Chapter 6
DAMIEN
The moment I’m informed that two of Rurik Vasiliev’s foot soldiers have stepped into my building, I close the secure communication feed without ceremony.
I dismiss the staff I’d been meeting with from the conference room and watch them leave, quick and quiet.
My cousin Radimir is already waiting in the hallway, his broad shoulders stiff, his jaw set as if daring someone to cross him.
“They’re in your office,” he says calmly. “They refused to hand over their weapons.”
My fingers curl into a fist before I register it, and heat spreads low in my chest, a slow, deliberate burn.
“Then let’s go greet our guests,” I say.
We step out and head down the hall, past the private reception suite, to my office. Two guards are posted near the entrance. One of them nods as we pass, already reaching for the silent alarm beneath his lapel. He doesn’t press it yet. He waits for my signal.
The Vasiliev men are seated like they own the place.
One leans forward with his elbows on his knees.
The other sits back, arms crossed, pretending he’s not impressed with the view of Midtown beyond the panoramic windows.
Both wear black wool coats over black suits, and both have an arrogant gleam in their eyes. This isn’t a visit. It’s a warning.
My assistant scurries to the door, her tablet hugged tight to her chest, her posture stiff. I can see an explanation forming on her lips, an unnecessary excuse, because it isn’t her fault these assholes barged into my office. What could she have done to stop it?
“You can go, Andrea.”
She doesn’t wait. She rushes out so fast the glass doors don’t have time to close before she’s gone around the corner.
The man on the left, Demyan, if I’m not mistaken, shifts slightly, enough to let the inside of his coat flare open. The silver glint of his gun catches my eye, exactly as he intended. He wants to intimidate me in my own territory. It’s a bold move. Idiotic, but bold.
“I assume you came here with a death wish,” I say evenly.
Demyan lets out a nervous chuckle. He clears his throat and sits up a little straighter. “We came with a message,” he says.
“Mm.” I tilt my head slightly. “And what message requires you to walk into my legitimate place of business carrying unlicensed weapons?”
The second man, Boris, speaks up, his voice low.
“This isn’t about business.”
“Then you’re even dumber than I thought,” I say, taking two slow steps into the room. “Because this,” I say, gesturing at the space, the city, the skyline beyond the windows, “is my business.”
They both go still, eyes on me. I can feel Radimir tense beside me, but he says nothing.
“You want to warn me off Rurik,” I say, dragging a chair away from the table and sitting down with deliberate calm. “So go on. Say the words. Let me hear them.”
Demyan leans forward again. “If you touch him again, you’ll regret it.”
I smile, but it never reaches my eyes. “Interesting,” I say. “That Rurik isn’t man enough to say this to me himself.”
“You’ve made enough noise already,” Boris growls. “You hit the docks. You took out six of our men—”
“Correction,” I interrupt. “Your boss took out six of your men by sending them to interfere with my business. I just cleaned up the mess.”
“You think you can walk away from this?” Demyan snaps. “There’s a price for going after a Vasiliev.”
I laugh under my breath. They still don’t realize they’re merely prey who’ve walked into a loaded trap.
“You come into my company,” I say, standing slowly, letting the chair creak back behind me. “You bring weapons into my building. You make a threat against me on the top floor of a skyscraper I own.”
I step closer, until I’m in front of them. Until they have to look up.
“You’ll be lucky to get out of here with your heads intact.”
Boris pushes to his feet. He’s taller than Demyan, broader through the chest. He’s clearly an enforcer, likely used to being the scariest one in the room. Unfortunately, his act doesn’t work on me. I don’t even blink.
“You had a lot of guts coming here,” I say, folding my hands behind my back. “Too bad I have to make examples of you. You work for the wrong boss.”
Demyan’s jaw twitches. “You wouldn’t dare—”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re very bad at recognizing your position.”
And then I nod.
At my signal, Radimir moves. The hallway doors open again and two of my men step in, silent and fast. In less than five seconds, both Vasiliev men are disarmed, spun around, and shoved to their knees. There’s the slap of zip ties, the hiss of fabric as black cloth hoods are pulled over their heads.
Demyan snarls a threat in Russian.
One of my men elbows him hard in the ribs. “Quiet.”
Radimir adjusts his jacket cuffs, as if they’re the most interesting thing to see in the room.
“What do you want to send back with the bodies?”
I let my gaze sweep the skyline outside for a moment before turning back to him. “You’re the creative one.” I grin. “You decide.”
Radimir grins wickedly. He crouches next to Demyan and whispers something I can’t hear, but I see the way Demyan reacts. His shoulders go stiff, like he’s afraid.
The two men are hauled to their feet, their curses muffled by the sacks now tied securely over their faces. My men drag them toward the back exit, toward the freight elevator that leads to the sublevel where there are no cameras and no questions asked.
