by SR Jones
“Cassie, come with me,” he orders before stalking off, making me rush to catch up.
I throw a glance at Suzy who gives me wide-open, alarmed eyes in return.
Hustling after Konstantin I watch everyone’s eyes swivel our way.
“Morning, Mr. Silvanov,” one of the secretaries says as she walks by.
He grunts something unintelligible in return.
Oh, he’s a real ray of sunshine this morning.
When we get to his office, he pulls me inside by the crook of my arm and closes the door.
He rakes a hand through his hair, and then down his face, rubbing at his chin. He looks like a man who is having a shitty time of it, and despite my newfound dislike of him, it tugs my heartstrings for a moment. Before I remind myself not to be that girl. The one who thinks she can save the fucked-up man and make him all happy and whole. You can’t make someone else whole; they have to do that for themselves, and there’s something missing at Konstantin’s core that no amount of love from a good woman can cure.
After a long moment where he says nothing, and I start to feel distinctly uncomfortable, he walks away from me and looks out the window, hands held behind his back, emphasizing his broad shoulders and lean hips. It’s a pity his broken soul comes in such a picture-perfect package.
“I owe you an explanation,” he says, gruffly. “I’m not a man who normally spends time worrying about others or my impact on them, but you seem to bring out a soft as shit side in me.”
Soft as shit? I bite back my disbelieving laugh.
“The thing is, Cassie, I’m not a man who plays games. I liked you … like you. You’re a breath of fresh air, and so different to most of the women I get involved with. I thought maybe we could have some fun together, but things have changed. There’s a ton of shit going on in my personal life that means I don’t have time or space for that kind of thing now. This is nothing to do with you; it is, as the cliché so aptly says, all about me.”
He hasn’t turned around, and I’m not sure what he expects me to say. Does he want absolution? It’s not as if he broke my heart. We aren’t an item. He was my secret crush; still is if I’m honest. Now, though, I know he’s a mess, probably more of a mess than me. Plus, he’s cold and ruthless, and I’m not sure I like him enough, or trust him enough, to go there with him even if the offer was still on the table.
Oh, I want to. But I have a strong streak of self-preservation. Having a mother who couldn’t deal with life at all will do that for you. So, while my libido might want to throw her clothes off and lie on the bland beige table separating us, while I beg him to take me, my mind knows he’s a bad idea.
Konstantin Silvanov is not a good bet for any woman, and certainly not for someone as emotionally fragile as me.
“It’s fine,” I say. Then I lie. I don’t lie often, I suck at it, but today, I lie with the best of them. “I’m seeing someone.”
He whips around. “Since when?”
“Since this weekend.” I plaster a bright smile on my face. “So, you see, it all worked out for the best. Now, do you still want me to do this job for you?”
He starts to chuckle.
What’s so funny?
“You sound like a gangster from a bad B movie.”
“What’s a B movie?”
His smile drips from his face. “So young. A B movie, jailbait, is a second-class film. Most often played before the main feature, during the golden era of Hollywood.”
“You like old movies,” I say it as a statement because either this is another fact I knew about him and filed away, or it’s something I’ve guessed, the way I can guess he probably uses extortionate toiletries at the same time he decries metro-sexuality.
“Yes, I like old movies. Although, they always portrayed my people as cold or evil, and nothing is further from the truth about Russians.”
“What are Russians like?” I ask, side-tracked for a moment. I’ve read a lot of Russian literature, and it’s dense, complex, and full of tragic characters. I tried watching some Russian TV shows on Netflix, but I didn’t click with them the same way I did with the novels.
“Complex,” he says. “They can be emotional, not cold as they are portrayed. In fact, I would say they can be too emotional. Many don’t analyze things the same as they do in the West. Or, this is my perception at least, they can be envious. There was a saying in the village where I grew up: the tallest blade of grass is the first cut by the scythe. They didn’t like people getting above their station. On the other hand, they would do anything to help a friend. They’d share their last crust of bread. They are poetic, literature lovers. Even my family, who were poor, they read great literature and talked about things like the meaning of life, so different to here, where people talk about pointless gossip and what latest gadget they want to buy.”
Him talking about his homeland makes me smile because he’s probably not aware of it, but his wording becomes more like a Russian speaking English. Often, he speaks very good English and even uses Brit phrases, so it’s mainly his accent that gives him away, but sometimes, like now, or when we talked about Russian literature in the coffee shop, the rhythm of his words, the cadence of his speech, it sounds more Russian.
“Not all people here are like that,” I say softly.
He fixes me with his blue-gray gaze. “No not all people,” he agrees.
“Anyway, you asked about the role,” he says. “Come, let me show you to your new office. This will be your home for the next two to three weeks. You can tell Suzy and anyone else who asks that you’re working on some sensitive information for me. That’s what I’ll be telling my managers, okay?”
I nod.
“Good, come.” He walks by me to the door, holds it open for me, and follows me out of the room.
As I pass right by him to get out the door, I inhale his delicious scent. It’s deep and sensual, a bit like him. I shake my head and tell myself to stop this silly crush behavior.
