Chapter 2
AbrAM
Jenna. Fucking. Ridley.
My gaze tracks her ass as she storms out of my office, heels striking the marble like gunfire.
Every movement screams fury, but I can’t stop watching the sway of her hips, the way that A-line skirt hugs her body like it was designed to test my patience.
She doesn’t move like an assistant. She moves like a goddamn challenge.
She’s younger than me, too young, and yet she walks out as if she owns the space. That body could make a priest break faith, and I lost mine a long time ago.
Her hair is a wildfire of red that refuses to obey. It catches sunlight, glows against her pale skin.
Flame on porcelain, the kind of contrast that makes a man imagine how she’d look marked by his hand. And those eyes—green, sharp, unyielding—they stare me down like she doesn’t know she should be afraid.
Most people flinch under my gaze.
She meets it head-on.
That alone? Impressive as hell.
She’s not one of those fragile women the city breeds—hollow bones and expensive emptiness. She’s real. Warm. The kind of real unapologetic beauty that starts wars.
For a heartbeat, I almost call her back.
I imagine the quiet click of the lock, the air shifting when she realizes what that sound means.
My voice would be low—deliberate, the kind that doesn’t ask twice.
I’d tell her to hike that skirt up, pull her panties off, bare herself, and let me watch her temper melt into something far more dangerous.
The thought bites hard, heat shooting straight to my cock.
But I don’t move.
I never do.
I’ve built an empire on control, and I don’t lose it for anyone.
And Jenna Ridley tests that principle every damn day.
Wanting her is one thing. Having her would be a mistake I can’t afford.
Fucking your assistant is the oldest cliché in the book—one of those stupid, reckless mistakes men like me aren’t supposed to make.
I turn toward the window and stare down at Las Vegas—the city gleaming under the afternoon sun, the perfect disguise for corruption. I’ve ruled men twice my age and put better ones in the ground.
I’m Abram Vasiliev.
Head of the Vasiliev Bratva.
Feared from St. Petersburg to Nevada. The law bends around me because it knows better than to break.
She knows my name.
She has no fucking clue what it really means.
Beyond these walls, it’s a warning. A promise. A curse.
Every deal, every contract, every drop of ink that bears it is backed by blood.
Men have vanished for less than speaking it wrong.
It’s the name fathers use to keep their sons in line. The name carved into the bones of anyone who thought they could cross me.
The blood that stains my hands isn’t metaphor. It’s memory. And it never really washes off.
I keep every part of my life separated. Power in one box. Violence in another. Sex in a third. That’s how I’ve stayed alive long enough to see forty-five. But lately, Jenna’s been prying those boxes open.
Her temper simmers beneath her calm like heat under glass—visible only when it threatens to shatter. Every time she stands her ground, every time she meets my gaze without fear, I feel my discipline slip a little further. She doesn’t realize it yet, but she’s teaching me how to want chaos again.
Each day, resisting her gets a little harder.
She has no idea how close she walks to the line.
Or how much effort it takes for me not to drag her across it.
Those hips, those thighs, the softness under all that attitude.
A younger woman shouldn’t have that kind of effect on me.
It’s fucking dangerous.
Her defiance shouldn’t attract me. Yet here we are.
The truth is, she’s impressed me. That’s not something many people manage these days. She doesn’t fold under pressure. When I raise my voice, she doesn’t tremble—she straightens. When I test her, she gives it right back, clean and measured, eyes sharp but never reckless.
If she can handle the heat around me, she’ll be useful.
Maybe the best damn assistant I’ve ever had.
Her scent still lingers in the room. Something sweet but grounded, like vanilla layered with smoke. Every trace of her teases at the edges of my control, making it harder to remember that I don’t get to touch her.
Not that hair.
Not those lips that curve when she’s seconds from saying something reckless.
I chuckle under my breath, still staring out the window.
