Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Sergei
Bogdan showed up at my office at two sharp.
He shut the door and dropped a folder on my desk. "We've got something on Alexei."
I didn't look up, kept signing documents. "Talk."
"Twenty years under your father. Started making contact with Viktor three months ago. Passed along family shipping routes and part of the client list." Bogdan paused. "Also your schedule. And a few other core members'."
My pen stopped.
Schedules meant one thing. We both knew it.
I set the pen down and looked up. "Solid proof?"
"Bank records, wire transfers, and his own confession."
"Family?"
"Wife. Two kids. She doesn't know."
I leaned back, thought for three seconds. "Give the family enough to get the kids through college. Then have Marco handle it. Clean."
"Understood." Bogdan hesitated. "About Viktor—"
"Keep watching." I picked up the pen again. "If he was bold enough to buy Alexei, he's got more pieces on the board. Have everyone who's been in contact with Viktor in the last six months vetted."
"Yes, sir."
"Anything else?"
Bogdan pulled another file from the folder and slid it across. "The person you asked me to look into."
I took it, leaned back, lit a cigarette, and flipped it open.
The photo was from her employee file—a standard ID shot. She stared at the camera with that serious expression, reddish-brown hair pulled back neatly, those blue-green eyes wound tight like a spring—professional, controlled, nothing like the woman on the balcony last Friday night.
I let out a soft laugh.
Bogdan spoke up. "Ella Collins. Twenty-six. Orphanage. Graduated from SUNY with a degree in architecture. Currently an intern assistant in the Volkov Group Architecture Department. Three months in. No criminal record, no political ties, no family connections." He paused. "But she's got debt."
My fingers stopped. "What kind of debt?"
"Two years ago, a loan for two hundred thousand dollars appeared in her account. Source unknown. She's been paying mostly interest every month. The principal's barely moved."
I frowned and flipped to her bank statements from the last three months.
Every paycheck, she transferred two grand to her landlord immediately.
The rest went almost entirely to loan payments.
Then every few days, deposits trickled in—fifty, a hundred, sometimes more—from a company called Manhattan Premium Cleaning, a place called Tony's Trattoria, and some freelance translation platform I didn't recognize.
She was working three jobs.
A talented architecture graduate scrubbing toilets, waiting tables, doing translations—all to service a debt she'd never pay off.
I pressed my temple and set the cigarette in the ashtray.
An orphan with no family suddenly borrowed that much money. For what?
I thought for a moment, then spoke. "Find out what happened to Ella Collins two years ago. Where the money came from. What she used it for. And put a few people on her. I want updates on her movements."
Bogdan nodded and left.
I picked up the cigarette again, took a drag. Smoke drifted lazily through the office.
So last Friday night, she'd been telling the truth. She really was just an unlucky cleaning woman who stumbled into my place at the wrong time and saw something she shouldn't have.
But if that was true—
Then my question shifted.
Not "who sent her," but "what do I do with her?"
I stubbed out the cigarette and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. Manhattan's skyline lit up against the dusk like pieces crowding a chessboard.
Ella Collins.
My intern. A woman who walked into my life at the wrong time, in the wrong place, in the worst possible way.
If she was innocent, then I was the bastard who forced her into bed when she was at her most exhausted. And I couldn't simply file her away as "enemy" or "pawn."
My phone buzzed.
I glanced at the time—9:20 PM.
The architecture department had long since cleared out. Most floors were dark. But I knew she was still there, hunched over her computer, redoing the proposal I'd torn apart.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the building's internal surveillance system.
I'd ordered it installed five years ago. It covered the entire building—except bathrooms and a few restricted zones. Officially, it was for "security" and "efficiency management." But only the family's inner circle knew the real reason: surveillance, control, making sure no threat slipped past me.
I entered the password and switched to the architecture department's floor.
Most workstations were empty. A few stragglers still sat at their screens. I found workstation A-247 and zoomed in.
There she was.
Auburn hair pulled into a messy ponytail, exposing the pale curve of her neck. She'd taken off her jacket, down to that navy blouse, sleeves rolled to her elbows. The blue glow from her monitor softened her face, made her look focused, almost gentle.
She was staring at a CAD drawing, brow furrowed tight, one hand on the mouse, the other propping up her chin.
I leaned back, lit another cigarette, and watched.
She worked exactly how I'd imagined—serious, focused, biting her lip now and then, sighing, then pulling herself together and pressing on.
Two minutes later, she stood and stretched.
Her blouse pulled free from her skirt, revealing a sliver of skin at her waist. Her arms lifted overhead, chest pressing against the fabric, two buttons straining from the stretch.
My fingers drummed the armrest.
She stepped out of frame—probably the break room. A few minutes later, she returned with a cup of coffee.
But she didn't sit right away. Instead, she leaned against the edge of her desk, sipping coffee while scrolling through her phone.
The position made her skirt ride up.
The black knee-length skirt had been modest before, but now, with her half-perched on the desk, the fabric slid up her thighs, exposing her knees and a long stretch of black-stockinged leg above them.
I could see the shadow the stockings made at the top of her thighs, the faint line where the skirt hem hovered.
My breathing deepened.
She had no idea how provocative she looked. She just scrolled through her phone, occasionally smiling, occasionally frowning, occasionally biting her lower lip.
That unconscious little gesture—biting her lip—made my gut clench hard.
Fuck.
I remembered how that mouth felt. Soft, warm, tasting faintly of salt and tears.
I remembered how she clung to me, auburn hair spilling over her shoulders, eyes wet, lips parted.
I remembered the broken little sounds she made when she came—helpless, desperate, sweet.
My hand drifted downward.
No.
