Chapter 9 - Valentin
“Put that desk by the window where there’s light.” I point to the large windows with the best view of the garden, opposite to where my desk sits.
I've never been a man who shares his space easily. I’ve always maintained that my home office is my sanctuary; the one place where I can be alone with my thoughts.
But turns out, Gela Jones makes me do things I once thought I’d blow a man’s head off for even suggesting.
So here I am, directing my men to make room and set up a small office space for Gela, in the very same room that I’ve called mine since this house was built.
“Be careful with that equipment,” I snap at the guy carrying in the scanner and printer.
I watch them shuffle around, and even though my office is large enough to accommodate two workspaces comfortably, a small voice in my head wonders if I’m making a mistake. She might not be happy about it, but there’s no other choice.
I need to keep an eye on Gela and ensure she doesn't share her newfound knowledge with authorities or former colleagues who might lead the Zakharovs right back to her doorstep.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
When the men are gone and everything once again looks orderly, I sit at my desk and get started with my day.
A couple of minutes later, I hear a knock on my door.
“Come in.” I put aside my laptop, already aware of who it is.
“The maid said you asked for me?” Gela steps in, wearing these sexy as hell bootleg jeans with a sheer white shirt tucked in tight. It’s as comfortable an outfit as I can get, and yet I feel like someone has turned the thermostat up.
“Yes.” I clear my throat and look away before I let my gaze settle on those two top buttons she’s left undone on that blouse. “I wanted to tell you your office has been set up so you can get started on work.”
“Oh, really?” Her voice chirps up, and when I look back at her and see those eyes sparkling, something in my heart gives. God, she’s easy to please, and I feel a mild sense of accomplishment at being the one to do so.
“Yup!” I grin and motion to the desk by the window.
Just as I expected, her face falls flat. “Here?”
“You got a problem with here?”
“Are you actually going to let me work?” She crosses her arms and jostles up an eyebrow.
“What do you think I do in here all day? Sing Karaoke?” I snap back.
She shrugs.
“There’s no other space room,” I lie. “It’ll take a lot of things to be moved around to make space for another office.”
However, the truth is something entirely different. It’s not even that I need to watch what she’s doing; it’s the itch that’s crawled under my skin, begging to be appeased by learning all I can about her.
I know this set-up isn’t all that innocent, but I want to see Gela Jones in her element, want to breath the air she’s breathing, want to tap into that mind of hers, want to see what it is that makes her who she is.
“So, you okay with this?” I ask, when she keeps standing.
She looks at me, and her gaze meets mine. Sharp. Ready. “If this is the only option…”
“It is,” I say, firmly.
“Okay then.” She eyes the setup cautiously, like it might be booby-trapped. “Thanks.”
“I had all the programs you requested installed, plus a secure line for client calls,” I explain, walking over to her desk. “The connection is encrypted and routed through several proxies and, most importantly, untraceable.”
“How thoughtful of my kidnapping mobster of a husband to provide such excellent tech support,” she says dryly as she moves to the desk.
I let the comment slide and hold back a smile. This mildly annoyed, snarky Gela is the version I like best.
“I'll be working here too,” I say. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
“I won't.” She doesn’t even consider it and proceeds to ignore me entirely as she sits down and powers up the computer.
She really doesn’t waste time getting down to business, does she?
Taking that as my cue to retreat, I head back to my desk and get down to work. But my mind keeps wandering, reminding me that I’m breathing the same air as Gela.
Far too often, I find myself watching her. She’s laser-focused, like the world could burn around her, but she won’t care. There’s a determined little force behind every move she makes. Even the way she holds her pen screams perfection.
For the first hour, we work in silence. I answer emails and review security reports, all while stealing glances at Gela. She's completely absorbed, and I notice that when she’s in her flow, she gets this adorable little furrow right between her brows.
I find myself staring a little too long, and eventually, I begin to feel like a downright creep. But there’s something about her so damn captivating that I can’t seem to shake her off my skin.
After another hour, she starts making calls. I try not to overhear, but her voice filters in through all my barriers.
The first few are awkward, and I think it’s because she's clearly uncomfortable with me in the room. She keeps her voice low as she speaks. But by the third call, it’s like she forgets I'm even here.
“No, we're pivoting to a fully remote model,” she explains to someone on the other end. “It's actually perfect timing with the new campaign we're launching for Fitness Haven... Yes, exactly. Their demographic skews heavily toward mobile users anyway.”
I find myself forgetting my own work, mesmerized by her. In her domain, she’s so regally commanding, the queen of her castle. She speaks with authority on metrics and engagement rates, and the way she explains these complicated things shows me just how clear her head is.
“Trust me, this is going to work in our favor.” She leans back in her chair like a total boss babe.
“Their competitors are all focused on equipment, but we're going to position them as selling lifestyle transformation.
It's not about the treadmill—it's about becoming the person who uses it every day.”
Damn. She's good. Really good.
I try to refocus on my own work, but my attention keeps drifting back to her.
“Look, I understand the concern,” she says firmly to another client. “But the data doesn't lie. Your audience is spending three times as long on video content as on text. We need to adapt, or we're leaving engagement on the table.”
There's something intoxicating about watching someone excel at what they do. Even under these circumstances, with her life turned upside down, she continues to fight and push forward.
She’s remarkable.
Soon after she puts down the phone, I receive a text from Leonid about a situation with the Colombians that he urgently needs to discuss.
