Page 26 of Filthy Promises

I shush her frantically. “Keep it down! I only have—” I check my watch. “—seventeen minutes to clear out my desk.”

“Screw your desk! I needdetails. Didn’t I tell you that last time? I thrive on particulars.”

“Later,” I promise, already shoving five years’ worth of desk plants, coffee mugs, and emergency granola bars into a cardboard box. “Dinner tonight?”

“You better believe it. And you better have some juicy stuff to tell me!”

If only she knew.

Back upstairs, I nearly crash into Vincent himself as I struggle off the elevator with my overflowing box.

“Ms. St. Clair,” he purrs, his eyes trailing over me like he’s trying to decide which meal of the day I’d belong to best. “Settling in?”

“Trying to, sir,” I pant, shifting the heavy box. “Just got my old desk cleared out.”

His lips quirk. “Need help with that?”

The idea of Mr. Akopov carrying my sad little box of ficuses raised on fluorescent lights and lukewarm bottled water is so absurd that I actually snort.

His eyebrow arches at the sound.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “No, thank you. I’ve got it.”

“Very well.” He checks his watch. “Diane will walk you through the calendar. We have the Nakamura meeting at eleven.”

“‘We’?” I squeak.

“You’ll take notes.” He walks away without another word, leaving me staring after him like an idiot.

When I return to my new desk, Diane is giving me a look that somehow combines pity with contempt without dimming the light of either emotion.

“You have ten minutes to learn the calendar system before your first meeting,” she announces.

She’s really making my drill sergeant assessment look spookily accurate. I drop my box and scramble to my seat.

For the next three hours, I’m in a constant state of barely-controlled panic. The calendar system is a cryptic labyrinth that makes no logical sense. Appointments are color-coded, but Diane refuses to tell me what the colors mean.

“You’ll figure it out,” is all she says, which feels ominously similar to“sink or swim, sucker.”

I do notice oddities right away. Blocks of time marked simply “OFFSITE” in bold, bloody red. Appointments with single initials instead of names. Meetings scheduled for 3 A.M.

Who the hell meets at 3 A.M.?

The rumors about the Akopov family have circulated through the company for years. Some say they’re just that—rumors. Others swear that Andrei Akopov, Vince’s father, smuggled himself into America with luggage spilling over with cocaine and firearms.

I never gave the whispers much credence.

Until now.

At eleven sharp, I follow Vince into a glass-walled conference room where three stern Japanese businessmen await. I clutch my tablet, praying I don’t drop it or accidentally press play on theHamiltonsoundtrack in the middle of negotiations.

“Gentlemen,” Vince says, his voice pure steel, “this is my new assistant, Ms. St. Clair.”

They barely glance at me. I’m furniture. Less than furniture. I’m the air molecules between pieces of furniture.

Then, with a crisp nod, they launch into business. No one bothers to ask if I can keep up as I frantically type notes. Vincent discusses shipping routes, tariffs, exclusivity agreements. It’s dry as dust and twice as technical, but I don’t miss a word.

I wouldn’t dare.

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