I took a deep breath, tried to rein myself in.
But she shifted again, crossing one leg over the other. The skirt slid higher.
I could see the top of her thighs now, where the black stockings ended, and just beneath the hem of her skirt.
I stood, walked to my desk, and pulled open the bottom drawer.
The pink panties lay there, waiting.
I lifted them out and held them in my palm.
The soft cotton had dried completely, but I still remembered how they'd felt when they were damp, still remembered her scent—salty, faintly sweet, like the juice of some ripe fruit.
I sat back down and unbuckled my belt. My cock sprang free, already fully hard, pre-cum soaking through my briefs.
On the monitor, she was flipping through files, completely unaware that someone was watching her right now, thinking about her, burning for her.
I gripped myself. Already aching.
I brought the pink panties to my nose, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply.
Her scent was faint now, but still there. Mingled with the cotton, something uniquely hers.
My hand started moving.
Images flooded my mind.
Her kneeling under this desk, hair loose, blouse unbuttoned partway, collarbones and cleavage exposed. She'd look up at me with those blue-green eyes—fear in them, shame, and something else she was desperately trying to hide.
"Open your mouth," I'd say.
She'd hesitate. Bite her lip. But eventually, she'd obey.
I'd grip her chin and push myself into that warm mouth, feel her tongue, her breath, the contraction of her throat.
"Good girl," I'd say, holding the back of her head, thrusting deep.
She'd whimper. Tears would streak her face. She'd push at my thighs, trying to breathe. But I wouldn't stop. I'd keep going until her tears smeared her cheeks, until her drool ran down her chin.
Then I'd pull her up and bend her over this desk.
I'd rip open her blouse, yank off her skirt, strip away those black stockings. I'd pin her wrists above her head and bind them with my tie, make her helpless.
I'd kiss her neck, bite her collarbone, suck her nipples. I'd work my way down, kissing her stomach, the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, and finally bury my face between her legs.
She'd struggle. Cry. Say "no." But her body would betray her. She'd be soaked, trembling, coming apart under my tongue.
"Please..." she'd beg through her tears. "Please fuck me..."
And I'd give her what she wanted.
I'd take her from behind, gripping her hips, pressing her down on the desk, fucking her deep and hard. I'd make her look out at the Manhattan skyline and know that the whole city was beneath us—and she belonged to me.
I'd bite the back of her neck, mark that pale skin. I'd grip her ass, spank her, make sure she knew who owned her.
"Say my name," I'd order.
"Sergei..." she'd moan.
"Louder."
"Sergei!"
My breathing quickened. My hand moved faster.
I clutched the pink panties tight, the fabric rubbing against my cock, a perverse kind of friction.
On the monitor, she finally sat back down and started typing. Her profile in the monitor's glow looked soft, focused, like a diligent student.
How fucking ironic.
Right now, she was working hard, trying to do the job I'd assigned her. And I—her boss, her CEO—was sitting in my office on the forty-second floor, watching surveillance footage, jerking off with her lost panties.
The thought made the heat burn hotter.
I imagined the day she'd find out.
She'd be sitting across from me, giving a work report, and I'd suddenly pull these pink panties from the drawer and set them in front of her.
Her eyes would go wide. Her face would go white, then flush red.
"Did you think I'd just pretend it never happened?" I'd say. "That you could break into my place, use my pool, watch me jack off, and just walk away?"
She'd try to explain, but I'd cut her off.
"Every time you come to my office to report, you know what I'm thinking?" I'd dangle the panties in front of her. "I'm thinking about you on your knees. I'm thinking about you naked, crying in my arms."
"And," I'd lean in close, let her smell the faint scent still clinging to the fabric, "every time I see you, I use these."
She'd break.
She'd cry. Feel shame. Try to run.
But I wouldn't let her.
I'd pull her into my arms, kiss away her tears, strip off her clothes, and take her on this desk. Make her understand she'd never escape.
"Fuck..."
The climax hit like a wave. I clenched my jaw, gripped the panties tight, and came hard.
White streaks splattered across the pink fabric, stark and obscene.
I slumped back in the chair, breathing hard, heartbeat gradually slowing.
The office was quiet except for the hum of the AC and my own breath.
I looked down at the soiled panties in my hand. A strange satisfaction settled in my chest.
On the monitor, she was still working—pure, focused, completely unaware of what had just happened.
I stood and walked into the attached washroom, cleaned myself up, and splashed cold water on my face to kill the lingering heat.
Back at my desk, I glanced at the monitor.
She'd finally finished the proposal. She was saving the file, standing, gathering her things, getting ready to leave.
I watched her shut down her computer, pull on her coat, sling that cheap canvas bag over her shoulder, and walk out of the cubicle.
The elevator doors opened. She stepped inside, leaned against the wall, and closed her eyes.
She looked exhausted.
I switched to the exterior cameras and watched her exit through the revolving doors, disappearing into the Manhattan night.
Bogdan's people would follow her. Make sure she got home safe.
I closed the surveillance feed, lit a cigarette, and walked to the window.
Outside, the city blazed with light, an endless constellation.
Friday, she'd come see me. Turn in that revised proposal.
I was already looking forward to it.
Her nervous expression. Her evasive eyes. Her voice—professional but trembling despite her best efforts.
I'd have her sit across from me, just like today.
I'd flip through her proposal slowly, page by page, let the silence torment her.
Then I'd look up and meet her eyes.
Maybe I'd praise her.
Maybe I'd tear it apart again.
Depended on my mood.
But either way, I wouldn't let her leave easily.
I took a final drag and crushed the cigarette in the ashtray.
Goodnight, little mouse.
See you tomorrow.