9. Damien
9
DAMIEN
Oleg stands in front of my desk, arms crossed, face like stone.
“You’re being reckless.”
I exhale slowly, rolling my neck, trying to rid myself of the tension that’s been sitting between my shoulders since last night. “That’s dramatic.”
Oleg isn’t convinced. “Sir, someone tried to put a bullet in you. That’s not something we ignore.”
I roll my shoulders, unaffected. “They missed.”
His jaw tightens. “They won’t next time.”
I say nothing, because he’s not wrong.
The shot last night wasn’t random. It wasn’t some reckless idiot firing into the dark for fun. Someone wanted me dead.
And that’s not new.
This life—the Bratva, the power, the control—it all comes with risk. I’ve had men gunning for me before. I will again.
The mistake was doing it on my property.
Whoever it was got away before we could track them, but that won’t happen again.
Last night was a reminder—a message—that someone is getting bold enough to take a risk. I don’t know if it was a business rival or someone looking to settle an old score, but either way, it’s a problem.
And yet, despite that, I feel…unbothered.
Not because I underestimate the situation. I’ve been in this life too long to be naive.
But because if someone truly wanted me dead, I would be.
This wasn’t an assassination attempt.
It was a warning.
Which means they’re waiting for something.
“She needs to be questioned,” Oleg continues. “The girl. The employee who ran into you. She could have seen something.”
I know who he’s talking about. The girl from the elevator. The one with the wide, dark eyes.
Sasha Caldwell.
The logical side of me knows Oleg is right. If she saw something—anything—that could give us information, it would be useful.
But something about it feels…unnecessary.
“She didn’t see anything.” I lean back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “She was startled. That’s all.”
“She could’ve noticed details she doesn’t even realize are important.”
I glance at him. “You want to interrogate an innocent employee for what, exactly? To see if she remembers the color of the getaway car?”
Oleg’s jaw tightens. “It’s not a bad idea.”
I shake my head, already done with this conversation. “You’re getting paranoid.”
“And you’re getting careless.”
I let out a slow breath, not in the mood for this.
But he’s not wrong.
I have been distracted.
Just not by this.
Because the second I walked into my office today, I checked my phone first.
And there it was.
A new message.
From her.
Unknown Number: Tell me, do men get some kind of secret pleasure out of micromanaging women?
I had smirked, already half-invested before I even realized it.
I responded. She ranted.
And then?—
She mentioned a name.
Ryan.
I replay the conversation in my head, tapping my fingers against the desk.
Somewhere in my company, there’s a woman texting me about office supply policies and annoying coworkers—completely unaware that the man she’s sexting is the one who signs her paychecks.
It should concern me.
Instead, I feel something else entirely.
Oleg is still talking.
I’m not listening.
Not because I don’t care—I do—but because something else has my attention.
Something small.
Something insignificant.
And yet, here I am, fixated on it anyway.
Her complaint about HR.
Unknown Number: Speaking of HR, do you know what I just learned? I’m supposed to get “manager approval” before requesting more office supplies. MANAGER. APPROVAL. FOR A PEN.
I stare at my phone, rereading the message, my jaw ticking.
What kind of bullshit is this?
I press a button on my desk phone, already impatient.
“Get me the head of HR. Now.”
Oleg goes silent.
A beat later, my assistant’s voice comes through the intercom. “Right away, sir.”
Oleg folds his arms, watching me. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing a problem.”
His brows furrow, but before he can push, there’s a knock at the door.
The HR director steps in, visibly nervous, a folder clutched in her arms. “Mr. Zaitsev. You needed me?”
“Yes.” I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “Why the hell do my employees need manager approval to request a damn pen?”
She blinks, caught completely off guard. “Excuse me?”
“The supply policy. Explain it to me.”
She clears her throat, flipping through the folder like she’s buying herself time. “Well, sir, it’s a cost-control measure?—”
I hold up a hand. “Stop.”
She snaps her mouth shut.
I glance at Oleg, who looks like he’s watching an alien invasion unfold.
Then I turn back to HR. “Rescind it.”
The director freezes. “Sir?”
“You heard me.” I lean back, tapping my fingers against the desk. “No more approval process. No more supply rationing. If my employees need a pen, they get a fucking pen.”
A long, stunned pause.
After a few seconds, she nods stiffly, adjusting her glasses. “Understood, sir. I’ll make the changes immediately.”
She leaves without another word, the door clicking shut behind her.
Oleg stares at me.
Then, after a long, charged beat?—
“What the hell was that?”
I don’t answer.
Because I’m already typing into my computer, pulling up the employee database.
How many Ryans do I have working for me?
My gut says not many.
And once I narrow it down?
I’ll find her.
Oleg is still staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.
There’s a long silence, then?—
“What the hell is going on with you?”
I don’t look up. “What are you talking about?”
He scoffs, pacing in front of my desk like he’s trying to make sense of reality.
“I’ve known you for years,” he mutters. “I’ve seen you order hits on men without flinching. I’ve watched you negotiate million-dollar deals without so much as blinking. But just now?” He stops, pointing at the door where the HR director just walked out. “You called in an entire department head to complain about pens.”
I keep typing. “It was a stupid policy.”
Oleg gapes at me. “Since when do you care about stupid policies?”
Since an anonymous woman I’ve been sexting complained about it.
I don’t say that, obviously.
I just keep my face impassive, eyes scanning the list of employees with the name Ryan.
Five.
Five Ryans in the company.
That’s a manageable number.
Oleg lets out a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
I finally glance up, smirking slightly. “Like what?”
“Distracted.”
That hits a nerve, partially because it’s true.
