A Secretary for the Bratva Boss (Holidays with the Bratva #1)

Chapter 1

Talia

The heel snaps clean off my boot the second I step onto the curb, and I go down hard on one knee.

Ice-cold slush soaks through my tights, biting into skin already numb from the walk.

My résumé scatters across the sidewalk like confetti, pages darkening as snow melts into expensive paper I couldn't afford to reprint.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

I scramble to gather them, fingers shaking—not from cold, though the wind cuts through my coat like it's made of tissue paper. Panic. Pure, throat-closing panic, because I'm already ten minutes late and this is my last shot before Christmas tips me over the edge into eviction.

The building looms above me, all glass and steel and money I'll never touch.

Sindicate Tower. Even the name sounds like power, like the kind of place that chews up girls like me and spits out the bones.

But the temp agency promised good pay for holiday coverage, and I'm desperate enough to ignore the way my stomach twists when I look at those gleaming doors.

I limp inside, one boot flat, the other still clinging to its heel like a bad joke.

The lobby swallows me whole—marble floors so polished I see my reflection, security guards in suits that probably cost more than I make in three months.

Everything smells like fresh pine from the massive tree dominating the center of the space, wrapped in white lights and silver ribbon.

I don't belong here. Every step I take screams it.

The receptionist barely glances up when I approach, her perfectly manicured nails clicking against her keyboard. "Can I help you?"

"I have an interview. Talia Brooks. I'm—" I swallow. "I'm a little late."

Her gaze flicks over me, taking in my ruined tights, my damp coat, the stack of wrinkled papers clutched against my chest. Not quite pity. Maybe recognition of someone else who's had to claw their way up.

"Thirty-fourth floor. Mr. Ismailov's assistant will meet you at the elevator."

Mr. Ismailov. I give her my rehearsed professional smile and try to hide my nerves as I cross to the elevator bank, praying not to slip on my uneven boots.

I've heard stories—everyone has. The Ismailov family doesn't just own buildings; they own entire blocks, entire industries.

New money mixed with darker connections that make people look away and change the subject.

I should've asked more questions. Should've wondered why a temp position at a place like this was still open three days before Christmas.

The elevator ride is smooth and silent, no music to drown out my breathing. The numbers climb, my reflection wavering in the polished metal doors.

God, I look like I crawled out of a dumpster.

My natural curls—the ones I spent an hour coaxing into a professional twist-out this morning—now frizz around my face like I stuck my finger in a socket.

I fish around in my purse for my emergency scrunchie so that I can at least pull it into a messy bun, but no luck.

Dammit. The berry lipstick I chose to complement my brown skin is completely gone, chewed off during the train ride.

And the subtle smoky eye I was so proud of?

Two smudged shadows that make me look like I lost a fight.

At least I went light on the makeup. Small mercies.

I try to smooth my hair, but it's hopeless. The snow melted into it, and now the careful twist is unraveling, shoulder-length spirals doing whatever they want. I should've gone with a bun. Sleek and controlled, screaming "hire me" instead of "help me."

My pea coat is missing a button, and there's a water stain spreading across the hem. I look exactly like what I am—broke, desperate, and in way over my head.

The doors open onto a different world. Thick carpet muffles sound, and the scent of coffee mingles with spice—cinnamon, maybe, or cardamom. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city below, snow falling against a gray sky. It's beautiful, and I'm a disaster

"Miss Brooks?"

I straighten my shoulders, plaster a smile on my face. A woman in her fifties, gray hair swept into a perfect chignon, expression professionally neutral. "I'm Elena. Mr. Ismailov is ready for you."

No time to fix my appearance, to catch my breath, to remember the answers I rehearsed on the train. She's already moving, heels clicking efficiently across the floor, and I follow because what else do I do?

The office she leads me to sits at the corner of the building, windows on two sides offering views that cost more per square foot than I make in a month. But I barely register the space because he's there, standing with his back to me, phone pressed to his ear.

"Nyet. Tell Ivan if he can't handle St. Petersburg, I'll send someone who can."

His voice rolls through the room, deep and accented, each word precise despite the Russian threading through it. He's tall—taller than I expected—shoulders broad under a suit jacket that fits like it was sewn onto him. Dark hair, almost black, cut close enough to show the strong line of his skull.

