Chapter 6 Roman
ROMAN
Iarrive at the office before dawn, the city still dark beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Sleep has been impossible since Friday night's call about the dock murder.
I've spent the weekend in constant motion—reviewing security footage, coordinating with my team, making calls to associates who might have information.
Now, standing in my empty office with only the hum of the building's systems for company, I finally allow myself to stop moving.
The execution was professional. A single shot to the back of the head, the body positioned in a shipping container where it would be found quickly.
Not hidden—displayed. A message written in blood and gunpowder, the language I've spoken since I was seventeen.
I know Abram Yakovlev's signature when I see it.
The brutality, the theatrical positioning, the timing designed to maximize my vulnerability.
It's his work. But knowing and proving are different things, and without proof, I can't retaliate without triggering the war he wants.
My phone buzzes. David Brennan, confirming he's on his way up. The lawyer is early, which means he's as concerned as I am about the implications of Friday's murder.
I move to my desk, pulling up the security reports my team compiled over the weekend.
Surveillance footage from the docks shows nothing useful.
The cameras in that section mysteriously malfunctioned for exactly forty-seven minutes, long enough for the killer to do his work and disappear.
The dock workers who discovered the body are clean, no connections to any organization.
The victim was one of mine, a low-level soldier who handled shipment logistics.
Not important enough to warrant this kind of attention unless the goal was sending a message rather than eliminating a threat.
The elevator chimes. I don't look up from my laptop as David enters, his footsteps measured and precise across the marble floor. He's wearing one of his three-piece suits, charcoal with subtle pinstripes, his titanium-framed glasses catching the early morning light filtering through the windows.
"Roman." He settles into the chair across from my desk, setting his leather briefcase on the floor with careful precision. "We have a problem."
"Several problems," I correct, my voice low. "Tell me about the legal exposure."
David removes his glasses, cleaning them with methodical attention that I recognize as his way of organizing his thoughts.
"The police are treating it as a homicide, obviously.
They're interviewing dock workers, reviewing manifests, asking questions about who had access to that section.
So far, they're treating it as random violence—wrong place, wrong time.
But if they start digging deeper, if they connect the victim to your operations… "
"They won't." I lean back in my chair, my fingers steepled. "The victim's employment records show he worked for a legitimate shipping company. His background is clean. There's nothing connecting him to me beyond the fact that his employer occasionally handles our freight."
"For now." David replaces his glasses, his green eyes sharp behind the lenses.
"But this is the third incident in as many weeks, Roman.
The delays, the safety complaints, now a murder.
Someone is building a pattern, creating a trail that leads directly to your door.
If federal investigators start looking at this systematically—"
"They'll find nothing." I cut him off, my tone harder than I intend.
"We've been careful. The legitimate businesses are clean.
The operations that aren't…" I pause, choosing my words with the precision David has taught me.
"Those are insulated. Compartmentalized.
Even if they investigate every shipping container that passes through those docks, they won't find evidence connecting me to anything illegal. "
David's expression suggests he's not entirely convinced, but he nods.
"I'll monitor the investigation, make sure it stays focused on random violence rather than organized crime.
But Roman, we need to address the real problem.
Someone is systematically dismantling your port operations.
The delays are costing you money, but more importantly, they're making you look weak. And now this murder—"
The elevator chimes again. Lev Baranov steps onto the floor, his dark suit immaculate despite the early hour, his expression grim. He nods at David, then settles into the chair beside him, his dark eyes meeting mine with the understanding that comes from two decades of friendship.
"Tell me you have something," I say.
Lev pulls out his phone, swiping through images.
"The dock workers who filed the safety complaints—I've been tracking their movements, their associations.
Three of them have connections to Yakovlev's organization.
Nothing direct, nothing that would hold up in court, but the threads are there.
One has a cousin who works in Abram's gambling operations.
Another owes money to one of his lending schemes.
The third…" He pauses, his jaw tightening.
"The third received a cash payment two days before filing his complaint.
Fifty thousand dollars, deposited in an offshore account we traced back to a shell company. "
"Connected to Yakovlev?" David asks, already pulling out his own phone to take notes.
"Eventually. Through enough layers that proving it would take months.
" Lev's frustration is evident in the tension of his shoulders.
"But the pattern is clear. Abram is paying people to sabotage your operations, creating legitimate complaints through proper channels so you can't simply eliminate the problem. "
I stand, moving to the windows, my hands clasped behind my back.
