Chapter Eighteen
The monitor on my desk is a rectangle of cold light in the dim office, but it’s not the spreadsheets I’m seeing. It’s the live feed from the living room camera.
Freya stands by the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of water beaded with condensation in her hand.
She’s wearing one of my shirts, a slip of ivory silk that hangs off one shoulder, revealing the soft curve where her neck meets her body.
The fabric skims her thighs, and when she lifts the glass to drink, the hem rides up, exposing a length of pale skin.
My hand tightens around the pen.
For an hour, I’ve been staring at the same column of figures, the numbers blurring into meaningless symbols. My focus is fractured, splintered by the memory of her on the balcony. The scent of her skin. The sound she made when I entered her, a choked gasp that was part surrender, part shock.
She sets the glass down and stretches, her arms rising above her head, her spine arching in a long, fluid line. The shirt pulls taut, hinting at the lush weight of her breasts before settling again.
She thinks she’s alone. She thinks the world beyond the penthouse walls is the only thing watching her.
She’s wrong.
I watch her turn from the window, her path taking her toward the secondary office. Freya doesn’t know I’m tracking her, cataloging every flicker of interest, every unconscious glance toward the locked door.
Since the night on the balcony, her curiosity has evolved from a sullen defiance to a sharp, focused investigation.
She lingers when I’m on the phone, her head tilting at the mention of certain names—Lorenzo, Sokolov, the Brooklyn fronts.
At dinner last night, when Viktor mentioned the Colombos, I saw the flash in her eyes.
A hunter spotting movement in the undergrowth.
She’s assembling the pieces. She thinks she’s operating in the shadows, but to me, she’s a flare in the dark night.
It’s fascinating. It’s also a liability.
Freya needs to understand the boundaries.
I set the pen down, the click echoing in the quiet room. I stand, straightening my cuffs, checking my reflection in the dark glass. Calm. In control. A predator in a tailored suit.
Time to remind her who is watching.
The heavy oak door of the secondary office is soundproof. She doesn’t hear me approach.
She’s hunched over a shipping manifest, her finger tracing a line of dense text, her lips moving slightly as she forms the words. The concentration etched on her face is so complete, she’s a universe unto herself.
“Careful.”
She startles violently, spinning around. A stack of papers skids across the polished surface of the desk.
“Christ,” she breathes, pressing a hand to her chest. “You move like a ghost.”
“Only when I want to.”
I cross the room, not bothering to go around the desk. I move into her space, stopping on the opposite side of the mahogany expanse. I don’t look at the manifest. I don’t need to, I know exactly what she’s found.
“You’re jumpy,” I observe.
“I’m surprised.”
“You’re frustrated.”
I pick up a heavy silver letter opener, testing its weight. “You’re looking for connections that aren’t there, Freya. You’re seeing patterns in the chaos.”
“I see a lot of money moving through shell corporations that don’t exist,” she retorts, her voice regaining its strength. “I see ships docking empty and leaving full. I see a lot of silence.”
“Silence is expensive.”
“So is death.”
She leans back against the edge of the desk, crossing her arms. The movement pulls the silk shirt tight across her breasts, a distracting detail I force myself to ignore.
“What do you want, Nikita?”
“To work.”
“With me?”
“You’re in my upstairs office.”
“It’s a public space.”
“Semantics.”
I round the desk, closing the final foot of distance between us. She doesn’t retreat. She holds her ground, tilting her chin up, her green eyes locking onto mine.
Progress.
“Lift your arm,” I say.
“What?”
“Lift your arm.”
A flicker of confusion wars with the defiance in her expression. Slowly, she raises her right arm.
I reach out, my fingers circling her wrist. Her pulse is rapid, fluttering against my thumb like a trapped bird.
“See?” I murmur. “Tense.”
“I’m not used to people sneaking up on me.”
“Get used to it.”
I guide her hand down, but I don’t release her. My fingers slide from her wrist to her palm, tracing the lines etched there. Her skin is incredibly soft, warm.
“I have a meeting with the logistics team in twenty minutes,” I say, my voice dropping. “I want you there.”
“I have plans.”
“Cancel them.”
“I’m not your assistant.”
“No,” I agree, stepping closer still, our knees almost touching. “You’re my partner.”
