Chapter Seven
Lauren
I balance hot coffee and a croissant in my hands as I walk to the office.
Watson & Co. Investments is a prestigious investment firm that has newly-furnished office spaces, an unlimited supply of San Pellegrino, and all the perks one can wish for.
We even have a breakout area with bean bags, hammocks, a pool table, and a high-tech vending machine that can make you a foamy cappuccino in case you want to make your post-lunch brain fog go away.
I land at my desk and take a bite of the croissant, washing it down with the flat white I got from Starbucks earlier.
As Vice President of Portfolio Strategy, my job is to deal with high-net-worth clients, long-term investments, and things that require a brain cell or two.
I’ve been dabbling in and out of my father’s accounts for years, but he officially hired me at the company after Mom’s death, probably to take my mind off the grief.
Not like that’s working. Grief doesn’t go away with time. We just get used to living with it.
But at least I have a purpose working here, even though it was always my father’s dream to employ me—not my own. Frankly, I don’t know what other career path I would’ve taken if it wasn’t for finance.
Math was always my best subject in school, and this line of business is all I’ve ever known.
It’s not shabby, and I wouldn’t be able to afford a penthouse apartment in Tuxedo Park without the money I make here, but there are times when I question the legitimacy of what my father has built.
Like when he shows up to Bratva functions and shakes hands with Russian crime lords and their enforcers…
I finish my coffee in the break room after checking this morning’s emails, sipping intermittently as I leaf through a copy of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
As good as this job is, I can’t progress higher than VP unless my father dies, and I don’t want to think about that, even though I currently dislike the man.
There’s no beating Charles Watson.
I’ll never outrun his shadow.
Dropping the newspaper on the table, I reach for my phone and scroll through the notifications. A text from Sophia, following up on our conversation last night.
“Don’t worry, Lau. I’m fine, really. Timur is a good husband.”
Fine.
That isn’t exactly the word I want to hear from someone who just got married. “Over the moon” or “madly in love” would be more like it. But they’ve only been married two weeks. It’s only going to be a matter of time before Timur Gusev’s true colors show.
I heave a sigh as I think about my bestie.
Sophia always had an eye for pretty things.
She used to collect flowers from the field during recess at school and arrange them into vases when she got home.
She’s good with makeup and knows exactly what colors go with what.
She can walk into any room and instantly know how to rearrange it to look better.
I still remember the day she helped me pick out my dress for school prom, knowing exactly what style looked good for my body type.
She’s good with aesthetics.
What she’s not good with is blood.
One time, she cut her finger on a rose thorn when she was trying to pluck a flower, and almost fainted at the sight of the bleeding wound. Another time, she had to leave biology class when we dissected frogs, turning green the moment she saw the first incision.
She’s the polar opposite of her new husband.
I hate to think about how she’s going to react when Timur returns home from work with blood smeared all over his hands.
I go to her text and type out a response.
“Remember, you’re welcome to take whatever you want from my trust fund. I haven’t touched a cent of it. You can go crazy. Treat yourself to those Miu Miu leather ballet flats we saw in the store window. Go back to Greece. I’m serious.”
It’s tempting to tell her that Timur killed my mother, but I don’t want to freak her out too much. At least that’s what my father said—that Timur is responsible. Even though Nikolai Rogov says otherwise.
Sure, my father is a little sketchy, but he’s my dad and I’ve known him all my life.
As for Nikolai, I only met him twice and I don’t trust him.
Crime lords don’t earn their positions by being honest. Not to mention that the man chained me to his bed for over two hours.
He’s given me multiple reasons not to trust him.
Stop thinking about him, Lauren!
I brush away the thought, take another sip of coffee, and look outside.
The sun shines brightly and makes the city look better than it actually is.
Atlanta is home, but it’s nothing too special.
Just like most cities in the US, it’s a concrete jungle that houses people who are just trying to get by.
I don’t mind Atlanta—it holds a piece of Mom.
Sometimes, I take detours and walk past the Italian restaurant where Mom and I dined for my 18th birthday.
Father was too busy with ‘business’ to join us.
The place got shut down last year because the cops found out that it was owned by the Italian mafia—they were using it as a front for money laundering.
The windows are all boarded up now, so it isn’t what it used to be, but the building still holds Mom’s memory.
I sip my coffee and continue staring outside when I see two men exit our building.
I sit forward, recognizing them instantly.
They were guests at Sophia and Timur’s wedding.
The tattooed necks, broad shoulders, and dark suits make it all too obvious.
The way they move—calculated, predatory—sends a chill down my spine.
These aren’t businessmen. These are enforcers.
What the hell were those guys doing inside our building?
I gulp down the rest of my coffee, toss the cup in the trash, and storm into Father’s office without thinking.
He swivels around in his chair, meeting my face with a frown.
“What are you doing here?”
“I work here. You hired me, remember?” Taking a spare seat, I invite myself to sit down and face him. “Who were those people?”
“What people?”
“The two men that just left the building,” I press. “What were they doing here? And don’t tell me it’s business.”
He stares at me long and hard. “They’re potential investors.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know exactly what that means.”
“They’re from the wedding, aren’t they? They’re members of the Bratva. What were they doing here, Dad? What do they want to invest in?”
Father sighs and swivels his ergonomic chair all the way around to face me. Today, he wears a charcoal suit the same gray color as his bushy eyebrows. “Look, Lauren, I have a busy day ahead and don’t have time for this. You get on with your tasks, and I’ll get on with mine.”
