Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65104 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Mark gestures to an empty desk near the windows. “That’ll be you. We’ll get your login set up today. I’ll introduce you around.”
He goes through a long list of procedures: who to talk to for HR questions, where the bathroom is, the break room stocked with terrible coffee. I try to pay attention, but it’s hard. I can’t stop wondering where Damien is, or what he’s doing right now. Of course he wouldn’t be here to walk me through my orientation. He’s much too busy for that.
Mark finishes by handing me a small stack of paperwork. “Sign those when you get a chance. Welcome to Integrated Solutions.”
He claps me on the shoulder like I’m an old friend and strides away. I sink into my chair, blowing out a breath. It’s so strange. After so long behind a bar, faking smiles for guys who think they’re charming, I’m in an office where people nod politely and leave me alone.
I glance around. Everyone’s busy and focused. Except for one guy across the aisle.
He’s got to be in his early thirties, with dark hair pulled back in a small ponytail. He has a thin frame, and his black hoodie is slung over his chair like it lives there.
He catches me looking and stands.
Shit.
He strolls over, and I can’t help comparing him to the sleazeballs at the restaurant. He has the same air of entitlement.
“Hey. New girl.”
I swallow. “Hi.”
He extends a hand. “I’m Rick.”
I take it briefly. “Lyra.”
“Cool,” he says, leaning against my desk. Too close. “So, welcome to the dungeon. Hope you don’t mind working your ass off.”
I stare back at him, trying desperately not to roll my eyes.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I deadpan.
He smirks. “We’ll see.”
His eyes travel down to my blouse, lingering a second too long. My skin crawls.
I keep my voice even. “Can I help you with something?”
He blinks back at me, surprised.
Then he chuckles.
“Nah. I’m just being friendly.”
I force a tight smile. “Great. Well, I’d love to get started here, so if you don’t mind.” I gesture for him to leave.
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Sure. Sure. Don’t let me distract you.”
He wanders back to his desk, shooting me a grin over his shoulder. Asshole. I exhale slowly.
It’s fine. I’ve dealt with worse. At least he left without much fuss. I pull the keyboard toward me and start reading through the orientation documents on the screen. It’s dense but familiar.
This is what I’m here for. This is what I’m good at.
I get lost in it for a while, highlighting key sections, making notes about procedures, trying to memorize login credentials. The spell breaks when the door at the end of the room opens.
Two broad men in black suits walk in with stony expressions.
They don’t look like they belong here, and they don’t even pretend to blend in. They talk to each other in low voices, in what sounds like Russian. My heart rate spikes.
I feel the air in the room shift. Everyone is still working, but there’s a tension about them now, like they’re purposely trying to avoid the two men walking through. The kind of men who look like they belong in a mob movie.
One of them shifts, and I see the glint of a silver gun in his waistband. I swallow hard and try to remember how to breathe. They’re talking, but their eyes sweep the room constantly.
I’m not the only one who notices. The tension ratchets up instantly. Even Rick sits up straighter, his smirk gone. I force myself to keep my eyes on my screen, but my pulse is pounding in my ears. What the hell is this?
Security guards at the far end of the room are watching carefully but not moving, like they’re used to this. Like this is business as usual.
What the hell did I just sign up for?
6
DAMIEN
The moment I’m informed that two of Rurik Vasiliev’s foot soldiers have stepped into my building, I close the secure communication feed without ceremony. I dismiss the staff I’d been meeting with from the conference room and watch them leave, quick and quiet. My cousin Radimir is already waiting in the hallway, his broad shoulders stiff, his jaw set as if daring someone to cross him.
“They’re in your office,” he says calmly. “They refused to hand over their weapons.”
My fingers curl into a fist before I register it, and heat spreads low in my chest, a slow, deliberate burn.
“Then let’s go greet our guests,” I say.
We step out and head down the hall, past the private reception suite, to my office. Two guards are posted near the entrance. One of them nods as we pass, already reaching for the silent alarm beneath his lapel. He doesn’t press it yet. He waits for my signal.
The Vasiliev men are seated like they own the place. One leans forward with his elbows on his knees. The other sits back, arms crossed, pretending he’s not impressed with the view of Midtown beyond the panoramic windows. Both wear black wool coats over black suits, and both have an arrogant gleam in their eyes. This isn’t a visit. It’s a warning.