Chapter 20 Roman
ROMAN
The city spreads below my office windows like a kingdom I'm watching slip through my fingers. A month since the shooting, and I'm no closer to proving what I already know in my bones. Abram Yakovlev is systematically destroying everything I've built.
I drain my vodka, neat, and pour another.
The burn does nothing to ease the cold fury that's been building since that night.
The attack was professional, precise, designed to send a message.
Abram's signature is all over it, but like everything else he's orchestrated, there's no proof.
No trail. Nothing I can use to justify retaliation without triggering the war he wants.
My phone buzzes. Lev, confirming Abram has agreed to the meeting. The bastard is coming here, to my office, because refusing would show weakness. I summoned him like the subordinate he should be, and he has no choice but to comply with the pretense of respect between Pakhans.
Through the glass wall, I watch Eva at her desk.
She's wearing a cream-colored blouse today, the fabric stretching across her breasts in a way that makes my hands itch to touch her.
Her blonde hair is pulled back in that sleek bun I want to destroy, and even from here I can see the tension in her shoulders.
She's been different since the shooting.
Quieter. More careful. The fear in her brown eyes when she thinks I'm not looking cuts deeper than any blade.
I've tried to give her space, tried to let her process what she witnessed. But fuck, I miss her. Miss the way she used to look at me before she saw me kill a man. Miss the heat between us that made everything else fade away.
The elevator chimes, and I force my attention away from Eva. Abram Yakovlev steps onto the forty-second floor, and the temperature seems to drop ten degrees.
He's massive, six-three and built like a man who still does his own dirty work.
His steel-gray hair is slicked back with pomade, and his thick beard can't hide the cruel set of his jaw.
He's wearing an expensive leather jacket over a silk shirt, heavy gold chains glinting at his throat.
Everything about him screams old-school Bratva, the kind of ostentatious display I've deliberately moved away from.
His pale gray eyes sweep the office with predatory assessment before landing on me through the glass. He smiles, and it's all teeth and malice.
I stand, buttoning my suit jacket with deliberate precision, and walk to my office door. "Abram. Thank you for coming."
"Roman." His accent is thicker than mine, deliberately so. He wants everyone to know he's not ashamed of where he came from, that he hasn't softened like I supposedly have. "You said we needed to talk about business difficulties. I am always happy to help a fellow Pakhan."
The word drips with mockery. He doesn't consider me a true Pakhan anymore. Not since I started building legitimate businesses.
I gesture him into my office. Lev materializes from the shadows near the windows, his dark suit blending with the charcoal walls, his expression professionally neutral. But I see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand hovers near his jacket where his gun rests.
Abram settles into the chair across from my desk, his massive frame making the expensive furniture look small.
He doesn't wait for me to speak. "I hear you've been having problems. Shipments delayed.
Financial troubles. Even an unfortunate incident here in your office.
" His smile widens. "These are dangerous times, da? "
I lean back in my chair, my fingers steepled, keeping my expression carefully neutral. "Yes. Very unfortunate. A series of coincidences that seem almost… coordinated."
"Coincidences." Abram spreads his hands, the picture of innocence.
"The docks are complicated. So many regulations, so many workers with their own agendas.
And the banks, they are always looking for reasons to freeze accounts.
As for the shooting…" He shakes his head with false sympathy. "Random violence. A tragedy."
We're speaking in code, both of us knowing exactly what we're really saying. He's behind it all, and he's enjoying watching me struggle to maintain control without proof.
"I appreciate your concern," I say, my voice low and controlled. "But I'm curious. Have you experienced similar difficulties? Or is my organization uniquely unlucky?"
Abram's smile doesn't waver. "My operations run smoothly. Perhaps it is your modern methods that create vulnerabilities. The old ways, they are more reliable."
The insult is deliberate. He's calling me weak, soft, too American. I feel Lev shift slightly behind me, a subtle warning that my sovietnik recognizes the provocation for what it is.
Before I can respond, Abram's gaze drifts past me to the glass wall. To Eva.
She's on the phone, her head bent over her notepad, completely unaware of the predator watching her. The way Abram looks at her makes my blood run cold. It's not simple male appreciation. It's calculation. Assessment. The look of a man identifying a target.
"Your secretary," Abram says, his voice casual but his eyes sharp. "She is very beautiful. New, da? I don't remember seeing her before."
Every muscle in my body tenses. "She's been with me for a while."
"Ah." Abram's smile takes on a knowing quality. "And she works very closely with you, I imagine. Sees many things. Knows many secrets." He finally drags his gaze back to me. "It must be difficult, trusting someone so… vulnerable."
The threat is unmistakable. He's noticed Eva. He's identified her as my weakness. And he's letting me know that he can reach her anytime he wants.
My hands clench beneath the desk, but I keep my voice steady. "My staff are well protected. And well compensated for their discretion."