I shoot a glance at Gela and see that she’s on her computer. It’s too soon, I feel, for Bratva talk in her presence. Even now, I can’t forget the way her face paled when I told her who I was two nights ago.
I decided to call Leonid back, but I’ll keep it brief and professional, so she doesn’t feel uncomfortable.
“What’s the situation?” I ask in a low voice when Leonid picks up.
“The shipment's been flagged at customs,” he says. “Our contact says there's been an unusual tip-off, and we think it’s possible Zakharov interference.”
I need to discuss this, but not with Gela listening. I use the code we set up when civilians might overhear.
“So the caterer’s truck is stuck in the traffic?” I ask, wondering if there’s a way for us to get our shipment.
“Yeah, they aren’t letting the shipment go through,” Leonid explains.
“And what if the food gets greasy?”
“These officers aren’t on our roster, but we can try bribing them,” Leonid sighs. “They were flagged by men being paid off by others, we believe.”
Shit. The Zakharovs have these feds in their pockets.
“Fuck,” I hiss, then remember where we are. “And there are two more trucks on route?”
“Yes.”
And we have more ships heading the same way. God damn it.
“Tell them to map it again and head in through the back. Or to find another venue to set up at. We don’t want the party cancelled.”
“Done, brother.”
When I hang up, I notice Gela watching me with a raised eyebrow.
“Problem with your party planning?” she asks innocently.
I shrug. “Just some logistics to work out.”
“Mmm.” She taps her pen against her desk. “So the shipment's been flagged at customs, and now you need a new route to bring in whatever illegal goods you're trafficking?”
My jaw nearly hits the floor. “What?”
“Oh, I'm sorry, was I not supposed to understand that extremely obvious code?” She rolls her eyes. “The food will get greasy, really? I’m guessing someone isn’t accepting your bribes.”
She dismantled our code in seconds, like she’s breaking apart a toy, and it should piss me off, but all I can think is that she’s clever enough to become a part of my world. With that thought comes fear of all the dangers she might face should she ever adopt this life wholly.
I cross the room to stand near her desk, lowering my voice. “You shouldn’t be listening to my conversations.”
What I want to do is shake her by the shoulders and tell her to stay safe, to stay away from trouble and information that can put her in danger. But she and I aren’t in a position to be that honest…yet.
“No kidding.” She rises and plants her arms on her desk, meeting my gaze with a playful energy in them. “But if you're going to keep me here while you run your operations, you might want to be a little more creative with your secret spy talk.”
I shouldn't find her sass attractive, but god help me, I do. “And I suppose you could do better?”
“I could, actually,” she says with confidence as she flips her hair back over one shoulder, a move that basically turns my heart into a frenzy. “Want to tell me what the problem is?”
“Okay.” I begin to feel entranced, dying to know what she might just come up with, even though I wish she hadn’t understood a word I said. “So, here’s the thing.”
After I tell her what happened, she lets out a low whistle and falls back on her chair.
“I could call the chief of police and see if he has a contact in customs,” I groan as I pull up a chair and sit beside her.
“Are you insane?” She shakes her head. “When you call a powerful man, you get powerful people involved in your mess. Anyone he knows in customs might already have it out for you. You need to stop playing it high-level, and stoop low.”
“Carry on,” I ask, the curiosity burning bright in me as I swivel to face her. She drags her heels on the floor, reaching closer until our knees touch. I try not to think of that too much, the heat spreading up my legs, as she fixes on my eyes.
“Well, bring on another ship. Fill it with something completely innocent, like toys, and tip off the same guys. It might be expensive, but meanwhile, your illegal goods are in two other ships heading to another route with no eyes since the focus will be on the one with the toys in it,” she finishes, then seems to catch herself.
“Not that I'm helping you commit crimes.”
But it's perfect. Instead of fighting the increased scrutiny, we lean into it. Make the shipment look like exactly what they're searching for—but with nothing illegal inside. While they're focused on that, the real goods move through a different channel.
“That could actually work,” I laugh, suddenly feeling high as I stare at the small flecks of black in her brown eyes.
For the first time since this insane marriage began, it feels like we’re not enemies or strangers.
We solved a problem together, and the rush of that teamwork hits me like a hit of crack.
Something shifts between us in that moment. A subtle change in the air. Not only am I impressed by her mind, but for the first time since I brought her here, we're starting to resemble a team. A unit. A marriage.
I'm sitting close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. Close enough to see the light dusting of freckles across her nose that I've never noticed before. Close enough that if I leaned down just slightly...
“Well, thank you anyway, Gela Jones,” my voice comes out husky.
“You're welcome,” she whispers back. “Consider it my good deed for the day.”
I let my eyes drag over her, enjoying the flush creeping into her cheeks. “Careful, Gela. Keep showing off that brain, and I’ll start keeping you around for more than your pretty face.”
Her breath stutters and her eyes flick up to mine, and for a second, I think I see a flash of heat. Her lips part slightly, and I watch her throat move as she swallows.
“Don’t,” she snaps then, suddenly wheeling back from me. “Don’t mistake me for being on your side.”
I straighten up, clearing my throat. “You do think like me, though. Maybe better, even.”
“Yeah, well, maybe we need to stop spending time together because the last thing I need is you rubbing off on me,” she snaps back.
I hold back a smile. I know I didn’t imagine that heat on her face, that stammer in her voice, the breathlessness when we sat knee to knee.
“Too late for that. Mi office es su office.”
“Fuck me,” she mumbles under her breath as she turns back to her computer, and that’s when I let myself have a small smile.