“You didn’t answer my question. What sort of business do they have here?”
Another long, hard stare. “Business is business.”
Typical.
“Yes. But what—”
“My business. Now,” he says, rising from his chair, “if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to.” He walks over to the door and opens it for me.
Dammit!
I can feel my anger surge, but this time, I keep my mouth shut. Instead of saying something snappy, I push myself up and stomp out the door. Father closes it behind me, shutting the blinds the instant I’m out.
Real nice, Dad.
I lean against the wall and let out a frustrated groan.
All this secrecy is starting to piss me off.
Something isn’t right. First, Sophia gets married to a killer, then Father starts making business deals with Bratva people.
Add in the mysterious offshore company, Sentinel International, the fact that my father is moving huge amounts to their account, and it’s clear that something seriously screwed up is going on.
And I’m going to find out exactly what.
***
Back home, I sink into the couch and bring my laptop onto my knee.
It’s been a long two weeks since the wedding. Sleep hasn’t been a priority lately, and the exhaustion is finally starting to catch up with me. My fingers ache from all of the typing, from all the research I’ve been trying to do in my free time.
I’m not really getting anywhere.
But I will. It’s only a matter of time before I find something.
Nikolai knows something, and I have a feeling we’ll meet again, unless he’s abandoned the stalking act.
The truth is, a small part of me hopes he hasn’t.
But it’s only because he has charm. He’s good at mind games too.
I haven’t met a man like him before, one so direct and yet mysterious.
Men are usually too predictable, and I think that’s why I’ve never been too interested in dating.
Trust a Bratva criminal connected to Mom’s death to catch my eye…
But it’s nothing, and it’ll soon be stamped out when I find out the connection between the Bratva, my father, and Mom’s death. Nikolai might have an attractive face and body, but it’s only a mask to distract people from what he really is—a ruthless monster.
The name Sentinel International keeps popping up in my head, so I type it into Google and hit enter, waiting for the search results to load.
Nothing. No public records. No evidence of filed tax returns.
No financial history at all. Which makes it even more interesting.
You can find details about pretty much every company on the internet, all with a single click of a button.
But not this one. Which could only mean that Sentinel International is trying to hide from the government.
I sit up on the couch and bring the laptop closer, suspicions rising.
Why would these guys want to hide from the government?
Money laundering? Tax evasion? Those are the two obvious reasons that spring to mind, considering that Father owns an investment company, but it could be something even worse.
Something darker that has nothing to do with money.
My stomach turns, but I continue searching.
Let’s try this from a different angle—the Watson & Co. database.
I begin typing on the keyboard when a jolting sound interrupts me. I freeze.
Shit.
Why does it have to be so dark in here?
Shutting the lid, I place the laptop on a throw pillow and investigate the noise that seemed to be coming from my bedroom. A shiver runs up my spine as I enter and turn the corner to… nothing.
Standing in my bedroom doorway, I exhale a sigh of relief. Everything is still. A cockroach must have gotten into the vents or something.
I’m about to leave when the AC clicks on, the pipes beginning to groan.
My shoulders drop.
It was nothing, Lauren.
You need to take a chill pill, girl.
Clearly, I’m tired. I really should get some proper sleep tonight. Maybe I’m more freaked out about all this Bratva stuff and my father’s shady business than I should be.
I leave my bedroom door ajar and head back to the couch, the closed laptop still on the pillow where I left it.
I resume my search and hit enter.
I shouldn’t have clearance to search the company’s database, but I learned how to bypass these restrictions years ago. I guess that’s one of the few advantages of having a father who’s too consumed with ‘business.’ He has no time to make sure his daughter is behaving.
Until now, I’ve never really needed to deep dive into the trenches of Watson and Co.
Holdings. Perhaps it’s because a part of me always knew that I wouldn’t like what I was going to find.
But now that my bestie and my father are both tangled up with the Bratva, things are different.
And I’m not going to stop until I find out the truth.
I search and find a name attached to the company.
R. Aslanov.
I raise my eyebrows.
Who the hell is R. Aslanov?
I click on the name when something flags up: “Access Denied.”
Hmm. Okay, let’s try a different approach.
Exiting the alert, I navigate back to the main page and try accessing through a different portfolio.
A shadow suddenly crosses the space in front of me, freezing my soul.
I feel a presence.
Goosebumps break out across my body and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It’s that primal instinct, the one that warns you when you’re being watched. The apartment suddenly feels different—denser, heavier, like the air itself has shifted. The silence is too complete, too deliberate.
Somebody’s in here.
My senses are all screaming at me.
Shit!
So much for that chill pill. Shivers run up and down my spine as I’m turning as quickly as I can, ripping off the Band-Aid.
And there he is.
Even though I half expected it to be him, my heart still lurches out of its cage.
He stands behind me, his broad figure a haunting silhouette in the half-light.
Sure, I knew about the stalking act and all, but I didn’t expect him to be right here in my living room, looming over my shoulder like a dark shadow.
His face is the only thing I can see, and his eyes flicker back to me like he’s unimpressed.
How the hell did he get in here? And how the hell did I not notice?
The only reasonable explanation is that he is Batman.
A gorgeous, Russian Batman.
My heart is in my throat.
It’s just me and him. My neighbors are away. He could simply do what he does best—get rid of me, clean up the evidence, and get away with it.
“This is getting old, Lauren,” Nikolai growls. “I warned you to stop looking.”