Because he’s not wrong.
I have been distracted.
First, by the texts.
Then, by her.
The nameless woman on the other end of my phone, sending me filthy messages at night and ranting about office supplies during the day.
I tell myself it’s just curiosity.
Just amusement.
But now I’m looking through employee records for her.
I lean back in my chair, tapping a thoughtful rhythm against the desk.
Oleg watches me, his arms still crossed. “You need to focus.” His voice is low, firm. “Whoever shot at you last night is still out there. And instead of handling that, you’re—” He gestures vaguely. “Doing whatever this is. I hope this isn’t a midlife crisis.”
“I could have you killed for that,” I say.
He scoffs. “I won’t be of any use to you dead.”
I let out a slow exhale.
Oleg is right.
I should be focusing on the bigger problem.
I should be tracking down whoever took that shot at me—cutting off the threat before it becomes a real one.
Distractions get men like me killed.
So I pull my focus back to where it needs to be—on the real problem.
I shut my laptop, locking away the list of Ryans, and stand up. “Fine,” I say. “Let’s handle it.”
Oleg looks relieved, but also wary, like he doesn’t quite believe I’ve snapped out of it.
Maybe he’s right.
But for now, I push it away.
I let him drag me away from my office, but I refuse to step into the fortress of my past.
The estate is out of the question.
So we meet at my apartment instead.
It’s late when they arrive, the city glowing beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. I’ve poured myself a drink by the time Roman steps inside, shrugging off his coat like he owns the place.
“You know,” he says, eyeing the darkened room, “for a man who could have anything, you live like a monk.”
I smirk, setting my glass down. “I like space.”
Roman snorts, tossing his coat over the back of a chair. “You like isolation.”
I don’t argue. Because he’s right.
My apartment is expensive, sprawling, and cold. There are no personal touches, no framed memories, nothing that hints at the man who lives here.
Because there’s nothing to show.
Oleg locks the door behind him, double-checking the security system before he leans against the kitchen counter. “Tell me you have food.”
I gesture to the half-empty bottle of whiskey. “Drink your dinner.”
Roman chuckles, reaching for the bottle without hesitation, while Oleg groans. “I should’ve stopped for a burger.”
“Next time, eat before you show up uninvited,” I say dryly, taking a sip of my own drink.
He groans, shaking his head, but Roman just chuckles and pours himself a glass.
Business first.
“Surveillance came back from the parking lot,” Roman says, setting down his phone on the counter. “Whoever took that shot knew what they were doing.”
Oleg mutters a curse, rubbing the back of his neck. “So it was planned. Someone had intel.”
Roman nods, taking a slow sip of whiskey. “They knew the blind spots in the cameras. If we didn’t control the security footage, we wouldn’t have even noticed.”
I roll the glass in my palm, thinking.
An inside leak isn’t out of the question. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“Any leads?” I ask.
Roman shakes his head. “Nothing solid yet. But I have people digging.”
I exhale, setting my glass on the counter.
Roman watches me, too closely. He’s built like a tank, with dark, close-cropped hair, sharp hazel eyes, and a scar that runs from his temple down to his cheek—a souvenir from a past life neither of us speak about.
Roman is calm, efficient, and ruthless when necessary. He’s kept me alive more times than I can count, and if there’s anyone I trust to handle a threat, it’s him.
“You should take this seriously,” he says.
I arch a brow. “I am.”
“You don’t look like a man who just had a bullet fired at him.”
I smirk. “Maybe I’m just hard to kill.”
Oleg groans. “Here we go. He’s deflecting. This is what he does when he doesn’t want to deal with something.”
Roman hums, swirling his drink. “You’re right. Something’s off.”
I don’t reply.
Because if I do, they’ll see right through me.
I’ve been distracted, but not by this threat.
By a woman I’ve never met.
A woman whose name I don’t even know.
Oleg leans back against the counter. “You should go to the estate.”
“No.”
Roman nods, unsurprised. “Your mother’s expecting you for dinner.”
I drain the rest of my whiskey. “She always is.”
Oleg exhales through his nose. “It’d be safer.”
Maybe.
But it wouldn’t feel safer.
That house is a fucking graveyard. A place where my father’s voice never quite left. Where my mother still clings to ghosts.
I refuse to go back unless I have to.
Roman doesn’t push. He already knew my answer before he asked.
Instead, he knocks back the rest of his drink and switches gears.
“We’ll tighten security in the city,” he says. “Lock things down. But we need to start narrowing down who had access to your movements.”
I nod, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “Do it.”
Roman stands, grabbing his coat. “And Nina called.”
I go still.
Oleg frowns, glancing between us. “What does she want?”
Roman tilts his head slightly. “You know exactly what she wants.”
I do.
Because Nina only calls for one reason—when she wants something.
It used to be me.
Now?
Now it’s money, protection, a favor she swears is the last one.
I don’t respond, but Roman doesn’t need me to. He just nods, standing up. “I’ll handle it,” he says.
I nod, not bothering to thank him.
As Roman and Oleg leave, I stay behind, staring at the empty room.
For the first time in years, I wonder if I’ve been too comfortable. If I’ve let my guard down too much.
And the worst part?
I don’t know if it’s because of the threat outside my walls?—
Or the woman I can’t stop texting.
I pull out my phone, open the employee database, and start looking at the list of every Ryan in the company.
I need to figure out who she is.
And I will.
A plan forms in my head, something simple, effective.
A way to make her reveal herself—without even realizing she’s doing it.
I grab my glass and drain the last sip of whiskey, already knowing exactly what I’m going to do.
Now, it’s just a matter of waiting.