Page 27 of Filthy Promises

Occasionally, I feel his eyes on me. Each time, my heart does a little tap dance against my ribs. It’s the cardio workout I never asked for.

By the time lunch rolls around, I’m exhausted.

“Eat at your desk,” Diane advises, dropping a stack of folders in front of me. “These need to be digitized by three.”

“All of them?” The stack is at least a foot high.

“Mr. Akopov rewards efficiency, Ms. St. Clair. I advise you to make that your north star.” She sweeps away, leaving me alone with my granola bar and mounting dread.

I dive in, scanning document after document until my vision blurs. Most are routine business files, but occasionally, something odd jumps out—references to unnamed “associates,” coded language about “packages” and “deliveries.”

Could be normal business jargon.

Could be crime family stuff.

Could be my overactive imagination, fueled by too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

Vincent emerges from his office just as I finish the last folder. He pauses at my desk, looming over me like a storm cloud.

“How are the files coming?” he asks.

“All done, Mr. Akopov.” I try to sound professional instead of terrified. I think I do a passable job, but the simmering heat in his blue eyes makes me second-guess that conclusion.

He picks up a random folder, flips through it, then meets my eyes. “Good work.”

Two simple words, but they hit me like a shot of pure dopamine. I feel my cheeks flush with pleasure.

“Thank you, sir.”

“The Nunez call is in ten minutes. Join me.”

Like all the other suggestions he makes, it’s really not a suggestion at all. So I trail after him.

The Nunez call is another blur of jargon, with Vince effortlessly dipping in and out of Portuguese and Spanish as needed. The one after that isn’t much better. Nor is the rest of the day, which mirrors the morning in its complete unwillingness to give a single shit about the fact that my brain is on the verge of melting and leaking out my ears.

But Vincent might as well have“Failure Is Not An Option”tattooed on his forehead. Meeting after meeting, call after call, he neither flags nor fails. I take that as the implication that I shouldn’t do that, either.

I write notes, fetch coffee, anticipate his needs before he voices them.

And the whole time, I feel him watching.

Not obviously. Not creepily. But with a subtle attentiveness that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

Every time I turn around, those blue eyes flick away just a fraction of a second too late. Every time I reach for something, he’s already extending it toward me. Every time I shift uncomfortably in my seat, his mouth curls into that knowing grin.

It’s like he’s studying me.

Does that make me a specimen under his microscope?

Or prey in his sights?

By six o’clock, the office has emptied out. Even Diane has packed up and left, giving me a cryptic “Good luck” on her way out.

I’m just shutting down my computer when Mr. Akopov’s voice comes through the intercom. “Ms. St. Clair, a moment, please.”

I smooth my dress and enter his office, trying to ignore the memory of Vanessa bent over the very desk he now sits behind.

“Close the door,” he says, not looking up from his laptop.

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