Page 6 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
2
Anton
I watch her walk away, that ridiculous broken boot making her gait uneven, and a knot in my chest pulls tight. A feeling I don’t recognize. Don’t want to.
She shouldn't have this effect on me. A temp secretary with a run in her tights and desperation etched into every line of her posture—I've seen a thousand like her. Hired them, paid them, forgotten them the moment they walked out the door. They are shadows, interchangeable and disposable.
But when Talia Brooks stumbled into my office twenty minutes ago, dripping rainwater on the marble floor... The scent of vanilla and peaches hit me first, sweet and out of place, cutting through the sterile air. She was wet, trying so damn hard to hold herself together, and every carefully constructed wall I've built threatened to crack. Rain had plastered her shoulder-length curls to her head, and those wide, almond-shaped eyes were locked on me, full of grit. There was no artifice, nopracticed seduction. Just raw, unvarnished need. It’s a language I understand better than any other.
The car pulls up, the black sedan a silent shadow against the falling snow. Daniil is behind the wheel. He doesn't speak as I slide into the back seat, the scent of cold leather and clean steel filling the space. He just raises an eyebrow in that way that says he knows the balance shifted. Daniil’s been with me since we were teenagers running packages through Moscow's underbelly. He reads my silences better than anyone reads a book.
"The girl?" he asks in Russian, his voice a low rumble as we pull into traffic.
My jaw tightens. "New secretary. Temporary." The word tastes like a lie on my tongue.
"Temporary." He says it flat, a statement of disbelief. Smart man.
I don't answer, just stare out at the snow blanketing the city, turning the grime of New York into a clean deception. Holiday lights bleed on every corner, a pointless, festive glare I usually ignore. But tonight, I think of her. For the first time in my life, I see a gift I actually want tounwrap.
My phone sends a heavy pulse against my thigh—Ivan, probably, ready to grovel. A shipment gone missing. His mistake, his problem. I ignore it. Let him sweat. Fear makes a man efficient.
My mind keeps circling back to her. Talia. The way she held my gaze even when that grit wavered in those wide, almond-shaped eyes. The brutal honesty when she admitted she needed money—no games, no manipulation. She’d told me her story, a stark recitation of facts. Parents gone. The foster system. A life lived on the knife’s edge. I’d expected her to cry. She hadn’t. She’d just stated it, her chin held high, as if daring me to see her as a victim.
I hadn’t. I’d seen a survivor.
And that voice when she called me "sir." Breathy, automatic, like she didn't even realize the submission she was offering. The sound of it had coiled low in my gut.
Good girl.
I shouldn't have said it. Shouldn't have let the word slip out, low and intimate. A test. But I wanted to see her reaction. Wanted to see if that pretty mouth would part the way it did when I crowded her against the edge of my desk. Wanted to feel the heat rise in the space between us.
She didn't disappoint. Her breath hitched, her pulse jumped in the delicate skin of her throat. She's tall—five-seven, the file said—but I tower over her. And now, all I want is to find out what other reactions I can pull from her. What other sounds she would make.
"You requested her specifically," Daniil says, his eyes finding mine in the rearview mirror. "Why?"
Good question. The temp agency sent five résumés. The other four were polished, perfect. Ivy League degrees, glowing references, photos of women with sharp suits and sharper smiles. Predictable. Boring. Talia's was the least impressive on paper—gaps in employment, a half-finished degree. But the cheap, grainy headshot had made me pause.
Not beautiful in the sterile way I'm used to. Beautiful in a way that felt real. Soft curves she tried to hide in a bad blouse. An uncertain smile on full, berry-colored lips—a tiny crease in the bottom one. And those eyes. They looked like they'd seen enough hardship to understand the cost of survival. They looked like mine.
I told Elena to arrange the interview. Told myself it was curiosity.
Then she walked in, and curiosity twisted into a darker hunger.
"She needed the job," I say finally, the answer feeling thin. "And she'll be loyal."
"Loyal." Daniil glances at me in the mirror again, a trace of amusement in his expression. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
I shoot him a look that would make most men reconsider their next breath. He just grins and turns his attention back to the road. Bastard.
The office building I'm headed to sits in the financial district, all glass and steel. New money trying to look old. The meeting inside will be tedious—investors who think their MBAs give them an understanding of my business.
But I'll smile, shake hands, play the civilized businessman while my mind stays locked on a girl with broken boots and desperate eyes. I’ll sit there and let them drone on, thinking they have my attention, while I map out the first steps in a campaign they can’t begin to comprehend.
My phone pulses again. This time I check it.
Elena:Miss Brooks' paperwork is complete. Security clearance will be ready by morning. She asked about dress code.
A fresh spike of possession cuts through me. She’s already thinking about how to please me.