The city is waking up below, early morning traffic beginning to fill the streets, people starting their normal days with normal problems. I envy them sometimes, the simplicity of their concerns.
"What about the lending company? The one connected to Eva Markova's mother's debt? "
David and Lev exchange a glance that I don't miss.
David speaks first, his voice carefully neutral.
"MediFund Solutions is definitely part of Yakovlev's network.
We've confirmed that much. They target immigrant families, offer financing for medical emergencies at interest rates designed to ensure the debt can never be repaid.
It's a trap, a way to create leverage over desperate people. "
"And Eva?" I turn to face them, my expression controlled despite the tension coiling in my gut. "Is she part of this?"
Lev's dark eyes study me with uncomfortable intensity.
"The surveillance from this weekend shows nothing suspicious.
She went straight home after work Friday, had dinner with her roommate, made no calls or contacts that raised flags.
She spent Saturday morning on her fire escape, video calling her family in Russia.
Just normal family talk—school, health updates, nothing coded or suspicious. "
"That doesn't mean she's not involved," David points out, though his tone suggests he's playing devil's advocate rather than stating conviction. "If she's well-trained, she'd know to maintain normal patterns, to avoid anything that would trigger surveillance alerts."
"There's another issue," Dave says, his voice dropping lower. "Irina has been asking questions about Eva. About why you hired her, what her background is, whether she's… special to you in some way."
I feel my expression harden at the mention of Lev's girlfriend. "What did you tell her?" I ask Lev.
"Nothing," Lev answers calmly. "She's just curious. Probably sees how you look at the secretary."
Through the glass wall of my office, I watch Eva arrive , her professional armor perfectly in place.
Navy sheath dress, structured blazer, her blonde hair in that sleek bun she seems to favor.
She sets her purse in her office, then disappears toward the kitchen.
Five minutes later, she enters my office with my coffee, and I'm acutely aware of David and Lev watching this interaction with calculating interest.
"Good morning, Mr. Sokolov." Her voice is steady, professional. She sets the coffee on my desk with practiced precision, careful not to let our fingers touch. But I catch the slight tremor in her hands, the way her pulse flutters at her throat. She's nervous, though she hides it well.
"Miss Markova." I let my gaze linger on her face, watching for any reaction. A slight flush creeps up her neck, but her expression remains composed. "Thank you."
She nods and retreats to her office, and I don't miss the way David's green eyes track her movement, assessing, calculating. When she's out of earshot, he speaks quietly. "She's beautiful. And clearly afraid of you."
"Everyone's afraid of me," I say, taking a sip of the coffee. Perfect temperature, exactly right. "That's not evidence of guilt."
"No," Lev agrees. "But it's not evidence of innocence, either."
They leave shortly after, David to handle the legal maneuvering around the dock murder investigation, Lev to continue tracking Yakovlev's network.
I'm left alone in my office, watching Eva work through the glass wall.
When Natasha appears at her desk, clearly upset about something, Eva produces tissues and makes tea, her movements gentle and competent as she calms the nervous secretary.
My phone buzzes with a text from HR, confirming the performance review I requested to be rescheduled for this afternoon. I need to see how Eva handles direct questioning, how she responds when I invade her space, and whether she'll crack under scrutiny.
The morning passes in a blur of calls and meetings.
I handle business with my usual efficiency, but my attention keeps drifting to Eva.
The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear when she's thinking.
The curve of her neck when she bends over her desk, the way her dress hugs her body, emphasizing curves that make my blood heat despite every logical reason I should maintain distance.
Later, I call her into my office. She enters with her notepad, ready to take dictation, but I have other plans. I close the door, lower the blinds, and watch her brown eyes widen slightly with apprehension.
"Sit," I say, gesturing to the chair across from my desk.
She settles into it, her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap. Professional. Composed. But I see the tells. The way she presses her thumbnail into her index finger, the slight tension in her shoulders.
I don't sit behind my desk. Instead, I lean against it, deliberately invading her space, close enough that I can smell her perfume.
"Your performance this week has been adequate," I begin, my voice low. "You learn quickly. You handle pressure well. You're competent."
"Thank you, Mr. Sokolov." Her voice is steady, but I see her pulse quicken at her throat.
I let the silence stretch, watching her. She doesn't fidget, doesn't fill the quiet with nervous chatter. She simply waits, and I find myself respecting that control even as I want to shatter it.
"Tell me about your mother's medical debt." The question comes out harder than I intend, sharper. "Who financed it?"
For the first time since she started working for me, I see genuine fear flash across Eva Markova's features.