Chapter 15

Maybe there’s something in Vince’s office that could help decode this mystery. His own planner, perhaps? Notes from past meetings?

I glance at his closed door. He left hours ago for what Diane cryptically described as “family business.” Won’t be back until tomorrow.

It’s the perfect opportunity to snoop—er, I mean, to be thorough and proactive in my new role.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I stand and cross to his door. I press my palm against the cool wood for a moment, listening for any sign that I’m not alone.

Nothing.

I turn the handle, my heart pounding so hard I’m pretty sure it’s visible through my blouse.

The door swings open to reveal Vince’s massive office. It looks different in the dim evening light—more ominous, somehow. More secret.

The last time I stood in this doorway, I got a free peep show of my new boss pounding his secretary into next week. The memory flashes like a neon sign behind my eyes—his powerful body, the way his muscles flexed with each brutal thrust, Vanessa’s moans rising in pleasure-slash-pain.

I shiver in the darkness, my body betraying me with a rush of heat between my legs.

Fucking traitor.

I flick on the desk lamp rather than the overhead lights. No need to advertise my presence to any security guards making their rounds.

“Just find a planner or schedule book,” I whisper to myself. “In and out. Two minutes.”

I round the desk slowly, like it might bite. I know I should just check for a planner, maybe flip through some files, but my fingers itch with curiosity. The smooth surface of his desk gleams in the low light, taunting me.

How many women has he bent over this surface? How many deals—legitimate and otherwise—have been sealed here?

Would he bend me over it if I asked?

Jesus Christ, Rowan. Get a fucking grip.

I shake my head violently in an attempt to dislodge the thought. Focus on the task at hand. I need to understand his schedule, to make sense of the gaps and inconsistencies. It’s just organizational efficiency, not intrusion.

God, I lie to myself so prettily sometimes.

Gritting my teeth, I start with the obvious places. The blotter on his desk. The top drawer. The sleek credenza behind his chair.

Nothing helpful materializes.

I move to the desk drawers. The first two contain normal office supplies—pens, paper clips, sticky notes. The third is locked.

“Hmm.” I frown, jiggling the handle.

Definitely locked. Suspicious.

I should stop here. This is already crossing so many lines. But curiosity is a dangerous thing. It killed the cat, as they say.

But satisfaction brought it back, right?

I glance around the office, looking for where a key might be hidden. My eyes land on a small crystal paperweight on the corner of the desk—a globe with what looks like the Moscow skyline encased inside.

On a hunch, I lift it.

Bingo. A small silver key.

“This is insane,” I tell myself even as I fit the key into the lock. “This is how people in movies get murdered.”

And yet, despite how easy it was to find the key, despite how dumb this all feels…

The lock clicks open.

I hesitate, my hand lingering on the drawer pull. This is my last chance to be smart. To be safe.

Instead, I pull the drawer open. It’s…

Empty.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” I mutter.

But wait—the drawer seems too shallow compared to the others. I run my fingers along the bottom, feeling for anything unusual.

My fingertips catch on something—a subtle indentation on the right side. I press it.

There’s a soft click, and the false bottom of the drawer pops up.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, my pulse racing. I’m in a spy movie. I’m in a crime thriller. I’m in so much fucking trouble.

I lift the false bottom.

What I see makes my blood run cold.

A gun. Sleek, black, and definitely real. Next to it, stacks of cash—thousands, maybe tens of thousands. Neat bundles secured with rubber bands.

And beneath the money lies what looks like a passport. Not American—the cover is darker, the text in Cyrillic letters.

This isn’t just suspicious anymore. This is confirmation.

The rumors are true. Vince Akopov isn’t just a business mogul. He’s something else entirely.

Just as my fingertips brush the cover, I hear it—the unmistakable sound of the elevator doors opening down the hall.

Followed by footsteps.

Heavy ones.

Heading this way.

“Shit!” I whisper-scream, frantically replacing the false bottom and shutting the drawer. I fumble with the key, lock the door, then stash the key back under the paperweight.

The footsteps are getting closer. Too close.

I dart around the desk, heading for the door, but I know I won’t make it back to my desk in time without being seen.

Think, Rowan, think!

The private bathroom. It’s my only option.

I slip inside just as I hear the main office door open. I leave the bathroom door open a crack—closing it might make a sound—and press my eye to the opening.

Vincent strides into his office, looking nothing like the polished CEO I’m used to seeing. His tie is gone, his shirt collar open, his hair a mess. He has a cut above his right eyebrow. A small one, but fresh and gleaming with crimson blood.

He looks dangerous.

He goes straight to his desk, setting down a manila envelope before reaching for the crystal paperweight.

My heart stops. He’s going to check the drawer. He’ll know someone’s been here.

But at the last second, his hand veers off course. Instead of retrieving the key, he picks up his desk phone and dials.

“It’s done,” he says without preamble. “The Koreans won’t be a problem anymore.”

A pause as he listens.

“No casualties, as ordered. Just some broken bones and bruised egos.” His mouth curves into a smile that sends shivers down my spine. “The girls are being taken care of. Safe houses in Jersey for now, then new identities.”

Girls? Safe houses? What the hell is going on?

“Yes, Father. I’ll be at breakfast tomorrow. Your concerns are noted, but unnecessary.” Another pause. “She’s working out fine so far. Resourceful. Discreet.”

Is he talking about me?

“I’m not rushing anything. I know the timeline.” He sounds annoyed now. “Seven months is plenty of time.”

Hold up—timeline for what?

“Goodnight, Father.” He hangs up and sets down the phone with a little more force than necessary.

Then he does something unexpected. He laughs—a short, humorless sound. Runs his hands through his hair. Looks suddenly tired, human.