We get to the room I’ll be using, and I stare in disbelief when he opens the door for me. I was expecting a glorified stock room, but this is plush. This has to be a management office, surely?
“Is there a mistake?” I ask, dumbfounded. “This is better than your office.”
“Mine is temporary and part-time. I’ll be spending plenty of my work hours at my main building. I don’t need something fancy here. You’re doing important work for me, private work. This office has a lock on the door, see.”
He points to the door where there is indeed a lock.
“Use it,” he says gravely. “Don’t let anyone in unless they knock, and you’ve hidden what you’re working on.”
God, what have I gotten myself into here?
He pulls out a chair for me behind the desk and motions for me to sit. The chair faces the window in the door, so I can see who is there if anyone knocks. Behind me is a large expanse of glass and an impressive view of London. The chair is leather, big, and comfortable. My back will like this office a lot, I think.
It strikes me as incongruous that someone as wealthy as Konstantin, with a company worth a fortune, and yes, I looked it up, works from an office in Camden.
“How come your company headquarters are in Camden and not somewhere like this?” I ask.
“Have you seen my offices there?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“I’ll take you one day. They’re impressive. I had them designed by a top eco-architect. They’re one of the greenest office spaces in the world. They’re also beautiful. As for why there and not here. Here is soulless, no?”
I look behind me out the window. It is kind of soulless. Looking back at him, I nod.
“There is full of life. Inside the office we work hard, we make deals, we do the corporate slog hour in and hour out, and then I go out of the office and walk past small stores, tattoo parlors, barbers. I see people walking their dogs, girls with green hair, pretty baristas who remind me of the sun.”
I gasp at his words and try to cover it
up by letting out a small cough, but he catches it because he smirks.
“I go out of the offices and see the life of a community. I wouldn’t get that here in the financial district. It’s ironic, no? This office, which is full of people who probably live in places like Camden, like you, but work here, and then me, who lives in a boring, soulless house, but have amazing offices. It’s like you work here then go home to life, and I work amongst life and go home to nothing.”
“Not nothing,” I say. “You have your son.”
“Yes.” He smiles. “I have my son. And for all the trouble he causes I wouldn’t be without him.”
“I should hope not,” I say.
“So, Cassie, this is some information to get you started.”
He slides open a drawer by my leg, and I’m achingly aware of his big hand so close to my thigh, except my thigh isn’t sexily bare like it would be in a movie; no, it is clad in distinctly unsexy loose, black pants, with running shoes on my feet.
I considered wearing my black skirt again, but then figured what’s the point. Konstantin doesn’t want me in that way, and why keep on acting desperate. I’m just myself, plain old me, in loose pants, a white t-shirt, and running shoes. I did put on some mascara this morning and a touch of lip gloss, plus a bit of bronzer, so maybe I do care … a little.
The file Konstantin takes out of the drawer is thick. He opens it to the first page, and there is a picture of a man so awfully ugly, and in that hard, vicious way you just know he oozes violence from every pore that it makes me shudder.
“Wow, who is he? He has a face only a mother could love.”
“He’s the man you’re investigating, and he’s as dangerous as he looks. You sure you can get into his stuff without a trace? I don’t want you putting yourself at risk.”
Oh, crap. I stare at the picture, at those small, vicious eyes, and realize I may have bitten off way more than I can chew.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Konstantin
Cassie stares at Popov’s picture, and I begin to feel uneasy.
“Cassie, are you sure you can do this without leaving a trace?”
“Yes, of course.”
She doesn’t sound sure.
Fuck. I want her to do this, but I don’t want her at risk. Maybe I should bite the bullet and either hire someone—money can, after all, buy loyalty if one pays enough—or ask Andrius to get his hacker friend, Reece, to do it. I don’t want to go to my Greek acquaintance, Damen, a member of the cartel over there, not when things with the Greeks are up in the air.
“Listen, I can get someone else. There won’t be any reprisals from me if you don’t want to do this.”
“No, I can do it, honestly. I won’t leave a trace.”
I get a nagging feeling she’s not being truthful with me. But why would she lie? I’d been taken aback by her wanting more money too.
In fact, I thought she was asking for more to fuck with me, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve already run a credit check on her, and she’s as clean as a whistle. Her finances are in decent shape. She’s not rich, but she’s not in debt either. Now, though, I’m wondering if her keenness to take on this job is for some reason that I’m unaware of?
I lower my voice, not sure why I’m being such a bleeding heart, and say, “If you need money, I can help you out. You don’t have to do this, not if it isn’t safe.”
I was so determined to have her do this for me, even make her if need be, but now? Now, looking at her, small and fragile in the big leather chair, I know she’s one of the very few people who count amongst those I won’t put at risk. It’s an exclusively tiny group, and somehow Cassie has wormed her way into it.
“What? No… I mean, of course we all like money, and I’m glad you’re paying me a fair amount now, but no, there’s no issue, and I am more than confident my online nosiness won’t be discovered.”
She turns to me and smiles.
She might have darker hair, sallower skin, and less freckles, but her smile still lights up the damn room.
