Chapter 8
DAMIEN
By Friday, Rick is still breathing.
That fact alone is a testament to how much discipline I’ve built over the years.
In any other arm of my business, a man like him wouldn’t last this long.
But because this is my legitimate side, I can’t fire him without cause.
It’s the part of the empire that requires a clean face, airtight records, and plausible deniability.
I’m waiting for the knock.
Andrea’s been investigating Rick all week. I gave the order the minute Lyra left my office on Monday. I told her to dig and find whatever she could on him. Guys like that always leave a trail.
Eventually, she found exactly what I expected.
He has a long record of attendance issues and missed deadlines.
She even found a flagged HR memo from a previous job that somehow made it past screening.
It shows a history of underperformance paired with inflated self-reporting.
He exhibits classic small-man syndrome. He’s smug, even when no one’s watching, and he gets defensive the moment someone calls him on it.
He’s exactly the kind of weak link I won’t allow in my building.
I look up at the knock I’ve been waiting for. “Come in.”
Andrea opens the door and steps just inside. Her hair is pinned back neatly, her posture straight, and her expression unreadable.
“He’s here.”
I nod. “Send him in.”
She disappears without another word.
A moment later, Rick walks through the door.
He looks confident. Stupidly so. He wears his cockiness like a badge, as if he actually believes his job is secure because of whatever half-useful code he’s committed over the last few months.
I gesture to the chair across from my desk.
“Have a seat.”
He does.
I don’t bother with pleasantries. I reach for the thick folder Andrea left on the corner of my desk and open it. It’s paper, not digital. I want the weight of it. I want the sound of each page turning to remind him that what’s in here is documented and not easy to make disappear.
“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask.
He shifts in the chair. “Not really. I mean, I figured maybe it’s about the security thing earlier this week. A lot of people were pretty rattled.”
I look up at him, my expression blank.
He clears his throat. “Or maybe, uh, just a check-in?”
“You’ve been with this company how long?”
He shrugs. “Almost six months.”
“And in that time,” I say, tapping the first page, “you’ve missed twelve deadlines, logged thirty-six late arrivals, filed two sprint updates with copied content from a previous cycle, and submitted three bugs to QA that weren’t reproducible because you didn’t actually run your own tests.”
The color drains from his face.
“I’ve also spoken to my HR director about a comment you made to another employee this week,” I add.
He opens his mouth. I hold up a hand.
“This isn’t a discussion,” I say. “This is a courtesy.”
He swallows hard.
“Sir?” he asks.
“A courtesy,” I repeat. “Because if this were any other place I conduct business, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
I close the folder and set it aside.
“You’re done here,” I say. “You have ten minutes to collect your things and get out of my building.”
“Mr. Morozov, I—”
“Ten minutes. Any longer and I’ll call in those men you saw on Monday and have them personally escort you out.”
It’s an empty threat, of course. Those men are long gone. But I watch as the words hit him hard.
He hesitates only a moment. Then he catches something in my expression that makes his spine go rigid. He nods once, stands slowly, and backs toward the door.
I don’t say another word.
He disappears.
Andrea steps in less than a minute later. “He’s leaving.”
“Make sure security walks him out.”
Once the door shuts, I let myself exhale. The tension doesn’t leave; it just shifts. I’ve been thinking about this all week. About Lyra. She didn’t ask me to intervene, but she must have known I would, the same way I stepped in when that man at the restaurant harassed her.
My private line rings, and I already know there’s going to be some new kind of bullshit.
I answer brusquely. “What?”
Alek’s voice is low and clipped. “You’re not going to like this.”
“I rarely do.”
“There’s word on the street. Rurik’s people are pissed. You embarrassed them, and there’s going to be a response.”
I glance toward the window, watching the sky darken over the skyline. “Of course there is.”
“They’re calling for retaliation.”
“They’d need balls for that.”
“They might have them now,” he says. “You know how this works. When you kill two of theirs, they don’t care what the justification is. They have to make noise.”
“They sent men into my building with weapons.”
“I’m not arguing,” Alek says. “But Rurik’s not going to back down. He’ll throw bodies at this until it feels like he’s won.”
My jaw tightens.
“Maybe lay low this weekend,” he suggests. “At least for a night or two.”
I almost laugh. “You want me to lay low?”
“I want you to be alive on Monday.”
“Unfortunately, I already have plans this weekend that I can’t cancel,” I tell him. “Besides, Rurik isn’t going to intimidate me in my own city.”
Alek exhales. “What do you want me to do?”
“Be ready.”
“For what?”
“For whatever the hell they think they’re going to try.”
I set the phone down and return to my desk. I look over the itinerary for my date. Andrea arranged the details, but she doesn’t know it’s a date or who my companion will be. It simply falls within her job to manage my social calendar.
We’ve got a private room at an upscale place on the Upper East Side. It’s nearly impossible to get a reservation, but my name carries weight in certain rooms. I can’t wait to see how Lyra reacts, especially after working at Maison Royale for so long.