The word hangs in the air between us.
“Partner implies I have a say,” she says.
“You have a say in how we present ourselves. In how we manage the family. In how we handle the… optics.”
“I don’t care about optics.”
“You care about Ayaan.”
The mention of her brother’s name is a splash of ice water. Her expression shutters, the softness hardening into familiar anger.
“Don’t use him as leverage.”
“I’m using him as context.” I finally release her hand, but I don’t step back. “The Colombos are sniffing around. They’re asking questions about the past. If they find out you’re digging into Ayaan’s disappearance, they’ll use it. They’ll try to turn you against me.”
“They won’t have to try very hard.”
“They won’t succeed.”
“Arrogant.”
“Realistic.”
I reach past her, grabbing a file from the stack. My chest brushes against her shoulder as I lean over. She’s rigid for a second, then she melts. Just a fraction.
I breathe her in. Jasmine and clean soap.
My body reacts instantly, a rush of blood that makes my head swim. I pull back slowly, letting the moment linger, letting the tension stretch.
“Be in the conference room in fifteen minutes,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend.
“I need to get dressed.”
“You look beautiful.”
“I look like I just rolled out of bed.”
“Then change.”
I turn and walk out, leaving her standing there, flustered and furious.
I don’t look back, but I can feel her gaze burning a hole in my spine.
***
The meeting is a bore. Logistics is always a bore. Men in ill-fitting suits arguing about shipping containers and fuel costs, their voices a dull drone in the air-conditioned room.
Freya sits beside me. She changed into dark slacks and a cream silk blouse buttoned to the neck. She looks every inch the Bratva wife, severe and untouchable.
She listens more than she speaks. She takes notes on a legal pad, her pen scratching a steady rhythm against the paper.
I watch her from the corner of my eye. She’s not just transcribing. She’s mapping the network. She’s connecting the faces to the names, the names to the routes, the routes to the money.
She’s terrifying.
I lean back in my leather chair, swirling the ice in my glass of water. “As discussed,” I say, cutting through a debate about union fees. “The Jersey route is closed. We’re shifting everything to Staten Island.”
“That’s going to add transit time,” the head of logistics, a man named Oleg, argues.
“It adds security.”
“It adds cost.”
“Cost is irrelevant.”
I glance at Freya. She’s looking at me, her pen hovering over the paper, her expression unreadable.
“Do you agree?” I ask her.
The room goes silent. Twelve pairs of eyes swivel to her.
She hesitates for a beat, then sets the pen down with a decisive click.
“Staten Island is farther from the commercial hubs,” she says, her voice calm and clear. “But it gives you control over the bridge. If you own the entry point, you own the flow. You can tax anyone coming in or going out.”
She scans the room, her gaze sharp and assessing.
“Plus,” she continues, “the security on the waterfront is notoriously lax. It’s easier to hide… irregularities.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the men.
A smirk touches my lips. She’s clever. She found the angle—the political angle, the power angle. Not just the cost of fuel.
“Exactly,” I say. “Staten Island it is.”
I dismiss the meeting with a wave of my hand. The men file out, their low chatter following them into the hall. They’re looking at her differently now. Not just as a pretty accessory, but as a player.
When the door clicks shut, we’re alone.
“Not bad,” I say.
“It’s basic strategy.”
“Basic is rare in this business.”
She stands up, gathering her papers. “I’m going back to the office.”
“Stay.”
“I need to work.”
“I need you.”
The words are out before I can stop them, raw and unvarnished.
She pauses, her hand on the back of her chair. She looks at me, her eyes searching my face. “For what?”
“Reviewing the dossiers on the new partners,” I state, recovering, my voice smooth again. “I want a second opinion.”
“On what?”
“Their weaknesses.”
She hesitates, a war playing out behind her eyes, then she sinks back into the chair.
“Fine.”
I open the file I’d retrieved earlier. It’s a thin dossier on a man named Ivanov, a Russian expat with ties to the black market in Dubai.
“Read,” I command.
She takes the file, her movements deliberate.
I wait until she’s engrossed, her head bent over the dense text. Then I move. I stand up and walk behind her chair. Instead of touching her, I stand there, letting my presence settle over her, a weight in the air.
