.

He studies me carefully, his eyes moving over my face in a quiet, assessing way that makes it clear he’s used to evaluating situations quickly.

I smile brightly. “Hi,” I say, because Kansas friendliness is my default setting and it has gotten me through a surprising number of tense meetings. “Welcome to Strakov Enterprises. I’m Molly Bennett, Mr. Strakov’s assistant.”

The man doesn’t respond immediately.

Instead, he leans back slightly in the chair, crossing one ankle over his knee as if he has absolutely no intention of being rushed. The silence stretches for a few seconds before he finally speaks. “I am here to see Pavel Strakov.”

The accent is noticeable but not heavy, the words careful and precise.

“Well, you’re definitely in the right office,” I reply, stepping a little farther into the room. “He’ll be here shortly. His mornings tend to start early.”

The man nods once, like that confirms something he already suspected.

“Can I get you coffee while you wait? Water? A breakfast pastry that looks healthy but secretly isn’t?”

One corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “You are very kind.”

“Thank you. Can I—”

“How long have you worked for him?”

Odd question. “Three years.”

“And you like this work?”

The question is unexpected enough to make me pause. But the answer comes easily. “I do. It’s never boring.”

That earns a quiet huff of something that might be amusement.

Before I can ask the obvious follow-up—like who he is and why he’s sitting in my boss’s chair before seven thirty in the morning—the office door opens behind me.

I don’t need to turn around to know who just walked in. You can feel Pavel Strakov entering a room the way you feel a sudden drop in temperature.

“Molly.” His voice is calm and low, the single word cutting cleanly through the quiet.

I turn, and like every other morning when I first see him, time stops.

Pavel stands in the doorway, tall and composed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit.

All his suits are tailored—he’s too big to buy off the rack, not that he would.

His prominent nose has been broken at least once, but somehow, it suits him.

That square jaw makes him look as though he could bite through steel.

Pavel could have been a linebacker in a former life. Near six and a half feet tall, a body thick with muscle. His silver hair is styled neatly, and his gaze moves from me to the man sitting in the chair. The air in the room tightens in a way that makes my instincts sharpen immediately.

“Good morning,” I say brightly, because my role in life has always been to provide emotional balance to extremely tense situations. Thanks, Dad. I needlessly say, “You have a visitor.”

Pavel’s eyes flick briefly back to mine before returning to the man across the room. Neither of them speaks for a moment. The silence feels deliberate. Like the opening move in a chess game that I definitely don’t understand yet.

Not the first time I’ve seen this move, though. Pavel says more with silence than most people could with a full dictionary.

When he locks eyes with me, I fight a shiver. Not due to his coldness, though he is that. There’s something else in his icy blue gaze that burns through me. Something that would read like interest in another man.

In Pavel Strakov, it might mean nothing.

His slight nod toward the main lobby is all I need for a dismissal. I’m happy to leave the tense room. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.” And with that, I escape.

Igor smirks, still posted at my desk. “Not a friendly guest.”

“Hardly. Is there something I can do for you?”

A slight huff. “I was here to do things for you, Molly.”

My brow drops in confusion. “Come again?”

“Why do you think I am here? To take up space?”

“You’re taking up space on my desk right now, so… wait. The guy in the office…” I lean in and drop my voice. “Is he dangerous or something?”

Only then does Igor stop leaning on my desk. He straightens, still wearing that smirk. “Life is dangerous. Be well, Molly.” With that, he leaves me behind and slips into the elevator down the hall.

Great. Another mystery to add to the heap.