Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Aria

It’s laughablyeasy to find the online scheduling software the Romanov assistant uses.

So maybe I planted a little bug. Practically child’s play. And when she opens up her computer to the calendar for the day, previously color coded and organized perfectly, she’ll see a blank slate.

I feel a little guilty causing someone else anxiety, but I’m desperate. And she must know who she works for.

I can’t spend another second wondering when they’ll find me. At this point, I’m not even sure who “they” are because the system of corruption runs so deep and wide. I imagine everywhere I turn, everywhere I look, masked or hooded men and women are ready to take me. After the newspaper article…I’m confident it’s not just my imagination.

I walk into the lobby of the Romanov business center like I own the place. Like I belong. Anyone can pretend for a little while, right?

When I reach for the door, it whispers open of its own accord. The entrance exudes opulence and sophistication, topped off with a very clear theme of exclusivity. The spacious, welcoming area boasts sleek leather chairs and minimalist decor, speckled marble floors of black and gray, adorned with a splash of contemporary artwork in bold red and black. It’s compelling but a bit unnerving.

A brushed metal desk stands in front of me, featuring an arrangement of fresh flowers. It’s so cold in here, the flowers are a nice touch.

I walk forward with my head held high, my gaze taking everything in and cataloging it. The chic seating area to the left, the plush armchairs and sofa to the right. High ceilings with recessed lighting, and discreetly hidden in a darkened alcove is a state-of-the-art security panel that looks complicated enough to launch a spaceship.

I borrowed one of Tatiana’s dresses for today. She’s thinner than I am, so it’s a little risqué, clinging to my curvier body. I declined the heels because I know myself well enough to know that I would keel over and mortify myself if I tried to walk in them. So instead I opted for a pair of sensible but elegant flats.

“May I help you?”

The receptionist is a young, gorgeous woman, of course, with porcelain skin and delicate features, luscious blonde waves cascading down her back.

I mentally grimace. Sorry I fucked up your computer.

I don’t miss the fact that there are six armed guards nearby.

"Yes," I say, keeping my tone even, almost bored. "I’m here for my eleven o’clock meeting with Mr. Romanov.”

She eyes me curiously, her head tipped to the side. “Are you sure about that?” I wonder idly if those lashes are falsies, they’re so pretty.

“Of course,” I insist, my tone hardening. “Is there a problem?”

I’ll make it up to you, I promise. A few keystrokes and her bank account will be mysteriously fatter.

Doing what I do means I blur the lines of morality sometimes. Other times, I have to erase them completely. Still, I’m shaking and want to run. I breathe deeply and will my nerves to remain calm.

“Let me see,” she murmurs to herself. When she stares at the screen, unblinking, I know exactly what she’s seeing — nothing. Her calendar wiped clean and an obnoxious error code.

Pink splotches of color stain her cheeks. My belly dips with guilt. “Just a minute, please.”

She stands and walks to another room and knocks politely on its door. I take a deep breath and will myself not to glance at the guards all looking directly at me.

Here we go. Enter, the Romanovs.

When the door opens, the gentleman on the other side looks exactly the way Tatiana described these guys — huge, gorgeous, muscular, with perfectly symmetrical features and stunningly rugged looks.

This is a Romanov…just not the one I’m looking for. This one looks younger with his scar across his eyebrow. He has a chiseled jawline etched in neatly trimmed stubble, striking blue eyes, and a close-cropped haircut. A black dress shirt stretches across taut muscles and is tucked into charcoal gray dress pants. He wears no tie, an effortless nod toward business casual. He’s ruggedly handsome and dangerous as fuck.

“Yes?" He eyes me suspiciously while she fills him in.

"I’m so sorry to bother you, sir," she says in a low voice. "I can’t access our database of appointments and records. It’s gone completely blank. This woman says that she’s here to see Mr. Romanov, but I have no record to compare or…” she gives me a quick glance and then looks back to him, “…memory of booking the appointment.”

The man scowls at me. I shiver and promise her she can buy herself whatever it is her little heart desires tonight. Just help a girl out, please, I silently beg.

"Who are you?" he bites out without any semblance of professionalism. I’m reminded of a pit bull.

Fortunately for me, constructing a false identity was also very easy. “Linda Rogue. Mr. Romanov brought me in here as a cybersecurity consultant."