"Of course, of course." Abram stands, his massive frame unfolding with surprising grace. "I should go. I have my own business to attend to. But Roman, if you need assistance with your difficulties, you have only to ask. We are all brothers in the Bratva, da?"
The word "brothers" sounds like a curse coming from his mouth.
I stand as well, not offering my hand. "Thank you for your time, Abram."
He pauses at the door, glancing back at Eva one more time. "Take care of your beautiful things, Roman. This city can be very dangerous."
Then he's gone, the elevator doors closing on his satisfied smile.
The moment he's out of sight, Lev moves to the windows, pulling out his phone. "I'll have him followed. See where he goes, who he meets."
"He knows we will." I pour vodka for both of us, my hands steady despite the rage burning through my veins. "That was a message. He wanted us to know he's noticed Eva."
Lev accepts the glass, his dark eyes troubled. "We need to increase her security. Immediately."
"She already has a detail."
"Not enough." Lev's voice is hard. "Abram doesn't make idle threats. If he's identified her as your weakness, he'll use her. We need to assume she's a target now."
I know he's right, but the thought of Eva in Abram's crosshairs makes something primitive and violent surge in my chest. She's mine. My woman. And I'll burn this entire city down before I let him touch her.
"Double her security," I order. "But keep it discrete. I don't want her more frightened than she already is."
Lev nods, already texting instructions. We spend the next hour dissecting the meeting, analyzing every word, every gesture. But we keep coming back to the same conclusion. Abram is behind everything, and we still can't prove it.
"The Chinese are threatening to break the alliance completely," Lev says, reviewing reports on his phone. "Another gambling operation was hit last night. They're convinced it's us."
"And the Irish?"
"Demanding a sit-down. They want 'assurances' about our territorial intentions." Lev's tone makes it clear what that really means. An ultimatum.
My empire is crumbling, and I'm powerless to stop it without proof. The frustration is suffocating.
"What about the financial exposure?" I ask.
"David is running out of legal maneuvers. The IRS audit is expanding, more banks are freezing accounts. Whoever is feeding them information has access to real-time intelligence about our operations."
I drain my vodka, the burn familiar and useless. "We're running out of time."
"Yes." Lev's expression is grim. "We need to move against Abram soon, proof or not. Before he destroys everything."
But moving without proof means war. Means uniting the other families against us. Means risking everything I've built on a gamble that might fail.
After Lev leaves, I try to focus on the documents spread across my desk. Financial reports, shipping manifests, legal briefs. But my attention keeps drifting to Eva through the glass wall.
She's reviewing files, her brow furrowed in concentration.
The afternoon light catches the blonde strands that have escaped her bun, and I remember how that hair felt tangled in my fists, how she gasped my name when I pulled it loose.
My cock hardens at the memory, and I shift in my chair, trying to focus on anything except the way her dress hugs her ass when she stands to retrieve something from her filing cabinet.
Fuck, I want her. Want to strip away that professional armor and remind her how good we are together. Want to make her forget the fear, the violence, everything except the way I can make her body sing.
But she's been keeping her distance since the shooting, and I've let her, given her space to process, to heal. Even though it's killing me.
I force my attention back to the quarterly report in front of me, scanning the numbers with practiced efficiency. Then I see it. An error in the calculations. A transposition that throws off the entire projection.
My jaw tightens. This is the kind of mistake Eva never makes. She's meticulous, obsessive about accuracy. Something is wrong.
I press the intercom. "Miss Markova. My office."
Through the glass, I watch her stiffen at my tone. She gathers her notepad and stands, smoothing her skirt with hands that tremble slightly. When she enters, her professional mask is firmly in place, but I see the exhaustion beneath it, the shadows under her eyes that makeup can't quite hide.
"You called for me, Mr. Sokolov?"
The formality grates. We're back to this. Professional distance. Careful politeness. Like we haven't been inside each other, like I haven't made her scream my name.
I hold up the file. "This report has errors. Significant errors that could have cost us in negotiations."
Eva's face goes pale. She reaches for the file with shaking hands, her brown eyes scanning the pages. "I… I'm so sorry. I don't know how I missed that. I'll correct it immediately—"
"This isn't like you." I keep my voice controlled, but frustration bleeds through. "You're always perfect. Meticulous. What's going on?"
For a moment, she just stares at the file, her hands trembling. Then her face crumples. Tears spill down her cheeks, and before I can process what's happening, she's rushing from my office toward the bathroom, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
I stand frozen, the file forgotten in my hand. Eva doesn't cry. Not when I interrogated her about her mother's debt. Not when I had her followed. Not even after the shooting, when she had every right to fall apart.
But now she's crying over a filing error.
Suspicion coils in my gut, cold and sharp. Something is very wrong.