Chapter 4
ROMAN
Iarrive at the office before dawn, as usual.
The city is still dark, the streets below empty except for delivery trucks and the occasional taxi.
I pour myself vodka, neat, and stand at the window watching the skyline emerge from shadow.
Sleep has been elusive since Eva Markova walked into my life.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her brown eyes meeting mine without flinching, her competent hands organizing files, the way her lips part slightly when she's concentrating.
Fuck.
I drain the vodka and set the glass down harder than necessary. This is exactly the kind of distraction I can't afford. Not now, when someone is testing my territory, probing for weaknesses. Not when Eva herself might be the weapon aimed at my throat.
The background check sits on my desk, and I review it again, searching for something I missed.
MediFund Solutions. The predatory lending company that financed her mother's medical debt.
The same company my intelligence flagged as connected to Abram Yakovlev's operations.
It's too convenient. Too perfect. A desperate young woman with crushing debt, appearing exactly when I need a new secretary, with ties to my rival's schemes.
But if she's a plant, she's the best I've ever seen.
I pull up the security footage from yesterday, watching Eva move through her day.
The way she handles Natasha's near-breakdown over a difficult client, producing tissues and making tea with quiet efficiency.
The professional distance she maintains with everyone, never oversharing, never prying.
Her body language during phone calls is open, relaxed, nothing hidden.
She asks intelligent questions but never pushes beyond what's necessary for her job.
Either she's genuine, or she's been trained by someone who understands surveillance.
My phone buzzes. The security team's overnight report.
Eva went straight home after work, had dinner with her roommate, made no suspicious calls or contacts.
She spent an hour on her laptop reviewing what appears to be her budget spreadsheet, then went to bed at eleven. Nothing unusual. Nothing incriminating.
I should be relieved. Instead, I'm frustrated. I want her to be innocent. I want the attraction I'm fighting to be uncomplicated, to be something I can pursue without wondering if she's been sent to destroy me. But wanting doesn't make it true.
The elevator chimes at 7:30. Eva steps onto the floor, and even through the glass wall separating our offices, I feel the impact of her presence.
She's wearing another tailored dress, navy blue this time, her blonde hair in that sleek bun that makes my fingers itch to pull it loose.
She sets her purse in her office, then disappears toward the kitchen.
Five minutes later, she enters my office with my coffee. Black, two sugars, exactly 185 degrees. I tested the temperature yesterday with the thermometer I keep in my desk drawer. She'd been perfect.
"Good morning, Mr. Sokolov." Her voice is steady, professional. She sets the coffee on my desk with practiced precision, careful not to let our fingers touch.
"Miss Markova." I let my gaze linger on her face, watching for any reaction. A slight flush creeps up her neck, but her expression remains composed. "I have several tasks for you today."
"Of course."
I outline my requirements, watching her take notes in that neat handwriting.
Files to organize, calls to make, documents to prepare.
Some of the files contain coded references to my operations, nothing obvious but enough that someone looking for it would recognize the patterns.
I need to see if she shows interest beyond what's necessary.
She nods, asks clarifying questions that are intelligent but not probing, then returns to her office. Through the glass wall, I watch her settle at her desk and begin working with focused intensity.
My phone rings. Lev.
"We have a problem at the docks," he says without preamble. "Another delay. Safety concerns filed overnight."
Blyat. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
I grab my jacket and walk past Eva's office. She looks up, her brown eyes questioning.
"I have a meeting off-site," I tell her. "Continue with the tasks I assigned. I'll be back this afternoon."
"Yes, Mr. Sokolov."
The drive to the docks takes thirty minutes in morning traffic.
Lev is waiting in his black SUV, his expression grim.
We walk the perimeter together, reviewing the situation.
Three shipping containers that should have been unloaded yesterday are still sitting on the dock, surrounded by orange safety cones and official-looking paperwork.
"Same pattern as last week," Lev says, his voice low. "Complaints filed through proper channels, everything technically legitimate. But the timing is too precise. Someone knows our schedules, knows which shipments matter."
I study the containers, my mind calculating losses. The delays are costing money, but more importantly, they're making me look weak. My associates are starting to ask questions. My rivals are watching, waiting to see how I respond.
We spend another hour at the docks, issuing orders, reviewing security footage.
By the time I return to the office, it's past noon.
Eva is at her desk, efficiently handling phones and organizing files.
She's made progress on everything I assigned, the color-coded system I use now perfectly implemented.
David Brennan is waiting in my office, his titanium-framed glasses reflecting the afternoon light. He stands when I enter, his expression professionally neutral.
"We need to talk about the dock situation," he says, settling into the chair across from my desk. "The delays are technically legitimate. Proper paperwork, official complaints through the right channels. Whoever is orchestrating this understands how to weaponize bureaucracy."
"Yakovlev." I don't phrase it as a question.
"Possibly. Probably. But we have no proof.
" David removes his glasses, cleaning them with methodical precision.
"The lending company connected to your secretary's mother's debt is definitely part of Abram's network.
We've confirmed that much. But whether Miss Markova knows about the connection…
" He trails off, his green eyes sharp. "What's your assessment? "
I think about Eva's composure, her competence, the way she handles every task with quiet efficiency. "Either she's genuine, or she's the best plant I've ever seen."
"Then we need to know which." David replaces his glasses. "Soon. Before this escalates further."
After David leaves, I call Eva into my office. She enters with her notepad, ready to take dictation, but I have other plans. I hand her a file containing shipping manifests, the kind of documents that would mean nothing to a civilian but everything to someone looking for patterns in my operations.
"I need you to cross-reference these manifests with the quarterly reports," I tell her, watching her face carefully. "Look for any discrepancies in timing or quantities."
She takes the file, flipping through pages with focused attention. If she recognizes what she's looking at, she gives no indication. "What kind of discrepancies should I be looking for?"
"Anything that seems unusual. Trust your instincts."
She nods and returns to her office. I watch through the glass wall as she works, her brow furrowed in concentration.
She makes notes, cross-references documents, asks intelligent questions when she needs clarification.
But she never shows recognition beyond what's necessary for the task.
Never lingers on details that would interest someone gathering intelligence.
The afternoon drags on. I make calls, review reports, handle the endless business of running an empire.
But my attention keeps drifting to Eva. The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear when she's thinking.
The way she straightens papers that are already straight.
The curve of her neck when she bends over her desk.
I want her. The attraction is becoming impossible to ignore, a constant hum beneath my skin. I imagine pulling that sleek bun loose, tangling my fingers in her blonde hair. Bending her over my desk and making her gasp my name. Watching those careful brown eyes go dark with desire.
Focus, you fool.
At five o'clock, Eva gathers her things and prepares to leave. I watch from my window as she exits the building, her small figure disappearing into the evening crowd. My phone is already in my hand, calling my security chief.
"Have her followed," I order. "I want to know everywhere she goes, everyone she meets. Report back tonight."
The order makes me feel like a paranoid bastard, but I didn't survive this long by ignoring signs. If Eva is working for Abram, I need to know. If she's innocent, I need to be certain.
I pour myself vodka and return to the window, watching the city lights flicker to life. Somewhere out there, Eva Markova is living her life, unaware that I'm having her followed, that I'm questioning everything about her. The thought sits heavily in my chest.
My phone rings at 8:30. The docks.
"We have a situation," my security chief says, his voice tight. "You need to get here now."
The drive takes twenty minutes. Lev is already there, his expression grim in the harsh dock lights. He leads me to a shipping container at the far end of the pier. Inside, one of my men lies in a pool of blood, a single bullet hole in the back of his head. Execution-style.