“Okay, so you’re good to go.” I push the file her way, ignoring the warning bells in my head. I need this, and I trust Cassie not to tell anyone what she’s doing, unlike some of the hackers for hire who love to flap their gums and talk. “In here is everything I can get you on Popov, the man you’re about to dig into. There’s his phone number, home address, car registration, date of birth and other things.”
She nods once, already looking at the papers, deep in thought. “His phone number will be enough of a doorway to get me into his life,” she says.
“Good, and listen, any issues—call me. Anytime, okay?”
She nods again, then looks up. “I don’t have your number.”
“It’s in the file,” I say, and then without anything else to add, I leave the room.
Two hours later, and I’m itching to go check on Cassie, but I tell myself not to. If I keep hovering over her, I’ll only interrupt her work. Instead, I call my driver and tell him to bring my car around to the front. I’m heading back to my offices in Camden, where I can’t go and check up on her every five minutes, working as we glide smoothly through the city streets.
When we arrive, I thank Mick for driving me, and tell him to park in the garage and take some time as I won’t be needing him for a few hours. I planned on getting some serious work done, but as I approach the doors of the offices I had built from scratch, I hesitate. Something makes me turn around and head to Rigattos, the coffee shop where I first met Cassie.
It’s still the same cozy, comfortable, inviting place, but now with no Cassie. I step inside and the skinny guy who worked here all those months ago grins at me. “Hello, Konstantin. Long time no see,” he says conversationally.
“Been busy,” I say with a smile of my own.
“Usual?” he asks.
“No, I’ll take a caramel macchiato and a slice of chocolate cake,” I tell him.
Since my days of frequenting this place when Cassie worked here, my sugar consumption has fallen drastically, but today, I feel like indulging my sweet tooth.
I don’t know if it was growing up dirt poor in post-Soviet Russia that has given me such a weakness for all things sugary and fatty, but normally I deny myself the craving. I work out hard, and if I spent my days eating shit like I’ve just ordered, it would be for nothing. I put on five pounds of pure lard when I was stalking Cassie.
Since then I’ve lost it and added a couple more pounds of muscle. I’m not one of those super cut guys, though. I was big before I started lifting, and now my muscle covers an already large frame. I lift to get bulk not to get shredded, and I do so to intimidate people. A nice side effect is that women love powerfully built men. We’re like catnip to them.
I think even intellectual, nerdy little Cassie likes it.
As if to prove my point, a new waitress steps out of the back, glances at me, glances again, eye-fucks me appreciatively and smiles. I smile back, but I’m not interested. My libido has got me into far too much fucking trouble already.
At the thought of Liza back at the house, my mood sours.
This morning, I went into the main bathroom because the faucet on the sink is broken in mine, to find a ton of girly crap scattered all over the fucking place. When I marched into her room and asked why, when she has a perfectly good attached bathroom, she’d messed up the main bath, she told me with a pout that her private bathroom didn’t have a bath, only a shower.
Then I went to the kitchen, and the place was a bomb site. Fucking half cut up strawberries and banana skins all over the counter. Cocoa powder sprinkled everywhere, and the blender left with a sludgy brown mess coating it’s insides. She’d obviously made herself a smoothie and didn't bother to clean up.
Thank fuck, I’ve got a housekeeper now.
It makes my skin itch, though, Liza being there in my home, her shit all over. She’s like a vine that’s reaching into the walls of my life, slowly inserting herself everywhere.
I regularl
y remind myself she’s carrying my child because otherwise I’d throw her out on her ass. I can’t stand her.
It’s a lesson I’ve learned late in life. Stop fucking women you don’t like just because they look good naked.
Cassie looks good naked I’d bet, and I like her too.
Something hits me then, and it’s a mildly depressing thought. I don’t like many people. I can count them on the fingers of one hand, and Cassie is one of them. If only my past sex life hadn’t caught up with me, I might have been able to find out if I still like Cassie as much as I did before.
“There you go, Konstantin.” The barista hands me a steaming hot coffee and a plate with a huge slab of chocolate cake on it.
I take it to my table and sit eating it as I watch the world go by.
When I’m done, I finish my coffee and walk out the door, sick and tired of myself, my life, and the choices I face.
Do I keep Liza with me? Living with me while we try to raise our child together? Do I set her up in a place close by, and we co-parent that way? I think that might be for the best. I can’t promise I won’t end up murdering the mother of my child if I live with her, and that’s not what I’m aiming for here. I’m trying not to be a useless fuck like my father, not emulate him.
I think back to some of the shit she pulled when we were together, shit I only put up with because it amused me to keep her around at the time. Like, the occasion she drank a three-thousand-dollar bottle of cognac I’d had flown in for a meeting the next day. She finished it off with her stupid girlfriends. What had really fucked me off is the fact I’d bought them two bottles of Crystal and told her to leave the cognac, but she had it anyway.
Or the time she upset Michael’s female friends with her nastiness, and they stopped coming to the house when she was around.
Or the time she ruined the seats of my car by spilling nail varnish on them. Fuck me, but my dick has made some poor decisions.
My phone goes, and I take it out of my pocket. It’s Margaret.
“Yes,” I say.
“I just wanted to let you know that tomorrow is Claudette’s seventieth birthday.”