The Pakhan’s Secretary (Sins of the Bratva #2)

Chapter 1

EVA

Istand on the sidewalk staring up at the gleaming glass tower, my reflection fractured across its polished surface.

Twenty-four years old, and I look like I've lived twice that.

The dark circles under my eyes are expertly concealed beneath makeup I can't really afford, my blonde hair pulled into a sleek bun that took three YouTube tutorials to perfect.

The navy sheath dress hugging my frame cost more than my weekly grocery budget used to be, back when I had money for things like food.

But I need to look the part. I need this job.

This temp position at Sokolov Financial Group pays triple my normal rate. Triple. Enough to finally make real progress on the debt. Enough to send substantial money home. Enough to maybe, possibly, eventually bring my sixteen-year-old brother back to America where he belongs.

I can't afford to lose this opportunity.

I push through the revolving doors into a lobby that screams money—all marble and steel, with a security desk manned by guards who look more like soldiers than rent-a-cops.

My heels click against the polished floor as I approach, and I'm acutely aware of how worn my coat is, how my purse is a decent knockoff, but still a knockoff.

"Eva Markova," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I have an appointment with Sokolov Financial Group."

The guard checks his tablet, then directs me to a bank of elevators. "Thirty-eighth floor."

The elevator is mirrored, and I use the ride up to check my appearance one more time. Professional. Polished. Competent. I press my thumbnail into my index finger—a nervous habit I've mostly broken—and force myself to stop. I need to project confidence, even if I'm terrified.

The doors open onto a reception area that makes the lobby look modest. Polished marble floors in deep charcoal gray stretch toward floor-to-ceiling windows offering breathtaking views of the skyline.

The reception desk is a massive piece of black granite and brushed steel, and behind it sits a woman who looks like she might shatter at any moment.

"Eva Markova?" Her voice is soft, accented. Russian, like mine used to be before I worked to minimize it. "I'm Natasha Kuzmin. Welcome to Sokolov Financial Group."

She's maybe thirty-two, with mousy brown hair pulled back in a tight bun and pale blue eyes that are slightly red, like she's been crying. Or is about to. She clutches a tissue in one hand as she stands, smoothing her shapeless cardigan with the other.

"Mr. Sokolov is expecting you on the forty-second floor," she says, her hands trembling slightly as she gestures toward a private elevator. "I'll take you up."

The ride is silent except for Natasha's shallow breathing. I want to ask if she's okay, but something about the tension radiating from her stops me. When the doors open, I understand why.

The forty-second floor is stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls offer panoramic views that make my breath catch.

The office space is all clean lines and expensive minimalism—dark wood, brushed steel, leather furniture that probably costs more than my annual rent.

Everything is immaculate, controlled, revealing nothing.

"This will be your office," Natasha says, leading me to a glass-walled space adjacent to a larger corner office. "You'll work directly for Mr. Sokolov. His previous assistant is leaving for maternity leave, so you'll shadow her today and tomorrow, then take over on Monday."

Through the glass wall, I can see into what must be Roman Sokolov's office. It's massive, dominated by a custom desk that looks like a piece of architectural art. The space is empty now, but I feel its power anyway—the careful control, the wealth, the authority.

"He's very particular," Natasha continues, her voice dropping to almost a whisper. "About everything. His coffee must be exactly right. His files organized precisely. His schedule managed to the minute. No mistakes. He doesn't tolerate mistakes."

The way she says it makes my stomach tighten. This isn't normal corporate perfectionism. This is something else.

"I understand," I say, keeping my voice professional.

Natasha looks like she wants to say more, but footsteps in the hallway make her straighten, her face going carefully blank. "He's here."

Roman Sokolov walks into view, and my breath catches.

He's tall—easily six-two—with a broad-shouldered build that his perfectly tailored suit emphasizes rather than hides.

Short black hair, meticulously groomed. A trimmed mustache that gives him a distinguished, old-world appearance.

But it's his eyes that stop me cold. Piercing blue, sharp and assessing, the kind of eyes that see everything and reveal nothing.

He moves with the confidence of a man who owns everything he surveys. There's something almost predatory in his grace, controlled power in every step. His presence fills the space, commanding and dangerous and magnetic in a way that makes my pulse quicken for reasons I don't want to examine.

