Page 10 of Bratva King

Alexei smiled faintly. "I'll try harder next time."

"I'll warn the cleaners." Despite the joke, Dimitri's eyes remained thoughtful. "You sure you're all right?"

Alexei held his brother's gaze. “Absolutely.”

Dimitri collected the folder. "I'll let you know the second we identify her."

Alexei nodded. "Do that."

His brother reached the door, then paused. "Maksim wants everyone at dinner tonight. He said Lena’s been hard at work, cooking.”

"I'll be there,” Alexei said.

"No excuses."

"When have I ever made excuses?"

Dimitri gave him a long look. "I can think of several."

The office door closed behind him.

Silence returned, and Alexei stared at the laptop again. The spreadsheet remained exactly where he'd left it. His cursor blinked impatiently inside an empty cell.

He didn't move, and her face surfaced again. It wasn’t a clear image, but he remembered fragments like her calm eyes. The slight narrowing of her gaze when she'd realized he'd recognized the deliberate miss. Something about her refused to leave him alone.

It wasn't simply attraction, although he couldn't deny she intrigued him. She reminded him of a blade polished until every edge disappeared from sight while remaining lethally sharp. Even standing with a pistol pointed in his direction, she'd possessed an unsettling kind of composure.

He leaned back again, frowning. Why did she seem familiar? Alexei searched his memory. He remembered faces exceptionally well, and yet hers belonged nowhere. Was it her eyes? There'd been something hauntingly familiar about them, or perhaps the way she'd moved?

She was light on her feet despite carrying weapons, almost graceful. No, neither explanation felt right. He'd never met anyone quite like her. Alexei would have remembered, wouldn't he?

He stood and wandered toward the windows. Far below, traffic crawled through the streets like streams of colored lights. Somewhere out there, she was still alive, and occupying far too much space inside his thoughts.

****

By the time Alexei finally shut his laptop, darkness had swallowed the city beyond his office windows. The spreadsheets remained unfinished, and his emails sat unanswered.

Three meetings had come and gone, and although he'd attended every one of them, he couldn't remember half of what had been discussed. That irritated him more than he cared to admit. Distraction wasn't in his nature.

Alexei Volkov was many things. People described him as ruthless, calculating, and patient, but never careless. Today had felt dangerously close. He pinched the bridge of his nose before pushing back from his desk.

"This has to stop," he muttered to himself.

He sounded almost annoyed. Getting distracted over an assassin? It was absurd. She was a stranger. A beautiful stranger, perhaps, but no doubt a dangerous one. He'd met countless women over the years, models at charity galas, and even politicians' daughters. Women connected to rival families. They were all the same in his eyes, as they only pursued him because of his name or his money. None of them had lingered in his thoughts longer than an evening. Yet somehow one failed assassin had managed to occupy his mind for two straight days.

It wasn't like him.

He didn't obsess, but rather he solved problems, and she was quickly becoming one. Alexei grabbed his suit jacket and headed downstairs. His driver was already waiting. Alexei slid into the backseat and checked his phone.

The drive back to the Volkov estate passed in near silence. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows as his driver navigated familiar streets. Normally, Alexei appreciated these quiet moments between work and home. They gave him time to think through tomorrow's meetings, shipments, negotiations.

However, his thoughts wandered back to that night. He exhaled sharply. Enough. Whatever game she was playing, he'd figure it out soon enough. Until then, he needed to get his head back where it belonged. Business always came first.

The wrought-iron gates of the Volkov estate slid open as the car approached. Security lights illuminated the sprawling property, throwing long shadows across perfectly trimmed hedges and immaculate gardens. Armed guards patrolled their usual routes, acknowledging the vehicle with respectful nods.

It was home, or what passed for one. The mansion rose from the grounds like something carved from another century, all stone columns and towering windows. The front doors opened before he'd even reached them.

"Good evening, Mr. Volkov," the butler greeted.