Chapter 8
DMITRI
Clara doesn’t know I’m watching her. I shouldn’t be, but I am. I’m watching her with the intensity of a hawk watching a mouse, except Clara isn’t a mouse. She’s more like a cat, predatory and sneaky, ready to unsheathe her claws at any moment.
Fuck, just the thought turns me on, and I have to adjust my position.
The drone of the presentation is nothing more than background noise I tuned out long ago as soon as I realized I could see into Clara’s office from the conference room.
She’s lost in her work, papers scattered in disciplined chaos, her fingers moving with sharp intent across her keyboard.
Her hair tumbles forward when she leans in, obscuring her face for a moment.
It’s those moments I find myself holding my breath, waiting for her to look up for reasons I refuse to examine too closely, because I am drawn to her in a way that’s become increasingly difficult to ignore.
From here, I can see that she has already personalized her office space with impressive efficiency. There is art on the walls, along with her diplomas and credentials. Books line the shelves, as well as a few knickknacks and picture frames. I wonder at the subjects. Family? Friends? A pet? A child?
I have yet to get the full results from Pavel’s deep dive on Clara’s past, which means I still know very little about the woman with the shiny dark hair and hazel eyes that won’t let me go, the curves I long to run my hands over again.
She’s running point on the compliance audit for our new Siberian mining contracts.
She, of course, pulled off the SEC audit prep.
I didn’t doubt her, despite the nearly impossible odds I’d stacked against her.
I’m not even sure why I did it, except I wanted to see what she could do, to see the part of her that continued to challenge me.
The light from her desk lamp catches the sharp angles of her high cheeks bones as she leans close to read something in a book, her brows furrowing in concentration.
She’s biting the inside of her cheek. It’s a small, unconscious gesture, and I add it to what I’m starting to think of as my “lexicon of Clara.”
The memory of her in that penthouse months ago has become a persistent static in the back of my mind. It was meant to be an unplanned, wild moment—a release of tension after receiving the news about the mole within the Smirnov organization.
I hired Clara Benson because she is brilliant, not because I want to repeat a mistake.
But the professional focus I demand is evaporating fast when it comes to her.
I watch with the attention of a predator as she returns to typing on the keyboard, then leans back to read what she’s typed, fingers twirling unconsciously in her long, dark hair.
Having Clara this close, every day, is a slow, agonizing education in how much I want to dismantle that professional focus and demand her attention for myself completely.
I realize I’m hooked.
It isn’t just lust anymore. It’s an itch, an interest that I haven’t felt since I was a young man in Moscow.
It feels dangerous. It feels possessive.
She is my employee, and my thoughts about her have nothing to do with contracts or corporate compliance.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already mine.
Clara abruptly lifts her head to answer her desk phone.
I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I watch her lips move, watch the expression that crosses her face lightning-fast. She purses her lips, painted in that same deep Bordeaux color, before she slams her phone down and pushes herself away from the desk.
I can’t take my eyes off the way her hips sway as she hurries from her office and disappears down the hallway, her hair waving behind her.
“Dmitri? Ty zdes?”
Pavel’s question shatters my reverie, and I realize the conference room has fallen silent and all attention is on me.
“Yes, I’m here. Sorry.”
The cautious expressions on the men’s faces seated around the table mean no one will mention my lapse, save for Pavel, who is watching me with a bemused look I can read plainly.
But before I can say another word, I hear a commotion down the hallway that takes only a heartbeat to grow into shouts, protests, and the sound of heavy footsteps.
My body is moving before it fully registers what’s happening. I am out of my chair and across the room in three strides, knowing Pavel is right behind me.
When I open the door, there’s nothing but chaos.
The executive floor of Smirnov Corporation is flooded with uniformed officers, and they aren’t beat cops.
They’re wearing tactical gear and heavy boots, and have the cold, hard appearance of an organized crime unit.
They move with the brutal, practiced speed of people who expect resistance, pinning employees against walls, weapons at the ready if anyone challenges them.
“What is going on? Who authorized this? Get your hands off my people!” My voice is a low, guttural threat as I storm out onto the floor.
A lean man I recognize from my recent visit to Dean Johnson’s precinct sneers and holds up a hand, a warning for me to halt.
“Search warrant. Get against the wall. Your entire operation is under investigation for racketeering, financial fraud, and a whole fucking bunch of other things.” He leans forward, his sneer and his dark eyes nasty. “You’re going down, Smirnov.”
The detective is trying to get a rise out of me, but my focus is locked on Clara.
She stands stiffly off to the side, her cheeks flushed and her eyebrows furrowed over narrowed eyes as she berates another officer. Based on her expression, she’s in full lawyer mode, even when the heavy-set man grabs her arm and twists it behind her back before grabbing for his handcuffs.
“Show me the warrant,” she demands, voice loud enough I can hear her over the tumult.
“You can read it at the station, sweetheart,” the officer replies. He secures the cuffs and yanks her forward—hard.
The moment the cop’s hand closes around Clara’s arm and twists it, the moment he secures her wrists in handcuffs behind her back, the moment he refers to my employee, my woman, as “sweetheart” and manhandles her like street trash, is the moment the corporate CEO side of me disappears.
The only thing left is the pakhan, the powerful, dominant monster who lives on violence and blood.
A red haze descends over me. I don’t calculate, I don’t plan, I just move. I cross the floor in a heartbeat, past stunned employees and surprised officers.
“Take your fucking hands off her,” I snarl, my accent thick, my voice a crack of thunder.
