Chapter 11

Finally, he closes his laptop and levels those blue eyes at me. “How was your first day?”

“Overwhelming,” I admit. “But, uh… interesting.”

For lack of a better word.

“You did well.”

There it is again—that rush of pleasure at his approval. It’s pathetic how desperately I crave it. “Thank you, Mr. Akopov.”

“I noticed you picked up the calendar system quickly.”

I hesitate. “About that... There are some appointments that seem a bit…” I search for a neutral word and end up settling on, “ … unconventional.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Such as?”

“The 3 A.M. meetings, amongst other things. The ones marked ‘OFFSITE’ in red.”

He steeples his fingers. “Does my schedule concern you, Ms. St. Clair?”

“Er, no, sir. I just want to make sure I understand my responsibilities.”

“Your responsibility is to do as you’re told.” His voice is soft but it contains a warning I’d be stupid to ignore. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

I swallow hard. “Yes, sir.”

“I appreciate curiosity.” He leans back in his chair. “But in this case, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

My stomach does a little bachata step. It’s as good as a confirmation.

“That will be all for today,” he says. “Go home, get some rest. Tomorrow will be even busier.”

“Yes, Mr. Akopov. Goodnight.”

I’m halfway to the elevator, already wondering whether my mattress will support my weight when I cannonball onto it, when I realize I’ve left my purse at my desk.

Dammit. Groaning, I turn back.

As I approach my desk, I hear Vincent’s voice from his office. The door is slightly ajar. “… shipment arrives at the docks tomorrow night,” he says in a low tone. “Make sure our people are in position.”

I freeze.

“No witnesses,” he continues. “Andrei wants this handled cleanly.”

Oh my God. This isn’t corporate business. This is… something else entirely.

“If the commissioner gives you trouble, remind him of our arrangement,” Vince adds. “And Mikhail? No mistakes this time.”

I back away from the door, but my heel catches on the carpet. I stumble, catching myself against my desk with a thud.

The phone call stops abruptly.

“Hello?” Vincent calls out. “Who’s there?”

Terror shoots through me. I grab my purse and dart toward the stairwell, not risking the elevator’s ding giving me away.

I take the stairs two at a time, my mind racing faster than my feet.

Shipments. Docks. No witnesses.

Holy shit.

The rumors are true. Vincent Akopov isn’t just a businessman. He’s involved in something dark, something dangerous, something illegal.

And I just overheard it.

9

VINCE

FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER

I wait until the office empties before I make the call.

Even Diane has left. The old witch is punctual to a fault, out the door at 6 P.M. sharp every day for the past fifteen years.

Rowan should be gone by now, too. I sent her home myself.

Dialing the secure line, I wait for the click of connection. “Da?” The voice on the other end is gruff, impatient.

“Mikhail,” I answer, leaning back in my chair. “We need to discuss tomorrow night.”

“I have everything under control, pakhan.” He uses my father’s title—the one that will soon be mine. It sounds wrong coming from his mouth, like he’s trying it on before it properly belongs to me. Flattery or mockery, I’m not sure.

I don’t fucking care, either. He can keep his opinions to himself.

“The shipment arrives at the docks tomorrow night,” I say, keeping my voice low despite the empty office. “Make sure our people are in position.”

“Of course. How many crates?”

“Twelve. All unmarked. The manifests will say farm equipment.”

Mikhail laughs. “Farm equipment worth eight million? The customs agents must be blind as well as stupid.”

“They’re well-paid to be both.” I drum my fingers on the desk. “No witnesses, Mikhail. Andrei wants this handled cleanly.”

My father may be retiring, but his standards remain exacting. A clean operation is a successful operation.

“Understood. And the competition?”

“The Italians won’t be a problem. I’ve spoken with Salvatore personally.”

“You trust his word?”

I smile at the question, and also at the memory of the Italian lieutenant dangling upside down from rusty chains in a dank Tribeca basement as I asked again and again whether he grasped what I was telling him.

“I trust that he understands the consequences of breaking it,” I say vaguely.

There’s a pause on the line. “And what about the commissioner? He’s been making noise again, demanding more money.”

Greedy bastard. We already pay him enough to fund his mistress’s Park Avenue apartment and his son’s cocaine habit. And he still wants more?

“If the commissioner gives you trouble, remind him of our arrangement.” I straighten a pen on my desk, aligning it perfectly with the edge. “And Mikhail? No mistakes this time.”

Last month’s fuckup cost us two million and a good man. I won’t tolerate another.

Just then, I hear something. A soft thud, coming from outside my office.

“Wait,” I tell Mikhail, alert now. “I’ll call you back.”

I hang up without waiting for his response.

“Hello?” I call out, rising from my chair. “Who’s there?”

Silence answers me.

I move to the door, pulling it open. The outer office is empty, illuminated only by the dim security lights.

But something feels off.

I inhale deeply, and there it is—that scent. Subtle, drugstore-brand perfume. The same one that lingered after Rowan left my office earlier today.

It can’t be. She left. I watched her walk toward the elevator myself.

Yet the air carries her signature like a whispered secret. Fresh, recent. No more than a minute old.

Crossing to her desk, I notice her chair is slightly askew, as if moved hastily. Her computer is off, her workspace neat—except for one thing.

Her purse is gone.

It was here before, a worn leather thing that’s seen better days. Now, the hook where she hung it is empty.

“Shit,” I mutter.

She came back. She heard me.

I stalk back to my office, running through the conversation in my head. Would she understand the context? Connect the dots?

Most importantly, can I trust her to keep her mouth shut?