Chapter 20 Zatanna
ZATANNA
I spend the rest of the evening trying not to think about him.
Which is impossible, obviously.
Because apparently Aleksei Vasiliev can put his mouth between my legs in a restaurant bathroom, rescue me from being shoved into a car by armed strangers, wrap me in his coat like I matter, and then walk into the office the next morning and act like I’m a spreadsheet he already signed off on.
It’s deranged. Actually deranged.
And the worst part is that I’m supposed to be the angry one.
I’m the one who should be ignoring him. I’m the one who should be avoiding eye contact, avoiding his office, avoiding every dark thought that begins with his mouth and ends with me doing something very stupid on a desk.
Instead, he’s the one pretending nothing happened.
And it’s torture.
Because every time he passes my desk without looking at me, I want to grab him by his expensive tie and ask him what the hell he thinks he’s doing. Every time he routes something through Vivian instead of speaking to me directly, I feel this stupid little sting in my chest that I absolutely resent.
I should not be emotionally affected by a man who literally told me I complicate things.
And yet here I am. Acting complicated.
By noon, the hurt has curdled into something sharper: curiosity.
Because the more I replay last night, the less sense any of it makes.
Men with guns. A dark sedan. Aleksei moving like violence lives in his bloodstream. And then that line in his office, all cold and devastating: my enemies are paying attention.
What kind of billionaire has enemies like that?
Not the normal kind.
Not the tech-bro-on-a-magazine-cover kind. Not the private-jet-and-charity-gala kind.
Something else. Something… darker.
I try to focus on work, but my brain keeps circling back to that question, chewing on it like a loose thread. Finally, after the third time I mistype the same email, I give up and open my browser instead.
Aleksei Vasiliev.
The search results flood in instantly.
Business articles. Photos from formal events.
Interviews where he says almost nothing and somehow still looks dangerous.
One headline calls him the elusive kingmaker of Manhattan real estate.
Another describes him as famously private.
There are mentions of his grandfather’s empire, vague references to “international ties,” rumors of family conflict, whispers of acquisitions that sound less like mergers and more like hostile takeovers with excellent tailoring.
Nothing concrete. Nothing useful.
A whole lot of expensive words saying absolutely nothing.
I scroll deeper.
Old society pages. A photo with an ex-girlfriend. A fundraiser. A charity auction. A shot of him getting out of a black car outside some absurdly exclusive hotel, expression unreadable, bodyguards at a discreet distance.
Bodyguards. Normal billionaires have security.
They don’t usually have men trying to kidnap their assistants.
I sit back in my chair, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
No. Something is off here.
I close the browser and glance around the office.
People are working. Typing. Laughing quietly.
Moving through the space like this is any normal corporate floor in any normal Manhattan building.
But now that I’m looking for it, I can see little things I missed before.
The way certain doors are always locked.
The way some men in suits aren’t really office workers at all.
The way conversations sometimes stop when I get too close.
I stand and head for the break room.
Lina is there, stirring sugar into a coffee and scrolling on her phone. She looks up when I come in and smiles, but it fades almost immediately when she sees my face.
“That bad, huh?”
I lean against the counter. “Can I ask you something?”
“That depends,” she says cautiously. “Is it work-related?”
“Sort of.”
She gives me a look that says she already knows it isn’t.
I lower my voice. “What do you actually know about Mr. Vasiliev?”
Her spoon stops moving. Just for a second.
Then she starts stirring again, too casually. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” I search for the least insane version of the truth. “He said some things last night that made me think he has… bigger problems than quarterly reports.”
Lina’s eyes flick to mine, then away. “Zee.”
That one word carries a warning.
I push anyway. “People keep saying he’s not like other bosses. Vivian acts like his office is a sacred temple. Security guards look like they’d rather swallow nails than make him angry. So what is it? Is he ex-military? Mob-adjacent? Secret vampire?”
That gets the tiniest huff of laughter out of her, but it disappears almost instantly. “I don’t know anything,” she says.
It’s too quick.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m being smart.”
I stare at her. “That’s not reassuring.”
She sets her spoon down and lowers her voice. “Look, Zee. I like you. So I’m telling you this as a friend, not HR. Stop asking around about him.”
That makes my pulse jump. “Why?”
Her mouth tightens. “Because nobody here is going to answer. And the fact that you’re asking at all means you’re already too curious.”
