Page 6 of Bratva Baby

The progress hits eighty-three percent when I hear the office door open behind me.

I pull the drive free so quickly that the port scrapes my knuckle. I pocket it, click two windows closed, and turn in my chair.

Maks steps inside with his jacket off and his expression easy, as if he just happened to circle back for a nightcap and a chat.

His eyes flick once to the screen, then to me.

“Sofiya,” he says, closing the door behind him. “Why are you digging through archived route files tied to a shipment that was already closed?”

2

SOFIYA

Maks closes the door softly behind him. The thud sounds loud in my father’s office, where he taught me how to stay ahead of risk. Now the door is shut, and the risk is inside with me.

The terminal light washes the desk in pale blue. My bracelet sits beside the keyboard.

The drive is tucked inside my sleeve, pressed flat against my skin, and my pulse is beating so hard I’m half afraid he can see it through the silk at my wrist.

Maks takes two steps into the room and glances at the screen before looking at me.

His mouth curves, but his eyes don’t move, holding me in place the way a hand closes around a throat.

“Sofiya,” he murmurs with a light laugh, like we’re two friends sitting down to tea. “What the hell are you doing?”

I turn my chair slowly and will myself to settle every muscle in my face. “Why are you sneaking up on women in dark offices at family parties?”

His mouth twitches, but it isn’t amusement. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He moves forward unhurriedly, with his jacket folded over one arm. He’s careful to keep his posture loose.

The thing about Maks is that he lets his enemies feel comfortable before slicing their throats. He lets them think they have space until they realize the moment is already gone.

I let him move so he can show me his hand. He doesn’t have proof that I was up to anything yet.

He stops across from the desk, drops his jacket over the back of one of the guest chairs, and looks at the monitor again.

I closed the obvious files, but a reconciliation sheet still sits open on the left side of the screen, and one of the route references is still visible.

He tips his head slightly, pale green eyes fixed hawkishly on mine, one hand resting on the back of the chair.

“Let me ask differently,” he says softly. “Why did you reopen container references tied to Baltic transit, and why were you in a payment chain that should’ve stayed buried in freight reconciliation?”

Cold slides through me so fast, it leaves me lightheaded for a second. I let the beat pass and force my mind into analysis. He knows, which means the burial chains have been flagged.

The second I touched something wrong, something’s gone live on his end.

He knows firsthand that I was in those files. The Baltic routes and buried payment chains sit behind layers outside ordinary access. Getting into those files leaves a trail.

Sometimes it’s a log. Sometimes it’s a quiet flag. It lands directly with the man who built the path.

He knows the sequence well enough to understand exactly where I went and what I was close to finding.

I look fully at Maks. His light brown hair is brushed back, and that handsome face of his carries the small, easy smile that makes people trust him too fast. He photographs beautifully. Society women lean in closer. Politicians want him in the frame.

Men like Maks make people feel chosen when they’re really being sized up.