Page 83 of Sexting His Assistant

Luka: Do not push your luck.

Nina: Goodnight, Luka. And come back soon.

I sit back, still holding the phone.

Luka: Goodnight, Nina.

It’s like something in her words set off something in me. I need to see her again, soon. So I heal. Poorly. Impatiently. Surrounded by reports and security briefings and men who don’t meet my eyes when they tell me what they still have not found.

The attack remains ugly in its simplicity.

A breach in the private garage. Cameras down for ninety-seven seconds. Two dead attackers. One escaped vehicle.

Karpov’s name appears in too many conversations and never with enough evidence attached.

A burglary gone wrong.

That’s the version we give the staff.

An attempted theft by outside criminals who accessed the building through a service entrance and panicked when confronted by security. Regrettable. Contained. Under investigation.

A lie made of polished legal language. Necessary, but still a lie.

I don’t like lies that make my people nervous.

And when I return to Kazan Tower for the first time after two weeks, I feel the nerves before anyone speaks.

The lobby is quieter than usual.

Not empty. Never empty. My companies run too hot for that. But the air has changed. Conversations die too quickly when I pass. Receptionists stand straighter. Two junior analysts step aside so abruptly that one nearly backs into a marble column. Security is doubled at the elevators, discreetly enough for civilians.

Everyone knows something happened.

Everyone knows the official explanation is not the whole truth.

And everyone knows better than to ask.

I step out of the private elevator onto the executive floor with Pavel behind me and Meredith waiting near the glass doors with a tablet held against her chest.

“Good morning, Mr. Kazan,” she says.

“Good morning.”

Her gaze flicks briefly to my shoulder.

It’s in a sling only because Mirov threatened to sedate me if I came to the office without it. Beneath the jacket, the bandage pulls every time I breathe too deeply. The wound has settled into a dull, constant pain, less dramatic than the first week but more irritating because there is no dignity in being sore.

“I’ve moved the staff address to nine-fifteen,” Meredith says. “Legal approved the wording.”

“Did they.”

Her mouth tightens. “They made suggestions.”

I nod. Then, despite myself, I look past her.

Nina’s desk is empty.

I dislike the speed with which I notice.