I fold my arms. “That is not a real explanation.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Before I can press again, Owen walks in and the moment evaporates. Lina picks up her coffee and escapes with a quick, apologetic glance.
Wonderful.
I try Owen next, later in the afternoon, when he’s alone at the printer.
He smiles when he sees me. “Hey, stranger. Survived the ice king today?”
Barely.
I force a smile back. “Can I ask you something weird?”
“With you, I expect nothing less.”
I glance around, then lower my voice. “What do you know about Mr. Vasiliev?”
His smile vanishes so fast it’s almost funny. “Why?”
“Because I work for him?”
“Technically,” Owen says carefully, “you work near him.”
“That is not an answer.”
He grabs his printouts and avoids my eyes. “He’s the CEO. He’s rich. He’s intense. He scares me a little. That’s the complete list.”
“Owen.”
“Nope.” He backs away. “Nope, absolutely not. I enjoy being employed and alive in roughly equal measure.”
I blink. “Alive?”
He points a finger at me like I’m the one being unreasonable. “See? That right there. That’s why I’m done with this conversation.”
And then he’s gone too.
By the end of the day, I’ve tried three more people with the same result. Tight smiles. Blank faces. Sudden urgent tasks elsewhere.
No one will talk. Not even gossip. fEspecially not gossip, which in an office is basically a supernatural event.
I sit back down at my desk and stare at Aleksei’s closed office door.
He’s in there now. I know because I saw him go in ten minutes ago, dark suit, unreadable face, not a single glance in my direction.
The man who touched me like he was starving.
The man who ignored me like I meant nothing.
The man who told me distance was for my own good.
Maybe I should let it go. I should mind my business.
I should absolutely stop trying to peel back layers on a man who clearly came with bullets, bodyguards, and secrets.
Instead, I open a fresh document on my computer and type his name at the top.
Aleksei Vasiliev
Underneath it, I write:
Who are you?
Then I stare at the words, pulse slow and steady now, the confusion sharpening into something more dangerous.
Resolve. Because nobody in this building wants to tell me the truth.
Which means I’m going to have to find it myself.
The break room is quiet for once.
No Owen. No Lina. No clatter of mugs and office gossip. Just the soft hiss of the coffee machine and the rain tapping faintly against the windows beyond the pantry door.
Good, I need a second to myself.
My whole day has felt like walking around with a bruise under my skin, tender everywhere. Every time I think I’ve shoved Aleksei far enough out of my mind to function, something drags him right back in. A glance. A memory. The stupid way my body still seems to know exactly what his hands feel like.
I’m standing at the machine, watching dark coffee fill my mug, when a voice behind me says, very calmly,
“I heard you were asking about me today.”
I jump so hard the cup slips out of my hand. “Shit—”
It hits the counter, tips, and spills coffee everywhere, splashing across the marble and down the cabinet doors. Some of it lands on my wrist, hot enough to sting.
I spin around.
Aleksei is standing in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.
My heart slams into my ribs. “I—” I look at the mess, then back at him. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that.”
“I wasn’t sneaking.”
“You appeared out of nowhere.”
His gaze flicks to the coffee spreading across the counter and then back to me. “Clearly.”
I grab a wad of napkins and start blotting at the spill, mostly so I have something to do with my hands. “Were you trying to kill me?”
He steps into the room, reaches past me for a towel, and says, “That would be a waste of perfectly good coffee.”
I blink.
Then, despite myself, a small, incredulous laugh escapes me.
Great. Wonderful. He ignores me all day and then shows up in the break room making dry little comments while my nervous system short-circuits.
He sets the towel over the worst of the spill and looks at me. “So,” he says. “You were asking around.”
I straighten, clutching the napkins. “Maybe.”
“About me.”
“Yes.”
His eyes narrow just slightly. “You were told not to.”
That stops me.
Lina.
I fold my arms, trying for defiance and hoping it covers the fact that he still makes me feel like I’m one wrong breath away from disaster. “People refusing to answer only makes it more suspicious, you know.”
His jaw tightens. “Curiosity is not always a good survival instinct.”
“And secrecy is not exactly reassuring.”
The room goes still.
For a second all I can hear is the faint drip of coffee off the counter and my own pulse in my ears. He looks tired suddenly. Not weak. Never that. Just worn in a way I don’t usually get to see.