"Mr. Sokolov," Natasha says, her voice trembling slightly. "This is Eva Markova, the temp from the agency."

His blue eyes sweep over me, assessing. I force myself to meet his gaze, to keep my spine straight and project the competence I need him to see. For a moment, something flickers in those cold eyes—interest, maybe, or calculation—before his expression returns to neutral.

"Miss Markova." His voice is low, accented, the kind of voice that forces you to lean in to hear properly. Russian, definitely, though his English is flawless. "Come."

It's not a request. He turns and walks into his office, clearly expecting me to follow. I do, my heels clicking against the marble, acutely aware of Natasha's pitying expression as I pass.

Roman's office is even more impressive up close. The desk, the view, the careful arrangement of expensive furniture—everything speaks of wealth and power and control. He doesn't sit behind his desk. Instead, he leans against it, arms crossed, studying me with those piercing blue eyes.

"My assistant is leaving for maternity leave," he says, his accent making certain words more pronounced.

"You will learn her position today and tomorrow.

You will begin Monday. The hours are long—eighteen-hour days are common.

The work requires absolute discretion. Perfection in every task. No mistakes. No questions. No excuses."

Each word is delivered with quiet authority, and I find myself nodding, agreeing to terms that should terrify me.

"Do you understand?" he asks.

"Yes, Mr. Sokolov."

His gaze lingers on my face for a moment longer than necessary, and I feel heat creep up my neck. There's something unsettling about his attention, the way he looks at me like he's solving a puzzle, cataloging every detail.

"Good," he finally says. "You may begin."

It's a dismissal. I turn to leave, but his voice stops me at the door.

"Miss Markova. Do not disappoint me."

The words send a chill down my spine.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of information.

The outgoing assistant walks me through Roman's impossibly specific preferences.

Coffee black with exactly two sugars, heated to precisely 185 degrees.

Files organized by a color-coded system that makes sense only to him.

Meetings scheduled to the minute, with buffer time built in that he never uses but requires anyway.

"He's exacting," she says, her voice kind but tired, "but fair. Do your job well, and he'll never bother you. Make mistakes…" She trails off, shaking her head. "Just don't make mistakes."

I notice things throughout the day that seem odd for a financial firm.

Men in expensive suits who carry themselves like soldiers, their eyes constantly scanning, hands never far from their jacket pockets.

Conversations in Russian that stop abruptly when I enter rooms. The way everyone seems afraid of Roman in a way that goes beyond normal corporate hierarchy—it's not respect. It's fear.

By evening, the assistant has left, and I'm alone in my new office, reviewing files and trying to memorize the systems I'll need to know by Monday.

Through the glass wall, I watch Roman work.

His focus is absolute, his movements precise and controlled.

He's on the phone, speaking rapid Russian, his voice low and commanding.

Then he removes his cufflinks with deliberate precision, setting them on his desk. He rolls up his sleeves, and I catch a glimpse of his forearms.

Tattoos.

Not the trendy kind you see in coffee shops. These are old, faded, intricate. Russian prison tattoos. I recognize the style from documentaries, from whispered stories about the Bratva. Cathedral domes. Stars. Symbols that mean something in a world I don't understand.

My stomach tightens with unease. This isn't just a demanding boss. This is something else entirely.

I should leave, should walk away from this job, this money, this man with cold blue eyes and prison tattoos. But I think of Alexei, of Babushka Sasha, of the debt crushing me and the future I'm trying to build from the ruins of my mother's death.

I need this job too desperately to ask questions.

"Miss Markova."

His voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade. I look up to find him standing in the doorway of my office, his blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"My office."

His tone is sharp, commanding. I stand on shaking legs and follow him, my heart pounding. He's holding a file—one I organized earlier, trying to follow Jennifer's instructions about his color-coding system.

"This is incorrect," he says, his eyes boring into mine. He sets the file on his desk, his movements controlled but radiating displeasure. "The quarterly reports are filed by fiscal period, not calendar year. This is a basic error."

"I apologize, Mr. Sokolov. I'll correct it immediately."

"In my organization," he interrupts, his voice low and dangerous, "mistakes have consequences. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

The way he emphasizes "organization" makes my blood run cold. Not company. Not firm. Organization.

I meet his piercing blue eyes and realize with sickening clarity that this job might be far more dangerous than I imagined.