The officer holding Clara is big, but I’m bigger. I grab him by the front of his tactical vest and slam him against the wall. The air bursts from his lungs in a wheeze as his head hits the wall with a muffled thud. He scrambles to get his hands on the sidearm holstered at his hip.
“Touch her again, and I carve your heart out with a spoon,” I promise him, my face inches from his, the threat not just verbal but visceral, rage radiating from every coiled muscle in my body. My fingers dig into his shoulders, crushing him against the wall.
Another officer rushes me, but he's too slow. I have him by the wrist with one hand before he can react, twisting until he lets out a whimper, his weapon clattering to the floor.
“Dmitri! Nyet!”
A hand with a grip like iron clamps around my forearm. Pavel doesn’t pull me away immediately; he holds me, a steady strength, an immovable barrier against my explosive rage.
“Stop. This is exactly what they want. Don’t let feelings cloud your judgment. We deal with this the smart way.” Pavel’s Russian is a sharp, low rasp only I can hear.
I stare past Pavel, past the officers with their weapons pointed at me, past my startled and stunned employees, to Clara. She is watching me with wide eyes, but there is no fear, only a look of dawning understanding. She has seen beyond the tightly controlled CEO; now, she has seen the mob boss.
The sharp hiss of a breath precedes the easing of my grip on the cop.
“I’m fine,” I growl in Russian, adjusting my suit jacket lapels and collar as the cop stumbles away, trying to regain his balance.
Pavel slowly releases my arm and steps in front of me as the lead detective closes in on us. My second’s calm is a contradiction to the carnage that just nearly erupted. Clara approaches, hands still bound behind her back, the look on her face fierce.
“The warrant, Detective,” she snaps. “The legal representation for this corporation demands to see the warrant immediately, or every single charge filed after this will be inadmissible.”
The sneer disappears from the detective’s face, which has turned pale, but he recovers quickly. He pulls the thick fold of papers from his vest pocket and thrusts it into Pavel’s chest with shaking hands as he glares at Clara.
Pavel opens it, then holds it out for Clara to see, their eyes scanning the legalese. I step closer, breathing deeply, forcing the pakhan back down into his cage.
For now.
The warrant is extensive, detailing violations of state and federal statutes. It includes wire fraud, money laundering, and most damningly, lists specific dates, amounts, and transaction codes that are known only to a tight few.
The raid isn’t a fishing expedition; it’s a targeted hit. Fucking Detective Johnson wasn’t lying. And Pavel’s face confirms what I already know. The mole isn’t just talking; they’re playing a game of chess, and they’re already twelve steps ahead of us.
The detective’s eyes flick past Pavel to Clara. He holds the glance a second too long, his lips twitching into a small, triumphant smile.
That motherfucker.
This isn’t just about a sting operation or a warrant, nor is it a coincidence that I visited their unit just a few days ago.
This is about Dean. This is Clara’s ex trying to rattle me, trying to show me he’s the bigger, more dominant alpha in this contest of wills and power. I made it clear that I want Clara, and he’s hitting me where it hurts, where I can’t defend myself without compromising everything I’ve built.
He’s making me watch her suffer the consequences of my actions while challenging me at the same time: Protect her or protect your empire.
Fuck.
I look at Clara again. She meets my gaze, and I give her a subtle nod. She returns the gesture before looking back to the detective.
“We will allow the detention and search. But the Smirnov Corporation legal representation will be reading every page of this warrant, and the search ends the moment you secure the designated evidence. If you touch anything not specified in the warrant, you will feel the full weight of Smirnov Corporation’s legal team.
I’m sure you can comprehend exactly what that means and what you’ll be up against. Do you understand, Detective? ”
I can’t take my eyes away from Clara, the way she’s standing up to a man who is twice her size, not to mention mean, nasty, and on a power trip. Her expression is set, her eyes fearless.
The detective swallows hard, his bravado wavering in the face of the cold, legal threat.
“I understand,” he mutters, glaring at her, then waving his team on. “Get them out of here. Start the search.”
He turns on his heels, his back to Clara. A new officer grips Clara’s shoulder to lead her away. As she’s escorted down the hall, she looks back, our eyes locking one more time across the chaos. She is not frightened, she is waiting to see what I will do next, how I will react.
Pavel moves to my side, his shoulder nearly touching mine. “This is far worse than we thought. The mole has been operating for longer than we know.”
“It certainly seems that way,” I say through clenched teeth.
My rage is gone, replaced by deadly, frigid calculation.
I stand there among the police officers who are beginning to dismantle my company, among the sobbing employees being led away, among the papers covering the floor. The office is ruined, my business and my Bratva compromised.
I feel a resolved, singular focus. The mole is actively trying to bring me down, and Dean Johnson has issued the challenge. He has shown me that the one woman I want, the only woman who can shatter my control, is now his weapon to use against me.
“Pavel, when this is done, find the mole,” I order, my voice cold as steel, as uncertain police officers approach us.
I’m going to make the mole’s life a living hell when I get my hands on them. And I’m going to teach Detective Dean Johnson precisely what happens when you try to take what belongs to the pakhan of the Smirnov Bratva.
My gaze moves to Clara’s empty office, the computer screen still glowing, as if she’ll return at any moment, a moment that is seared into my mind.
Detective Johnson thinks he can rattle me. He believes he can use her. Little does he know he has just signed his own death warrant, because the beast has been released.
Clara is mine. And now, he will pay the price for touching my property. He will know what fear is before I take him apart.