Chapter 8 #2
The next few hours were torture. I had to endure the rough denim of my skirt rubbing against my most sensitive parts. Several times I nearly moaned aloud from the tingling, stinging friction.
But every time I met Varlam's knowing eyes, I swallowed the sounds down.
Near the end of the workday, the torture finally ended. Varlam pushed a plain black gift bag across my desk.
"Go put these on." His tone brooked no argument.
I grabbed the bag and practically ran to the bathroom. Inside was a pair of exquisite panties. I didn't know what fabric they were made of, but the moment my fingers touched them, I knew they cost a fortune.
I slipped them on carefully. They fit perfectly, like they'd been custom-made for my body. Every curve was accommodated with precision that made me suspicious.
Finally safe, I exhaled in relief. But looking at my flushed face in the mirror, my heart sank again.
I didn't understand why Varlam had changed so drastically after I'd said those words. Or maybe this was who he'd always been—controlling, possessive. Keeping women close, controlling their work, their whereabouts. Maybe he wanted to control their bodies' responses too.
And this was only day one. I couldn't imagine what the rest of this arrangement would look like.
Over the next few days, my work involved more than just reviewing and adjusting wedding proposals.
I also had to organize the accounts for Varlam's restaurants, bars, jewelry stores, and certain "special" businesses.
The regular shop records could go into the computer.
The rest of the ledgers, he delivered to my desk personally.
The thick stack landed with enough force to make the desk shake.
"These accounts must be handwritten. No photos. No copies. No trace on any electronic device." His tone was final.
I opened the top ledger. No full names, just initials, dates, strange symbols, and strings of alarmingly large numbers. Some entries were crossed out in red, with only a brief notation beside them.
"What do these symbols mean?"
"You don't need to know."
"But I have to organize them."
I'd known he was mafia. Known his empire extended far beyond legitimate businesses. But until now, those illicit dealings had been abstract, distant from my life.
Now I felt like Varlam had cracked open a door, and I was peering through the gap at a corner of his real world.
"Copy them." He set a fountain pen beside me. "Not a single mistake."
I swallowed hard, looking up at him. "What happens if I write a number wrong?"
"One zero too few might buy someone an extra day." His voice was calm. "One too many might make someone disappear."
My fingers froze on the page. He wasn't joking. And that made these numbers suddenly feel heavy. They might determine whether someone saw tomorrow's sunrise.
"So, Briony. Don't wonder where the money goes. Don't try to memorize those symbols."
"What if someone asks me?"
"No one will."
"How can you be sure?"
He stood, steel-gray eyes devoid of warmth.
"Because everyone who knows these ledgers exist understands when to keep their mouth shut."
A chill ran down my spine. I was getting a full taste of how terrible this job really was.
I stared at the open ledger. Those numbers and symbols were like a black web, and Varlam had just placed one of its threads directly in my hand.
"So you're warning me?"
"I'm teaching you how to do your job safely." He said it like it was obvious.
I wanted to push the ledger back, but then my doubled salary and Rory's face flashed through my mind.
This job was dangerous, complicated, and would probably expose me to things I had no business knowing. But bills didn't care about danger. Danger didn't pay rent. I stared at that pen for several seconds before picking it up.
"Yes, Mr. Petrov."
Varlam's gaze dropped to my hand. His lips might've twitched.
"Smart choice."
It wasn't. If he wasn't paying me so much, I'd never touch work that could exhaust me and possibly get me killed.
After that, I copied ledgers until the early morning hours almost every day.
It was 2:18 AM. My eyelids were fighting gravity, my wrist ached, and three ledgers still sat untouched beside me.
I should march these to Varlam and demand a raise.
I rubbed my wrist and kept copying those incomprehensible symbols and numbers. The pen had just scratched across the last line when the office door suddenly opened.
Varlam walked in. His steps were heavier than usual, sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows, black ink disappearing into fabric along his muscled forearms. He pulled out the chair across from me and sat. The scent of whiskey overwhelmed the paper and ink as he leaned closer.
"Are you checking the accounts?" I asked.
He didn't answer. Just watched me quietly.
I'd never seen Varlam like this. The harsh lines that usually defined his face had softened. Those all-seeing eyes now held something unfamiliar—exhaustion, and maybe tenderness. The ice that kept everyone at a distance had melted, just a little.
"Brin." He spoke suddenly, his voice roughened by alcohol into something low and warm. "You've been working hard."
The pen dragged a long mark across the page. I froze like I'd been struck by lightning.
The last time anyone called me that was when my parents were alive. It was a family nickname—intimate, soft.
These past few days, he'd been my boss, a dangerous Pakhan. Power, age, and an entire world I'd never understand stood between us. Even though our bodies had been intimate beyond secrets, I still felt like I was standing somewhere far away from him.
But now, that impossible distance had shrunk. Just a little. Just enough to make my heart race out of control.
Then I remembered all his awful behavior, and my heart started to ache. I had no idea how he saw me. A fuck buddy? An assistant? A young woman who temporarily entertained him?
Varlam was still watching me, but his pupils weren't quite focused, like he was looking through my face at something else.
"Are you..." I waved my hand in front of his eyes. "What's wrong?"
Before I could pull back, Varlam caught my wrist. He seemed to snap back to awareness, focus sharpening. Our eyes met, and something flickered in his gaze—too fast for me to catch.
"Varlam?" I tested my wrist in his grip.
His fingertips lingered on my pulse for a second before he slowly released me.
"Nothing." The softness vanished under a cold mask. "There's a gala next week. You're coming with me."
"A gala? But I—" I'd never been to anything like that. Didn't even own an appropriate dress.
The white dress Varlam had given me was expensive enough, but still not something you'd wear into a high society ballroom.
"Everything you need is taken care of. You just need to show up on time." He glanced at me. "Don't worry. I remember your measurements very clearly."
He left me with that and walked out. I sat alone in the office, unable to fit another number into my brain.
The gala, the dress, and that almost-tender "Brin" tumbled through my thoughts in chaos.
I pinched my stomach, imagining myself standing beside Varlam. Age, status, body type—any one of those things was enough to make us look completely mismatched.
That white dress was probably already pushing it, wasn't it?
But what really unsettled me wasn't whether a dress could hide the softness around my waist. It was that when he took my hand and led me into that gala, I might not be able to stop myself from pretending it was a real date.
Worse—I was already looking forward to it.