I return to my seat and lower myself into it with slow, controlled precision. Radimir doesn’t follow them out. He closes the doors gently and returns to stand across from me.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I think they knew this was a suicide run.”
“Good,” I say. “That means Rurik knows I’m dangerous.”
Radimir nods.
“Have the cleanup team ready,” I add. “No blood on the freight deck. No trace they were ever here.”
“You got it, boss.”
I let silence settle between us for a moment. I can still feel the heat in my bloodstream, that chemical spike of controlled fury that always comes with a challenge to my territory. It’ll fade soon, though not entirely.
Radimir crosses his arms. “This will escalate things.”
I look up at him. “That’s the point.”
He inclines his head.
“I want Rurik watching his back every time he leaves his house,” I say quietly. “I want his men paranoid and sloppy. The more noise he makes, the more attention I can draw to his offshore holdings.”
Radimir’s mouth twitches. “He’ll know you’re coming.”
I rub my thumb along the edge of my desk. Then I exhale and press the intercom. “Andrea,” I say. “You can come back in.”
There’s a pause before her brief, “Yes, sir.”
A moment later, the door creaks open and Andrea steps inside, her tablet still hugged to her chest like a shield. Her heels click against the polished floor, quieter than usual. Her face is pale, her expression composed, but only barely.
“I’m sorry about the interruption,” I say, rising from my chair. “You handled it well.”
She blinks at me as if she wasn’t expecting that. Most days I’m not in the habit of apologizing. Today is an exception.
“They breezed right past security,” she says softly. “I didn’t even know who they were. But everyone saw them.”
I nod. “I’m sure they did.”
“Based on the Slack channel, everyone is a little shaken.”
Of course they are. My employees are civilians. They’re programmers, analysts, recruiters, all buttoned-up professionals. Most of them have probably never seen a weapon outside of a movie screen.
“I’ll handle it,” I say. “You can get back to work.”
Downstairs, the elevator doors open to a low murmur of voices. It’s not the usual productive hum of a tech company mid-morning. It’s clipped and nervous, the sound of people who are trying not to seem panicked. The glass-walled lobby buzzes with a tight, uneasy energy.
I scan the space. Most of the programmers are still at their desks, but every cluster has someone whispering. Others hover near the breakroom and copy machines. Eyes flick toward the hallway where the Vasiliev men must have entered. No one is working.
Of course they aren’t. They’re scared. And most of them don’t even know why.
I step out onto the work floor and immediately the air shifts again. My presence has always quieted a room. I don’t like to talk unless it’s necessary, and when I do, I expect every word to land.
I let my eyes sweep the floor. A few of the managers straighten at the sight of me.
“I’m sorry for any disturbance those men may have caused earlier,” I say smoothly.
“They were part of a security training assessment. They were instructed to observe how our employees react to unexpected conditions. They were not supposed to be carrying visible firearms, and for that, I am very sorry.”
Eyebrows shoot up, but no one questions me.
“They’ve been reprimanded,” I continue. “I can assure you all it won’t happen again. Now, please get back to work.”
The mood of the floor seems to shift, and by the time I reach the center of the office, I’ve delivered enough of a performance to put the story in place. It’ll hold. Just in case, I text Andrea to keep an eye on the company chat for the rest of the day.
When I look up, I see Lyra standing near the kitchenette, a small circle of women gathered around her.
Their faces are pale, their expressions tight, and at least two have red-rimmed eyes.
One of them wrings her hands. Another looks like she hasn’t blinked in several minutes.
Lyra stands with her back to me, her voice low and steady, her hands moving gently as she speaks.
She’s calming them.
The others are nodding, slowly at first, then with more confidence. One of them even laughs. The others smile weakly, grateful. Lyra just keeps talking, her posture relaxed, her tone patient.
She’s better at this than most of my PR team.
I move toward them, my footsteps silent on the polished floor. As I approach, I catch the last bit of what she’s saying.
“Trust me, compared to some of the creeps I used to serve at Maison Royale, they were golden retrievers.”
More laughter. Another woman touches Lyra’s arm lightly, then turns to go. One by one, they break off, returning to their desks. She’s put them all at ease with just a few words, and it’s only her first day.
She turns and sees me. For a moment, her eyes widen, but she doesn’t flinch. She just watches me.
Her hair is half-pinned today, loose curls escaping around her face. Her blouse is crisp, tucked perfectly into a dark skirt that ends just above the knee. She looks extremely professional and in control.
I step closer, letting the space between us shrink. Close enough that I can see the faint line where her lipstick wore off from biting her lip. So not as in control as she’d like her co-workers to think.
“Ms. Taylor,” I say quietly. “Well done.”
Her brows lift just slightly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You did more than half my department heads,” I say.
She doesn’t smile, but her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to.
I glance around once, ensuring no one is watching us too closely, then lower my voice even further. “I’d like a word. In my office. One hour.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows, but she nods. “Yes, sir.”