His eyebrows raise. "I’m the cybersecurity consultant."

Shit shit shit.

I took a gamble and I lost. Time to pivot.

"So nice to meet you,” I say warmly. "My hope is to show Mr. Romanov the latest digital defenses that we have against cybersecurity issues. I’m not here to take your job, of course, but to offer my expertise and services to strengthen your empire. Our goal is to make your security impenetrable." I give him a delicate smile and hope tossing the word “empire” in there stroked his ego just enough.

The way his ice blue eyes narrow on me makes my belly dip. Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Interesting. What did you say your name was?"

“Linda Rogue.”

I just have to get into Mikhail Romanov’s office. By the time I get in there, they might’ve already realized this is a front, but I’ll have my audience.

"What time is your appointment?"

I glance at my watch and frown. "Five minutes ago?" I say, hoping that they’ll believe it. "I’m sorry, but I can’t wait much longer. I’m happy to schedule another appointment, though unfortunately I’m booking six months out.” I pull out my phone and pretend to open up the calendar app.

I feel the heat of his glare across the room. “Fine. Take her in. I’ll get our database back up.”

My heart thumps. I swallow. I can almost audibly hear the clicking of an imaginary clock on how much time I have before I’m discovered.

I may have done my research before I came in here. I may know that the man I’m about to face is Mikhail Romanov, eldest of the Bratva brotherhood here in The Cove, and the man that works with him here is either Aleksandr or Lev. Likely Aleksandr, because he’s closer in age to Mikhail.

The Romanovs are widely known in these parts for ruthless extortion outside The Cove, but here, they run things at a quieter pace. Most suspect their businesses are a front for extortion and money laundering, but a perusal of the Dark Web reveals contractual assassinations and elite levels of espionage. They maintain respect from those outside their family by exacting revenge on those that betray them and making no effort at hiding the discipline they require within their own family.

The local papers are notably quiet about their presence here, but the Dark Web tells another story – violent turf wars, brutal public punishments for crimes against them, high-profile assassinations to eliminate anyone who stands in their way.

I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Their assistant’s heels click on the marble floor as she walks away from me. “Miss Rogue? This way, please.”

I have to do this.

When she opens the door to his office, I have to force myself not to gape. If I didn’t already know Mikhail Romanov was a former military officer and billionaire with a cutthroat reputation, his office would tell me. It screams power, efficiency, and ruthless determination.

Dominated by dark yet simple mahogany furniture, the space is immaculate. The largest leather chair I’ve ever seen sits behind an imposing executive-style desk positioned to command immediate attention.

I nearly salivate at the state-of-the-art computer setup — multiple screens, a custom keyboard you can’t find in any shop, complete with an ergonomic wireless mouse. Not a cable’s in sight, hidden from view, a wireless charging pad to the right.

“Please, make yourself at home. He’ll be right with you. May I get you a cup of coffee? Water?”

“I — water would be great, thank you.” I’d kill for a hot cup of coffee, but I don’t need to add to my jitters. A shot of whiskey would be heaven.

I take the bottle of water gratefully and give her a smile. With shaking hands, I twist the top off and take a swig.

Heavy footsteps sound behind me. I nearly choke on my water.

“Mr. Romanov! The woman I called about is here, sir. Your brother is looking into the scheduling software now.”

Your brother. Of course.

I sit nervously on my seat, my fingers wrapped around my water bottle. I did my research before I came here. I know who he is, and what he looks like. His background.

Mikhail Romanov was a soldier who suffered PTSD after witnessing undisclosed “war crimes.” He was born in Russia and is skilled in combat. He’s ten years my senior and the eldest in his family.

But one thing you realize about reading details online? Nothing is what it seems.

For example, you can read a person’s height is 6’2”, but when a man who’s actually 6’2" tall and 250 pounds of solid muscle enters the room? It’s a completely different experience. You can read “covered in tattoos, Russian heritage, pierced ears, scarred upper cheek,” but you don’t know how terrifying that looks when you see those details in person. And even the Dark Web was eerily absent of any pictures.

And nothing I read said…dangerously sexy.

Mikhail Romanov enters — no, prowls — into the room with a scowl I feel in my very bones.

It takes everything in me not to run.