Chapter 9 Eva
EVA
The office feels different after dark. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across the empty desks, and the silence is so complete, I can hear the hum of the building's ventilation system.
Everyone left hours ago, even Natasha with her nervous goodbyes and pitying glances.
Now it's just Roman and me on the forty-second floor, separated by glass walls that suddenly feel far too transparent.
I try to focus on the spreadsheet glowing on my screen, cross-referencing shipping dates with invoice numbers like Roman requested.
But my attention keeps drifting to him through the glass.
He's at his desk, his jacket discarded over the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up to reveal those tattoos I'm trying not to think about.
The desk lamp casts his face in sharp relief, all hard angles and controlled intensity as he reviews documents and makes calls in low Russian.
His voice carries through the glass, that accent wrapping around words I can't quite hear.
I watch his hands move as he talks, those long fingers gesturing with precise economy.
The same hands that corrected my filing error last week, standing so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
The same hands I've caught myself imagining on my skin, sliding up my thighs, gripping my hips.
Stop it.
I force my eyes back to my screen, my cheeks burning. This is exactly the kind of distraction I can't afford. Roman Sokolov is my boss. He's dangerous. He might be a criminal. And I'm sitting here fantasizing about his hands like some desperate fool.
But then he stands, stretching his arms above his head, and I can't help watching the way his dress shirt pulls tight across his broad shoulders and chest. The fabric strains against muscle, and I imagine what he looks like underneath.
All that controlled power, that barely leashed violence, pressed against me.
My thighs clench involuntarily.
Jesus, Eva. Get it together.
The intercom on my desk crackles to life, making me jump. "Miss Markova. Take a break."
His voice is low, commanding, and I feel it like a physical touch. I stand on shaking legs and smooth my dress, acutely aware that he can see me through the glass. Can he tell what I was just thinking? Does he know I've been watching him, imagining things I have no business imagining?
I walk to his office, my heels clicking against the marble floor. He's standing by the windows now, his hands in his pockets, his profile sharp against the city lights beyond. When he turns to look at me, those piercing blue eyes seem to strip away every defense I've built.
"I've ordered dinner," he says. "You should eat before we continue."
The gesture surprises me. In the two weeks I've worked here, he's never shown concern for my basic needs. I'm a tool to be used, a secretary to handle his tasks. But now he's ordering me to eat, and there's something almost… protective in his tone.
"That's very kind of you, Mr. Sokolov."
"It's practical." His expression doesn't change, but I catch something flickering in his eyes. "You're no use to me if you collapse from hunger."
Right. Practical. Not kind. I need to remember that.
The food arrives twenty minutes later, delivered by one of the building's security guards who doesn't quite meet my eyes. Roman leads me to the conference room, and we settle at opposite ends of the long table. The Thai food smells amazing, and my stomach reminds me that I skipped lunch. Again.
We eat in silence that feels heavy with unspoken things.
I'm hyperaware of every movement he makes.
The way his throat works when he swallows.
The flex of his forearm as he reaches for his water glass.
When he leans back in his chair, I catch a glimpse of his flat stomach where his shirt has come slightly untucked, and heat pools low in my belly.
"Tell me about your brother," he says suddenly, his accent making the words sound more intimate than they should. "Alexei. What does he want to study?"
I swallow my bite of Pad Thai, buying time to compose myself. "Engineering. He's brilliant with math and physics. Top of his class."
"You're proud of him."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes. He's going to do amazing things. He just needs the opportunity."
Roman's blue eyes study me with that calculating intensity I'm starting to recognize. "And you're providing that opportunity. Working yourself to exhaustion, sending money home, sacrificing your own future for his."
The observation feels too close, too personal. "He's my brother. It's what family does."
"Not all family." Something dark crosses his expression. "Some family takes. Uses. Destroys."
I want to ask what he means, but his phone rings before I can form the words. He glances at the screen, his jaw tightening.
"Excuse me." He stands, already moving toward the door. "I need to take this."
Then I'm alone in the conference room with the remains of our dinner and the documents Roman left scattered across the table.
I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't. But my eyes drift to the papers almost against my will, and once I start reading, I can't stop.
They're in Russian, mostly. Financial records, shipping manifests, names and dates and numbers that make my pulse quicken. Large amounts of money moving through accounts I don't recognize. Shipment schedules that seem deliberately vague. And one name appearing over and over. Yakovlev.
The same name Roman asked me about yesterday. The name I Googled and found connected to organized crime, federal investigations, the Russian Mafia.
My hands shake as I realize what I'm looking at. This isn't legitimate business. These aren't normal financial records. This is evidence of something illegal, something dangerous, something I should never have seen.
"Do you read Russian?"
Roman's voice cuts through my panic like a blade. I jerk my head up to find him standing in the doorway, his blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. How long has he been watching me? Did he leave these documents here deliberately, testing me?
"Yes." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I lived in Russia until I was nineteen. Before we moved to the US."
He moves into the room with that predatory grace that always makes my skin prickle with awareness. He's not touching me, but I feel trapped anyway, pinned by his gaze like a butterfly on a board.
"And what did you see?" His accent is thicker now, his voice dropping to that low register that does things to my body I can't control. "In those documents you were studying so carefully?"
"Numbers. Names. I don't… I wasn't trying to…" I'm stammering, and I hate it. I force myself to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have looked."
Roman gathers the documents with methodical precision, his movements controlled but radiating displeasure. When he looks at me again, his expression is carefully neutral, revealing nothing.
"You can go home, Miss Markova."
The dismissal is abrupt, almost cold. No explanation. No reassurance. Just a command delivered in that low voice that makes my stomach clench with something that's not entirely fear.
I stand on shaking legs, my appetite completely gone. "Yes, Mr. Sokolov."
As I turn to leave, I catch him watching me, his blue eyes tracking the movement of my body in a way that makes heat flood my cheeks. Even now, even terrified, I'm aware of his gaze on my ass, my legs, the curve of my waist. And God help me, part of me wants him to keep looking.
I gather my things from my office with hands that won't quite stop trembling. My worn coat feels heavier than usual as I pull it on, and I'm acutely aware of Roman standing at his windows, his back to me but his attention palpable. I don't look at him as I walk toward the elevator. I can't.
The lobby is empty at this hour, just the night security guard who nods as I pass. The revolving doors spit me out onto the sidewalk, and the evening air hits my face, cool and sharp. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
That's when I see it.
The black car parked across the street, engine idling. The same car that's been there every evening, I realize with sickening clarity. The same driver behind the wheel, his face shadowed but his attention fixed directly on me.
My first instinct is to run, but I force myself to walk normally toward the subway entrance two blocks away. My heels click against the pavement, each step measured and deliberate, even though my heart is hammering against my ribs.
The car pulls away from the curb.
It follows me slowly, keeping pace, making no attempt to hide its presence. I walk faster, my breath coming in short gasps, my mind racing. Is this Roman's doing? Is he having me followed? Or is this something else, someone else, connected to those documents I shouldn't have seen?
I pass the subway entrance and keep walking, too afraid to descend into the underground where I'd be trapped. The car continues following, its headlights painting my shadow long and distorted on the sidewalk ahead.
A deli appears on my right, its windows bright with fluorescent light, and I duck inside without thinking. The bell above the door chimes cheerfully, completely at odds with the panic flooding my system. I grab a basket and pretend to shop, my hands shaking as I reach for items I don't need.
Through the window, I watch the black car idle at the curb.
The driver doesn't get out. Doesn't approach. Just sits there, waiting, his presence a threat that doesn't need words.
I'm trapped.