I can smell the faint scent of her shampoo. I can see the rapid, frantic flutter of her pulse in the delicate skin of her throat.
“He’s small time,” she says, her voice admirably steady despite my proximity. “Smuggling jewelry. Fast turnover, low risk.”
“Is he?”
“He’s not a threat to you.”
“Everyone is a threat.”
I lean down, bracing my hands on the arms of her chair. I box her in. She’s trapped, but she doesn’t panic. Her posture remains straight, her shoulders squared.
“He has a weakness,” I murmur, my mouth inches from her ear.
“His brother.”
“Good.”
“He’s in a wheelchair,” she continues. “Paralyzed from the waist down. Ivanov pays for the best private care in Switzerland.”
“Use it.”
“I already wrote it down.”
She shifts slightly, and her back brushes against my chest. The contact is electric, a jolt that runs through both of us.
She freezes.
I don’t pull away. I lean into it, letting her feel the solid heat of my body. Letting her feel how hard I am for her, even through the layers of our clothes.
“Keep reading,” I say, my voice low.
She swallows hard. She tries to focus on the text, but I can see her hand trembling on the page.
“The next one,” she says, flipping the page with a slightly shaky motion. “Elena Rosetti.”
“Read.”
“Importer of textiles. Mostly from Italy.”
“Go on.”
“She’s… connected to the Colombos.”
I feel her stiffen instantly. Her breathing hitches.
“Distantly,” I clarify. “Through marriage.”
“Does Lorenzo know she’s working with you?”
“She doesn’t know she’s working with me. Yet.”
“It’s a trap?”
“Bait.”
I slide my hands off the arms of the chair. My fingers trail along her shoulders, down her arms. Her skin is hot, smooth.
She shivers, a full-body tremor she can’t suppress. “Nikita,” she warns, her voice a strained whisper. “You’re distracting me.”
“Am I?”
I bend lower, pressing my chest flush against her back. She’s completely trapped between me and the chair, unable to move without touching me.
“What do you want?” she whispers.
I move one hand to her waist, slipping it under the hem of her blazer. My palm rests flat against her rib cage, my thumb brushing the soft swell of her breast.
She gasps, her head falling back against my shoulder, her eyes closing.
“You’re cheating,” she breathes.
“All’s fair.”
“Turn the page,” I command.
She reaches out with a shaking hand, her fingers fumbling with the edge of the paper.
“The… the third one,” she stammers. “A broker in…”
She loses the train of thought as my thumb circles her nipple through the silk of her blouse, the peak hardening instantly under my touch.
“Continue,” I murmur, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive spot behind her ear.
“In… in Kazakhstan,” she manages, her voice barely audible.
“Good.”
I keep touching her, teasing her, keeping her balanced on the razor’s edge of pleasure and panic. It’s a game of control—how much can she take before she breaks? How much can I push before I lose my own?
My cock is a painful, insistent ache, trapped behind the zipper of my slacks. I want to bend her over this desk. I want to tear that blouse open and take her right here, surrounded by the plans of my empire, the scent of her arousal filling the air.
“He’s a wild card,” she says, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. “He’s greedy. He’ll take money from anyone.”
“Can we buy him?”
“Everyone can be bought.”
“Good answer.”
I pull away slowly. The sudden loss of contact is jarring, a cold rush.
She sits there for a moment, breathing hard, her face flushed, her eyes glazed with a mixture of fury and desire.
She looks wrecked, and absolutely beautiful.
“Same time tomorrow?” I ask, walking around to the front of the desk.
She looks up at me, her gaze still hazy. “Don’t push your luck,” she says, her voice hoarse.
“I don’t deal in luck.”
I hold out a hand to her. She looks at it for a long moment, then takes it. I pull her to her feet, her body swaying slightly.
“Go,” I say. “Get changed.”
“And do what?”
“Wait for me.”
She pulls her hand away, smoothing down the front of her blazer in a gesture of composure. “I’m not a dog, Nikita.”
“No,” I agree, watching her walk to the door. “You’re a wolf.”
She pauses at the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder, a dangerous glint in her eyes.
“Keep talking like that,” she says, “and I might just bite.”
“I’m counting on it.”