When I pick her up the following evening, she steals my breath the moment she steps out of her building. She’s wearing a simple black dress that hugs her body like an old friend. Her hair is down, styled to look casual. She wants to pretend that this date doesn’t mean as much as it does.
I watch from the backseat as she hesitates, her eyes scanning the tinted windows of my town car. She smooths her hands down the sides of her thighs, then squares her shoulders and steps forward.
I step out and open the door for her before she can even reach for it. I offer to help her in. She refuses my hand and slides in herself.
“Good evening, Ms. Taylor,” I say as seductively as I can manage.
“Hi,” she answers shyly.
The city fades to a blur outside the windows as my driver pulls away from her building.
She takes a breath and crosses her legs, her hands resting lightly in her lap. Her heels are low, in stark contrast to the stilettos I’m used to seeing on my dates. I wonder if she dislikes uncomfortable shoes, or if she wanted an easy way to run away.
“You look stunning,” I tell her honestly.
She laughs, a soft, startled sound.
“I tried to dress professionally,” she admits. “I’m still not exactly sure what kind of dinner this is.”
“What kind would you like it to be?”
“I’m not sure,” she answers thoughtfully. “Though, I have a feeling it might be the kind that ends with a nondisclosure agreement.”
I tilt my head. “You think you’ll need an NDA?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
She turns her head toward me. “On whether or not you’re planning to seduce me tonight.”
I don’t answer right away. I let the silence stretch for a beat longer than it should.
Then I say, “Would it matter if I were?”
Her mouth curves. “No,” she says. “But I’d like to be warned.”
I shift slightly, leaning back, watching her.
“You seem like the kind of woman who prefers to be surprised.”
“Only when I’m in control of the outcome.”
I smile. “Control is overrated.”
“Easy to say when you’re the one in control.”
My eyes sweep over her again, slower this time.
I lower my voice. “Trust me, Ms. Taylor,” I say. “You’re in a lot more control of this situation than you may think.”
She doesn’t look away.
This is what I wanted. Not a timid dinner. Not forced small talk. Just this. Watching her walk into it with her eyes open, not flinching. Not folding. Maybe she’s too young for me, but she seems up for the challenge.
The car winds through the streets. Outside, the lights stretch into ribbons. But neither of us looks away.
She shifts slightly, the fabric of her dress tightening around her thighs.
“So where are you taking me?”
“I’ve rented out Velour for the evening,” I tell her, wanting to gauge her reaction.
“You rented the whole restaurant?” she asks.
“I like the privacy,” I admit, hoping she catches the double meaning.
“Do you always require so much privacy?” she asks.
“Often.”
“And what exactly do you plan to do with so much of it?”
I don’t answer.
The driver pulls up to a private entrance on the far side of the tower. The valet is already waiting, briefed and background-checked. He opens the door, and I step out first.
Lyra follows.
She walks with a confidence that surprises me. Chin high, shoulders back, like she’s marching into battle. She’s on high alert, and maybe she’s right to be.
We ride the elevator in silence to the top floor.
When the doors part again, they open onto the kind of view most people never get to see.
The restaurant is dimly lit. Black floors. Steel lines. Wall-to-wall glass. The city stretches out in every direction, lights glittering against the night sky. There’s only one table set, near the glass.
She stops walking when she sees it. “This is incredible,” she whispers.
I step beside her. “I thought you might appreciate a little luxury tonight.”
She looks over at me, searching for something in my face.
“So is this, like, your move?” she asks suspiciously. “Do you do this for all of your dates?”
I don’t lie. “No, but I have done it once before.”
She looks back at the table. “Is this the same place?”
“No.”
She looks satisfied by my answer, then walks toward our table.
The host appears silently, bows, then vanishes the moment we’re seated. Champagne is already poured. Lyra picks up her glass and studies it before taking a sip. I let her settle before I say anything more.
“Is this too much?” I ask.
She glances around. “Maybe.”
“Do you want to leave?”
“No.”
I nod, not sure what to make of her short, curt answers.
She studies me over the rim of her glass. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“So private. So in control of everything and everyone.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s necessary.” I shrug. “It’s the nature of my business.”
She tilts her head. “And are you trying to control me?”
“No. I’m trying to control myself.”
There’s a pause. She visibly blushes and looks down at her plate for a second, then up again.
I lean forward slightly before continuing. “Because if I don’t, I’d say things I shouldn’t.”
Her breath catches, and she does that little lip bite that I have come to adore.
Dinner comes in courses. Elegant small plates arrive like works of art. She eats slowly, savoring every bite, but never lets herself appear impressed. She’s careful and measured, but the longer the evening goes on, the more her edges soften, the more her eyes linger.
By the time dessert arrives, she pushes the plate away with a contented sigh.
“I couldn’t possibly eat any more.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Because you’re full or because you want to look classy in front of me?”
She cocks an eyebrow at me before taking her fork and scooping up a large bite of chocolate soufflé. “You’re a bad influence.”
“You have no idea,” I murmur. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Okay,” she says quietly, without a hint of hesitation.