Chapter 7 Eva
EVA
The question hangs in the air between us like a blade suspended by thread, and I don't understand why my heart is suddenly hammering against my ribs.
Roman sits on the edge of his desk rather than behind it, one ankle crossed over the other, his piercing blue eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry.
"Tell me about your mother's medical debt," he says again, his accent making the words sound almost intimate despite their clinical nature. "Who financed it?"
My hands are folded in my lap, my thumbnail pressing into my index finger hard enough to leave a mark. I force myself to stop, to keep my voice steady. "I don't know the name of the company. The hospital arranged everything. I just… I signed whatever they put in front of me."
The memory of those final months crashes over me. The endless paperwork. The insurance denials. My mother's hollow eyes as the treatments failed one after another. I'd have signed anything, promised anything, to buy her more time.
"The interest rates?" Roman's voice is low, controlled, but there's something coiled beneath the surface. Something dangerous.
"High." The word tastes bitter. "Twenty-three percent. Compounding monthly. I've been making payments for two years and the principal has barely moved."
Roman's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
He stands, moving to the windows, his hands clasped behind his back.
The afternoon light catches the edge of his profile, the strong line of his jaw, the way his tailored suit emphasizes his broad shoulders.
Even now, even terrified, I can't help noticing how he moves with that controlled power that makes my pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
"Did anyone approach you about the debt?" He turns back to face me, and I'm struck again by how his blue eyes seem to see straight through every defense I've built. "Offer to help with payments? Suggest ways to reduce what you owe?"
"No." Confusion wars with the fear tightening my chest. "Why would they? I'm nobody. I have nothing to offer."
"Has anyone contacted you recently? Made unusual requests?"
"No." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I don't understand what this has to do with my job performance."
He studies me for a long moment, and I force myself to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes are calculating, assessing, and I feel like a specimen under a microscope. Then something shifts in his expression, something I can't quite read.
"Do you know anyone named Yakovlev?"
The name means nothing to me, but the way he says it, the careful emphasis, makes my stomach clench. "No. Should I?"
Roman's silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating.
I watch his chest rise and fall with controlled breaths, notice the way his hands have curled into loose fists at his sides.
There's tension radiating from him that wasn't there before, and I don't know if I've said something wrong or something right.
"Is something wrong?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "Have I done something to concern you?"
He moves back to his desk, settling into his chair with deliberate precision. When he looks at me again, his expression has returned to that carefully neutral mask he wears like armor. "Your performance is adequate, Miss Markova. You may return to work."
The dismissal is abrupt, almost cold, and I stand on shaking legs. As I reach for the door handle, his voice stops me.
"Eva."
I turn, and for just a moment, I see something flicker in those blue eyes. Concern, maybe. Or calculation. Then it's gone.
"Be careful," he says quietly.
The words follow me back to my office, echoing in my mind as I try to focus on the files spread across my desk.
Through the glass wall, I watch Roman make phone calls, his expression hard, his movements sharp with barely contained tension.
Whatever I said in there, whatever he was looking for, it's changed something.
Lev Baranov arrives mid-afternoon, his dark suit immaculate, his expression professionally neutral.
But when he passes my office, his dark eyes land on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
It's not sexual, not threatening in the obvious way.
It's assessing. Calculating. Like he's trying to determine whether I'm an asset or a liability.
I force my attention back to my computer screen, but I can feel his gaze through the glass wall of Roman's office. They're talking in low voices, occasionally glancing in my direction, and paranoia creeps up my spine like ice water.
By lunch, I can't take it anymore. I grab my purse and head down to the building's lobby, needing space, needing air, needing to think. The marble floors echo with my footsteps as I find a quiet corner near the windows and pull out my phone.
My fingers tremble slightly as I type "Yakovlev" into the search bar.
The results load slowly, and at first, they're innocuous.
Legitimate businesses. Import-export companies.
Real estate holdings. But I keep scrolling, digging deeper, and that's when I find them.
News articles buried in the search results, some years old, some more recent.
Words jump out at me—organized crime, Russian Mafia, federal investigation, racketeering charges.
My stomach drops to my feet.
I clear my search history immediately, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. What if Roman can see what I looked up? What if the company monitors internet usage? I'm being paranoid, I know I am, but the fear is real and visceral.
The afternoon passes in a blur of forced normalcy.
I answer phones, organize files, prepare Roman's coffee to his exact specifications.
But I'm acutely aware of his eyes on me through the glass wall, the way he watches me like he's waiting for something.
Waiting for me to crack, maybe. Or waiting to see if I'll run.
Around four, Natasha appears at my office door with two cups of coffee from the break room. Her pale blue eyes are red-rimmed, like she's been crying, and she gestures toward the small table in the corner of my office.
"Do you have a minute?" Her voice is soft, hesitant.
We settle into the chairs, and Natasha wraps her hands around her coffee cup like she's trying to warm herself despite the perfectly climate-controlled office. For a long moment, she doesn't speak, just stares into the dark liquid.
"I've worked here for three years," she finally says, her accent thicker than usual. "And I'm terrified of him. Every single day."
I don't have to ask who she means.
"I've seen things." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper.
"Men with guns. Conversations in Russian that stop the moment I enter a room.
The way everyone fears his silences more than his anger.
" She looks up at me, and there's genuine concern in her expression.
"Be careful, Eva. Do your job perfectly.
Keep your head down. Never ask questions. "
"What kind of things have you seen?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
Natasha's face goes pale. She stands abruptly, her coffee forgotten. "I've said too much. Just… be careful."
She's gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and growing dread.
The rest of the day crawls by with agonizing slowness.
Every time my phone rings, I jump. Every time someone walks past my office, my shoulders tense.
I catch Roman watching me through the glass wall, his blue eyes unreadable, and I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
A competent secretary? A potential threat? Something else entirely?
At five o'clock, I gather my things with hands that won't quite stop shaking. My worn coat feels heavier than usual as I pull it on, and I'm acutely aware of Roman's gaze following me as I walk toward the elevator. I don't look back. I can't.
The lobby is crowded with people leaving for the day, and I let myself be swept up in the tide of bodies heading for the revolving doors. The evening air hits my face, cool and sharp, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
That's when I see it.
A black car parked across the street, engine idling. The same car that's been there every evening this week, I realize with sudden, sickening clarity. The same driver behind the wheel, his face shadowed but his attention fixed directly on me.
I'm being followed.