Page 7 of A Secretary for the Bratva Boss
I type back:Business appropriate. And Elena—make sure she has access to the executive floor only. No one else interacts with her without my permission.
The reply comes fast:Understood, sir.
Possessive. I'm being possessive over a woman I've known for less than an hour, and I don't give a fuck. She triggers every protective, predatory instinct I've spent years learning to weaponize. Maybe it's the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide. Or maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe I just want her, and I'm used to taking what I want.
The car stops. Daniil opens my door, and cold air rushes in, sharp enough to clear my head. Almost.
"Pick me up in two hours," I tell him. "And Daniil? Run a full background check on Talia Brooks. Everything."
He nods, understanding clear in his eyes. He knows what I'm not saying. If she's going to be this close to me, this deep under my skin, I need to know every secret, every weakness.
It's not trust. It's strategy.Liar.
I repeat that to myself as I walk into the building. I repeat it as I sit through the meeting, my face an impassive mask. I repeat it as I sign the multi-million dollar documents without reading them. My lawyers have vetted them, but more than that, no one in this room is stupid enough to fuck over the Ismailov name.
Strategy. Protection.
Not the fact that I still smell the faint scent of vanilla and peaches that clung to her, still see the way her pulse jumped in her throat, still hear that breathy "yes, sir" that made me want to find out exactly how obedient she could be.
By the time Daniil picks me up, night has fallen. The city looks clean under its white blanket, hiding all the dirt and blood.
"The background check?" I ask as we head toward my penthouse.
"Confirmed what she told you." Daniil hands me a tablet. "Parents died in a car accident. Foster homes until eighteen. No criminal record, no debt beyond student loans. Working three jobs at one point to get through college."
I scroll through the report. A stark picture of someone utterly alone. Someone who might understand what it costs to build walls around yourself.
"Relationships?" I ask, hating the raw edge in my voice.
"None to speak of. She’s been too busy working to have a life. She is exactly what she appears to be, Anton. A girl who needs a job."
He's right. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm already planning how to keep her, how to make her indispensable, how to weave her into my life until she can't imagine being anywhere else.
The penthouse is dark when I arrive. I bypass the lights and head straight for the bar. I pour myself vodka—the good stuff from home—and stand at the glass, watching snow fall over my kingdom. Tomorrow she'll walk into Sindicate Tower in whatever clothes she cobbled together. She'll try to be professional, competent, invisible. And I’ll let her. For an hour. Maybe two.
But the image that burns behind my eyes has nothing to do with spreadsheets or schedules. It’s her, in my office, after everyone else has gone home. Talia, with her back pressed against this very glass, the city a thousand feet below. My city. My office. My girl.
I’d walk up behind her. So close I could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric of her prim little blouse. I wouldn’t touch her. Not yet. I’d just lean in, my mouth close to her ear, and whisper, “Look down, Talia.”
And she would. Her breath would fog the cold glass. Her hands would press flat against it as if to steady herself.
I’d watch her pulse beat in her throat, a frantic little bird I want to trap in my palm. I’d trace the line of her spine with one finger, feeling her shiver. I’d slide my hand to her hip, grip it, and pull her back against me until she could feel exactly how much I want her.
“You’re mine now,” I’d tell her. Not a question. A fact.
The fantasy is so sharp, so real, that my hand clenches around the empty glass. It’s not enough. The vodka hasn't quieted the need; it's only made it louder, more insistent. I need to hear her voice. I pull up her new employee file on my phone. Her personalnumber is right there. I press "call" before I can talk myself out of it.
It rings. Once. Twice. My thumb hovers over the "end" button. I’m an idiot. A fool. I am Anton Ismailov. I am not some high schooler, fumbling with a phone, desperate for a girl’s attention. I don'tcall. Isummon. On the third ring, she picks up.
"...Hello?"
Her voice. It’s exactly as I remembered, but softer now. Sleepy. Breathy. It coils in my gut all over again, and I close my eyes, just to listen.
I clear my throat, my voice a rough rasp. "Talia Brooks."
There's a sharp intake of breath on her end. "Mr. Ismailov?" She sounds confused. Alert. Probably scared. Good.
"I'm calling to make sure you made it home safely."
