Andrei doesn’t miss a beat. He lays out the latest. He talks about suppliers hesitating on the next shipment, a rival already sniffing around one of Fadir’s smaller warehouses, and the first whispers starting in the legitimate business circles that his charity work might not be as clean as it appears.
Anja leans forward, elbows on the island, listening intently. Her stare narrows in concentration.
When Andrei pauses, she speaks up without hesitation.
“His charity galas. The ones he uses to launder the image, and probably money. The handshakes with politicians, big checks for children’s hospitals. He always bragged about how perfect the optics are. Leak just enough to make the respectable parts look dirty. Not the whole thing at once. Plant a story that some of the donations never actually reached the charities. Make it look like the money is being funneled somewhere else. Use his own marketing language against him to turn his ‘giving back to the community’ slogan into a punchline. People love tearing down a hypocrite.”
The suggestion lands clean and sharp. I can hear Andrei’s pause on the other end, the faint sound of him typing. “That’s… actually good. We can seed it through a couple of societybloggers first. Let it snowball from there. His public image is one of the few things still holding his legitimate side together.”
Pride swells in my chest before I can stop it. It’s unexpected, warm, and thoroughly inconvenient. The beautiful woman across from me just cut through months of our own planning with a single marketing-angle insight that neither Andrei nor I ever fully articulated.
She isn’t just repeating what she overheard. She’s thinking strategically, weaponizing the very tools Fadir used to hide behind.
I'm not only impressed with her thinking strategy, but I'm also noticing how beautiful she appears at this moment. Hair messy, face freshly washed, and her eyes sparkled when she was speaking to Andrei.
I shut the feeling down immediately, locking it behind the familiar wall of indifference. This alliance is tactical. Her quick mind is useful.
Nothing more.
Anything beyond that risks complications I cannot afford.
“Run with it,” I tell Andrei. “Keep the leaks small and deniable. We want erosion, not explosion.”
The call ended a few minutes later. Andrei signs off with a grunt of approval, already moving on to the new angle.
Anja stays on the island after I set the phone down. She rises briefly to make herself a cup of tea from the electric kettle I keep on the counter, then settles back onto the stool, fingers wrapped around the warm mug.
Steam curls upward, catching the late afternoon light. Her auburn-streaked hair has loosened from the ponytail, a fewstrands falling against her cheek. She looks thoughtful, the sharp edge of resolve softens into something quieter.
She takes a slow sip, then asks, voice careful,
“What’s the actual difference between you and men like Fadir? I keep hearing the word ‘Sokolov’ like it’s supposed to mean something honorable in your world. But I grew up seeing men, probably your men, barging into my house in the middle of the night because my father owed money. Violent. Loud. Brutal. How are you any different?”
I lean against the opposite side of the island, arms braced on the cool marble. I could give her the polished answer. The one I use with outsiders.
Instead, I choose honesty, tempered and detached.
“We’re not saints, Anja. The Sokolovs run our territory with dominance, not chaos. Necessary force when it’s required, but we don’t prey on the vulnerable for sport. Fadir targets women like Katya, like you, because he thinks it makes him clever. We protect our own. Family. Women. Children. That’s the code. Breaking it weakens everything we’ve built. Men like Fadir burn bridges for short-term gains. We build structures that last.”
She watches me over the rim of her mug, her gaze searching my face. I see the moment some of the tension eases from her shoulders. It’s a fractional relaxation, small but noticeable.
I'm aware of every movement of her body. Every glance her eyes give, and every breath she takes. I can distinguish between her anger, her being put at ease, and her being scared. Anja Kuzmin is easy to read, and I can read her every emotion.
Like last night when we were parading through the main ballroom of the charity gala. There were a couple of times I felt Anja lean into me unnecessarily. I wasn't whispering in her ear to gain Fadir's ire. I wasn't pressing my hand against her back to guide her in a certain direction.
We were just standing in the middle of a group of people, and her hip grazed against me. The way her bare shoulder brushed against my tuxedo jacket, but I could feel the heat radiating from her body.
I felt every touch, every breath, and I know... Anja is being swept up in the false romance of the arrangement.
Her faith in me last night allowed her to be relaxed.
But today? She isn’t ready to trust fully, not after what Fadir did, but treating her as a partner instead of a fragile victim seems to land. That small shift in trust is useful for the plan. It keeps her engaged. Cooperative. It makes the long game smoother.
Still, I file away other details I have no business noticing. The way the low light from the windows catches the auburn highlights in her hair, turning them to threads of copper, and how I want to run my fingers through the tendrils. The quiet steel that runs beneath her fear and exhaustion, the kind that refuses to let her stay sidelined even when the safer choice would be to hide in the guest suite.
Anja is far more than the terrified girl I pulled out of that warehouse in the rain, shaking and calling me a monster. That girl has edges now. Sharp ones.
But I remind myself of the facts that keep the line firmly drawn. The age gap, which feels like a canyon in experience, keeps my sexual desire for her at bay. Her recent betrayal is stillraw enough to make every touch suspect. I don't want to cause her to run.
