It’s not a daydream, but a promise to myself. I will claim Vasilisa Petrova as mine. In every way possible.

I take a sip of my wine and continue watching her as she once again draws the pencil between her teeth, holding the phone wedged between her chin and shoulder. These evenings have somehow become the highlight of my day. I could gladly spend hours simply observing her doing her work, or talking with her to try to figure out what it is about her that has me so enthralled.

Yes, her beauty is beyond compare, and looking at her feels like viewing the most sublime work of art, but her appearance is not the sole reason for my obsession. I’m completely captivated by her tenacity and determination to do whatever it takes to keep her family safe. She hasn’t tried to run even once, according to my security team’s reports on her movements. Neither did she try to slip any information to her family when she used Guido’s phone to speak with her mother the other day. The strength of this girl’s will is astonishing.

So is her daringness to snark back at me. People don’t ever do that. All too afraid of my wrath.

Fear is good. Necessary. It makes it so much easier to get them to dance to my tune. However, I don’t want my vespetta to be scared of me, which is why I’ve taken such great lengths to hide my face from her. I want her defiance. Her banter. And more of her ridiculous-looking doodles.

My lips quirk as I remember the sticky note I found on the laptop after one of our evenings. It took me a few moments to realize that the strange-shaped creature with an apron was a rendition of me. The speech bubble drawn next to it is what eventually clued me in.

“Okay, I’ll try that.” Vasilisa lowers the phone to the desk and pushes away some of the dark strands falling over her eyes before resuming her work.

Tonight, she used another tie of mine to gather her hair at the top of her head. She tried to corral the mass, but a big part of it escaped during the evening and is now falling in tangled strands around her lovely face. My fingers itch to touch the soft tendrils, and I have to keep reminding myself why I can’t go to her and do exactly that.

“I see you decided to expand your garments,” I say, eyeing the jacket from my suit that she put on over one of my dress shirts. The getup looks ridiculous on her—swallowing her small frame. It does look like she’s wearing a tent.

“I was cold,” she mumbles without looking up.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid. “Cold?”

“Yes. Your jacket works, but I would appreciate something actually in my size. Your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired, Rafael.”

“What else do you need?” I growl. She was cold. Because of me!

Vasilisa’s eyes rise from the laptop screen, focusing on my spot in the corner. I immediately lean deeper into the shadows.

“Letting me go home isn’t an option, I assume?”

“No.”

“T-shirts. Leggings. A hoodie. Socks. Pajamas. And a hairbrush. Oh, and some real breakfast foods. I hate cereal.”

“Is that all?”

“And women’s deodorant, please. I don’t want to keep going around smelling like you.”

My cock instantly turns to granite at the mere idea of her carrying my scent. “Fine.”

She props her fist under her chin and tilts her head. “Why won’t you let me see your face?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Is it so I won’t be able to identify you later? Are you concerned I’ll tell my dad what actually happened, and he’ll chase you down?”

“Maybe.”

“Wise. You should be very afraid of the pakhan’s fury.”

“I’m quite terrified, Miss Petrova.” I take a long sip of my wine. “I’m sure Roman has gotten even more surly than he was the last time we met.”

Vasilisa eyes me with an open-mouthed stare, then rapidly blinks twice with those long black lashes. “You know my dad?”

“We collaborated on a couple of occasions.” I lean further back and watch her face. She’s even prettier when she’s confused. “There aren’t many people who need the services my business offers, or who can afford them. And I personally know most who do.”

“But . . . but you run a private security firm. I checked your company’s website. The basic offered package costs a few thousand a month, hardly an astronomical amount.”

“I wasn’t referring to my front business, Miss Petrova.”

“Then, what were you referring to?”

“That’s between Roman and me,” I tell her. “It’s rather late. Maybe we should continue this tomorrow.”

“Dude! That’s it? You just dropped this bomb, and now you’re sending me off to bed without further explanation?”

I’m greatly tempted to tell her the truth. She can’t be so naive that she doesn’t know what her dear old daddy does. But knowing Petrov, he’s likely tried to shield her from the worst of it. Would she be surprised to learn that over the past decade and a half my teams have eliminated multiple targets for her father? That one of those hits I executed myself?

“Children’s respect and trust in their parents should never be compromised, vespetta. I don’t want to taint your opinion of your father.”

“Oh, you’re such a gentleman, with utterly high moral standards.” She points her chewed-up pencil at me. “I know exactly who my dad is and what he does for a living. What kind of services did you provide to him?”

“The same ones I offer to all my clients. A swift and final resolution of very delicate matters, handled with the utmost discretion, of course.”

“Which means?”

“It means, I kill people.”

Two dark eyes turn into glaring slits. “My dad doesn’t outsource.”

For a few moments, I can only stare at her. “He doesn’t . . . outsource?”

“Correct. When he needs someone gone, my uncle handles the issue.”

I cock my head, observing my little hacker in a new light. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Of course I’m not okay with that. It’s just . . . That’s how it’s always been. How his world works. And by relation, mine, too. I’d rather my dad grow organic tomatoes for a living, but that’s not him. He might be a villain to most people, but to me, he’s just my dad.”

Interesting.

Most women within the criminal society feign ignorance of how their fathers, husbands, or brothers make a living. Even though they have no qualms about spending the blood money, they still profess innocence to the outside world.

“Do you work for your father? I’m sure Petrov finds your skills very useful.”

“No,” she mumbles.

“Why not?”

Vasilisa looks away, disappointment and hurt etched into her doll-like features. “Roman Petrov would never allow his delicate flower of a daughter to dip a toe in anything related to Bratva.”