Jenna Ridley. Fucking hell. The whole reason she’s here is because of my meddling sisters, Anya and Tatiana. They stormed into my office three months ago like a pair of smug hurricanes in heels, sitting themselves down like they owned the place and giving me a carefully rehearsed speech.
“You need someone who can take the weight of the world off your shoulders,” Anya had said with a knowing smile.
“Someone competent. Organized. Someone who won’t put up with your bullshit,” Tatiana added.
And then, as if they’d choreographed the whole thing, they said together: “We know just the woman.”
Apparently, Jenna completed a temp stint at a real estate firm where Tatiana’s college friend worked. She’d filled in for an executive assistant on maternity leave and left such a strong impression that word traveled fast. Efficient, sharp-tongued, calm under pressure.
A little too pretty for her own good, but not the kind of pretty that fades under harsh light. Hers is the kind that burns into your memory and won’t leave.
I insisted I didn’t need another damn assistant. I needed quiet. But they didn’t give a shit about what I wanted. Their little speech wasn’t about work. It was about tying me down.
They want to see me get married. Settled. Playing house like they are—soft mornings, matching mugs, fucking holiday cards. They’re happy, and they think I’m secretly lonely. Like I’m just waiting to be swept off my feet by the right woman and a color-coded Google calendar.
I’m not.
I like fucking too much.
The real kind. Not the performative honeymoon sex newlyweds pretend they’ll keep having forever. I’m talking about the kind that strips a woman down to her rawest needs and keeps her there.
Every night. Over my desk. In the shower. On the floor. Again and again.
From what I understand, wives don’t like that. Not after a while, anyway. Eventually, the excuses come. The headaches. The obligation. And I don’t want someone who fucks me because they think they’re supposed to.
I want hunger.
Filth.
Need.
So no, marriage isn’t for me.
But they got one thing right. Jenna is good.
Better than I expected. She’s smart. Fast. A little rough around the edges.
She’s emotional, impulsive, and a little too eager to talk back, but she learns quickly.
She expertly manages my calendar, types quickly and accurately, and anticipates what I need before I ask for it.
She’s not perfect.
Not yet.
Still, she meets me—challenge for challenge—and half the time I don’t know whether I want to bend her over the desk or see what else she’s capable of under pressure.
She hasn’t been broken in yet, hasn’t been taught how I like things, how I expect things.
But she will be. Because I don’t accept incompetence. I don’t accept excuses.
I demand excellence.
And if she’s going to keep walking into my office with those curves and that mouth, she’d better learn how to be fucking flawless.
Nothing less will do.
Training her as an assistant will take time. Precision. Patience.
But there are other things. Darker things.
I shake my head, coming back into the moment. I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled against my mouth, eyes unfocused. My mind drifts back to the conversation we’d had earlier.
“He mentioned it’s a sex club.”
Just like that. No hesitation, no awkwardness. Like she was reporting a fluctuation in the stock market.
And fuck me, it had taken everything I had not to react.
I’d asked the question to test her. I know what kind of club The 13th Floor is; hell, I’m the one buying it. I wanted to see if she’d flinch. See if she’d squirm.
She didn’t.
I shift in my chair, jaw tight, trying—and failing—not to let the memory take hold of me.
And then she’d had the audacity to tilt her head, eyes sharp as razors, and ask, “If I were a man, would you have asked for those details?”
I’d kept my voice cool when I answered, telling her yes because it’s true. I expect thoroughness from everyone on my payroll. But that’s not what she was really asking. And we both knew it.
Because by then, the power had shifted.
And God help me, it made me want her more.
Not just to fuck. Not just to claim.
To unravel. To crack that shell. To see if she tastes just as sharp when she finally loses control.
I exhale slowly, adjusting myself under the desk.
I’m still imagining her saying all of that again—but on her knees this time, lips parted, eyes daring me to break her.
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake it off. But it clings to me. The memory. The heat.
And the worst part?
It wasn’t flirtation. She wasn’t playing a game.
She was just doing her job, which means this isn’t going to go away.
And neither is this obsession.