Page 9 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
Waitstaff in black uniforms weave through the crowd with trays of beverages and hors d'oeuvres. The scent of fresh spruce and cinnamon helps fill the air with holiday cheer. The real kind because nothing on the executive floor would dare to be fake. It’s my second day, the day before Christmas Eve, and I feel like an imposter in my thrift-store pencil skirt and silk-blend blouse. Everyone else is a blur of expensive fabrics and sharp laughter that careens off the polished marble floors and gold-trimmed garlands. Quiet carols spill from hidden speakers, the melody making me ache for a home I’ve never known.
I’m trying to look busy by a pillar, nursing a glass of water and pretending to be fascinated by the city lights sprawling outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. A prickle at the back of my necktells me I’m being watched. I’ve felt it all afternoon. A silent, searing heat that has tracked me since I walked in this morning.
Anton Ismailov.
My boss. The man who hired me with a look that felt like it stripped me bare. Anton Ismailov stands across the room, oozing power in a dark, tailored suit. He isn’t mingling. He’s observing, his steel-gray eyes missing nothing. Especially not me. Every time I risk a glance, his gaze is already there, a physical touch on my skin.He shouldn't be looking at me like this.It’s confusing.Terrifying.And it makes a slow, deep heat coil low in my gut.
He hands out thick, cream-colored envelopes to his senior staff. Holiday bonuses, I assume. I don’t expect one. I’m a ghost in this machine.
Then he starts moving. Not toward the exit, but toward me. The crowd parts for him, a silent, instinctual deference. My pulse kicks up, a frantic little bird beating against my ribs. He stops in front of me, his sheer size blocking out the rest of the room, stealing my air. The atmosphere changes, charged with the sharp, woodsy scent of his cologne and an intensity that is his alone.
“You are not eating,” he says. It’s not a question. His eyes flick to my empty hands, then back to my face.
“I’m fine, sir. Thank you.” My voice is tight.
His gaze hardens almost imperceptibly. “That was not an offer.” Before I can protest, he turns, intercepts a passing caterer, and takes a small plate. He turns back and presses it into my hand. Miniature quiches, shrimp skewers, delicate little pastries. My stomach growls in betrayal. I haven't eaten since the toast I had for breakfast.
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice a little shaky.
He gives a stiff nod, his eyes scanning the room as if checking for threats. Then his hand goes to the inside pocket of his suitjacket. He pulls out one of the cream-colored envelopes. My name,Talia Brooks, is on the front in sharp, black ink.
He holds it out.
My throat goes dry.Don’t take it. Don’t be indebted to him. I shake my head automatically. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I just started.”
“Take it.” His voice is a low, silken command.
My fingers tremble as I accept the envelope. It’s heavy. Solid. “Sir, I—”
“You have to let people do things for you sometimes, Talia.” His use of my first name is a shock, intimate, and rough against my ears. My pulse jumps in my throat.
Defiance, my only real defense, ignites in my chest. I lift my chin. “Do you?”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. For a second, I think I’ve crossed a line. But then the corner of his mouth ticks up, the barest hint of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No,” he admits, the word a low rumble. “But for you… I might.” He leans in a fraction, his voice dropping to a near whisper, meant only for me. “The question is, what do you wanttodo to me?”
My breath catches, a sharp little snag in my lungs. The deliberate slip, the raw possessiveness in his gaze, sends a shock of pure, unadulterated want straight to my core. He knows what he said. The heat in his eyes is a confession.
He wants this, too.
He holds my gaze for another second, his own pupils dilating, before he corrects himself, the words clipped. “Forme.”
But the truth is already out, a current running between us, undeniable. Before I can find my voice, a man in a crisp suit is at his elbow. “Anton, we have a problem with the Zurich shipment.”
Anton’s focus snaps away, his expression icing over. The predator is gone, replaced by the Pakhan. He gives the man acurt nod, then his eyes find mine again. The heat is banked, but it’s still there, simmering. “We will finish this later.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me with a racing heart, a plate of food I can’t eat, and an envelope that feels like a brand in my hand.
***
The party dissolves an hour later. I slip out and head back to the deserted executive floor. I need to transcribe the notes from his morning meeting. I set the unopened envelope on the corner of my desk, its cream paper a sharp cut against the dark wood. A promise. Or a warning.
I’m trying to focus when Elena, his primary assistant, stops by my desk, shrugging into her coat.
“He’s a force of nature, isn’t he?” she says, her smile knowing. She nods toward his closed office door. “Don’t stay too late. And Merry Christmas, Talia.”
“Merry Christmas, Elena.”
She leaves, and the floor falls completely silent except for the click of my keys. The quiet feels different now. Charged. His words replay in my head.What do you want to do to me?