Even from behind, he radiates control. Power. The kind that makes my pulse kick up for reasons that have nothing to do with the interview.

Elena clears her throat softly. "Sir. Miss Brooks is here."

He ends the call without a goodbye, the movement sharp and final. When he turns, the breath stalls in my lungs.

I've seen handsome men before. Dated a few, kissed more. But Anton Ismailov doesn't register as handsome—he registers as dangerous.

Sharp cheekbones cut like they were carved from marble.

A jaw so defined it could draw blood. His mouth is full, sensual even, but it looks like it rarely smiles—like softness is a language he doesn't speak.

And his eyes. God, his eyes. Winter steel lazing through beautiful hazel, pale and piercing, framed by dark lashes that should look pretty but instead make him look predatory.

They lock onto me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, like he's cataloging every detail, every flaw, every secret I've ever tried to hide.

My throat goes dry.

He's beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—all clean lines and lethal edges. The kind of man who makes you forget to breathe, forget your own name, forget that you're standing in his office looking like a drowned rat.

Awareness crawls up my neck. The kind that makes my pulse jump and my palms sweat and every nerve ending wake up and pay attention.

"Miss Brooks." He says my name like he's testing the shape of it, his accent curling around the syllables. "You're late."

Focus. I need to focus.

"I'm sorry. The train was delayed, and then I—" I gesture vaguely at my boots, my ruined tights. "It's been a morning."

His gaze drops to my feet, then travels back up slowly. Lingering. Not quite amusement. Maybe curiosity. Or darker, making my breath catch and my thighs clench involuntarily.

He takes his time. Traces the line of my legs, the curve of my hips, the damp fabric clinging to my chest. When his eyes finally meet mine again, there's heat there—banked but unmistakable.

My pulse hammers in my throat.

He moves to his desk, gestures at the chair across from it. "Sit."

Not an invitation. A command, delivered in that same tone he used on the phone, and my body obeys before my brain catches up. I sink into leather that costs more than the car I had to sell two months ago—and try not to fidget under his gaze.

He doesn't sit. Instead, he rounds the desk, leaning against it, arms crossed. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that his scent hits me—clean and expensive with an undertone of smoke and cedar.

It does things to me. Things I have no business feeling in a job interview.

"The position is temporary," he says. "A week, possibly two if we need additional coverage through New Year's. You'll handle correspondence, scheduling, and any other tasks I require. The hours are long. The work is demanding. And discretion is not optional—it's mandatory."

I nod, trying to focus on his words instead of the way his forearms flex when he shifts his weight. He's rolled his sleeves to his elbows, and the corded muscle there, the dusting of dark hair, the thick veins that run from wrist to—

Stop it.

"I do that. I'm good with organization, and I'm used to long hours. My last position—"

"I read your file." He picks up a folder from his desk, flips it open.

Not just my résumé—my transcript. My stomach drops.

"Two years as an administrative assistant, excellent references.

Currently pursuing a degree in accounting.

" His eyes lift to mine, and the impact is physical.

"Honor roll every semester. And yet you haven't finished. "

Defensiveness crawls up my neck. "I take what I can afford. Two classes a semester, sometimes one if money's tight."

"You've been enrolled for six years."

"Yes."

"At this rate, you'll finish when you're thirty."

My jaw tightens. "Then I'll finish when I'm thirty."

He studies me, head tilted slightly, and I swear his mouth curves. Just barely. Just enough to make my stomach flip.

"Most people would have given up by now. Taken the associate's degree and called it good enough."

"I'm not most people."

"No." His voice drops, rough and low. "You're not."

Silence stretches between us, thick and charged. I should look away, break the tension, but I refuse to be the first to blink. And he doesn't look away either. Just watches me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve, his gaze dropping to my mouth, then lower, then back up.

My breath comes faster. Shallower.

Does he know what he's doing to me? Does he see the way my pulse jumps in my throat, the way my fingers curl against my thighs?

"You're overqualified for a temp position," he says finally. "Even an incomplete degree puts you above what I need for basic administrative work."