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“Whoever put this letter in your office has access to your office, and therefore access to you,” Sergei says irritably, as if he’s imparting a lesson I should have figured out on my own.
To emphasize his point, my older brother holds up the bold, caps lock message that reads YOUR TIME IS UP.
“I wouldn’t call it a letter, exactly,” I state dismissively.
“For once, please take this seriously,” he huffs.
“They are nothing but empty threats.”
Sergei crosses his arms. “They? As in plural? How many have you found in your office?”
Well, shit.
“A few came in with couriers. But they’re all weird and vague.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know, um, ‘know your place,’ that sort of thing. Like a Hallmark card but from a misogynist.”
My brother grunts his disapproval. “Stop treating this as a joke. Have these been found at your home?”
“One came through the mail. I forwarded it to our security folks for analysis.”
“It’s worse than I thought.” He leans over my desk, the furrow between his brows deepening.
“On the contrary, it proves that this is all talk with no substance,” I try to comfort him. His expression is the opposite of comforted.
Shutting my laptop, I give Sergei my attention. Although we disagree on the severity of the situation, he will always deserve my time and gratitude.
I walk to the butler bar tucked at the corner of my executive office and pour some much-needed drinks. “Being the head of research and development will always ruffle old feathers. Someone doesn’t like where I’m taking the company, so they unleash this toothless barking.”
“And what if the bark turns into a bite? A dangerous one.” He downs the vodka like a shooter.
“Retirement from hockey has made you overly dramatic.” I sip my vodka neat, relishing the crisp, clean surge that transforms into hot streaks down my throat.
“Legitimate concern for my little sister does not make me dramatic,” he dryly states, showing little sign of the carefree brother he was during his hockey days.
“Do you think I haven’t been the target of intimidation and hostility through the last decade, while I’ve worked my way up at Petrov Shipping?” I say. “That’s why we hire security.”
“Yesli ty sprosish’ menya,” Sergei lowers his voice and switches to Russian, which is his first language. “Tvoya sluzhba bezopasnosti—chast’ problemy. You’ve considered it, da?”
He’s suggesting it’s my security detail that is part of the problem. Although I’m hesitant to jump to conclusions, it can’t be ruled out.
“Da, ya ponimayu.” I have considered the possibility.
“Ty moya mladshaya sestra,” he continues, calling me his little sister. “I can’t help but worry.”
Despite my conversational understanding of Russian, having spent six years at the Petrov Shipping headquarters in Moscow, it isn’t my native language. Sergei and I weren’t raised together. Our mother moved me to the United States as an infant while my brother stayed in Moscow with our father.
“I’m here because I have a solution,” Sergei continues in Russian. He speaks slowly while scrutinizing my reaction to his words. “One that will require you to keep an open mind. Can you do that? Please.”
A surge of affection comes over me at his pleading tone. He might appear to be as intimidating as the defenseman he was during his time in the National Hockey League, but to me Sergei has always been a caring brother. A worrywart and pest, but a sweetheart, nonetheless.
I settle on the hard-backed sofa with a view of the Port of Virginia. Tilting my chin to the side, I invite him to sit.
“Ya slushaiu.” My mind is open, I say in Russian to make the effort. I offer a smile and pat him on the back when he takes the spot beside me.
“Bryce can—”
