His bratva princess

Chapter 5

Sitting behind the desk was a polished, professional American woman with her blonde hair pinned back in a neat bun. Her nameplate read: Elena.

"Hi there," Milana said, walking up and holding out the manila folder. "I’m here to drop off the financial restructuring tax files from Arthur Vance’s office."

Elena looked up, offering a polite, practiced corporate smile. "Ah, yes. Mr. Vance’s daughter? He mentioned you might be dropping these off. Thank you so much." Elena took the folder, but as she glanced down at it, her smile faltered slightly. "Oh, wait. It looks like the signed corporate disclosure page isn't attached to the front clip. Did your father leave it inside the main folder packet?"

Milana blinked. "Uh, I’m not sure. He just gave me the whole file."

"Let me check," Elena said, standing up from her desk. "There’s a secondary sorting bin in the executive conference room just behind those double doors. I was just working on the physical filing. Give me one moment to see if the disclosure page was routed there, or if we need to call your father."

"Sure, no problem," Milana said.

Elena walked through a pair of heavy, beautiful mahogany doors to the right, leaving them slightly ajar.

A few minutes passed. Milana stood by the desk, tapping her foot lightly against the marble floor. Elena was taking a while. Fearing that her dad might have forgotten a crucial page—which would only add to his massive stress—Milana decided to check if the secretary needed help.

She pushed through the mahogany doors, stepping into a carpeted hallway. "Elena? Did you find it?"

But Elena wasn't in the immediate room. The hallway split into a private executive corridor lined with stunning artwork. Milana walked down a few feet, completely missing her way as she looked for the sorting bin Elena had mentioned. The layout back here was a labyrinth of private offices.

Suddenly, the low, deep rumble of a voice vibrated through the quiet air from a room at the very end of the hall. It was a gravelly, commanding tone that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It sounded entirely too familiar. Before her brain could fully connect the dots, another voice spoke—this one thick with a heavy, distinct Russian accent.

"The Italian factions are pressing hard on the northern docks, brat," the second voice said, sounding urgent and deferential. "If we do not authorize the shipment by tonight, they will think the Volkov family is growing weak."

"Let them think whatever they want," the first voice rumbled back, cold, flat, and completely devoid of emotion. "The moment they step a single foot onto my docks, they die. Cut their supply lines. I want them bleeding out before they even realize they've crossed my line."

Milana’s blood ran cold. Docks? Shipment? Volkov? Die?

Real terror, cold and sharp, coiled tightly in her gut. She had stumbled into something incredibly dark, something she was never, ever supposed to hear.

Panic seized her. She needed to leave now.

She took a frantic step backward, her eyes wide as she tried to retreat down the hallway. But in her haste, her heel caught the edge of a heavy, decorative iron umbrella stand sitting against the wall.

CLANG.

The loud, metallic echo shattered the silence of the corridor.

Milana gasped, her heart leaping into her throat. Inside the room, the voices instantly stopped. The silence that followed was absolute, terrifying, and heavy with immediate danger.

Before she could even turn to run, the heavy mahogany doors at the end of the hall flew open with violent force.

A sharp, fit man in an immaculate suit stepped out into the hallway. He looked completely normal, like any other executive in the building, but his face was set in a lethal, unblinking glare. In a fraction of a second, his hand moved with terrifying speed, drawing a sleek, black handgun from his concealed holster and pointing it straight at her chest.

"Stop right there," the man commanded, his voice a lethal hiss.

Milana froze. Her breath was completely trapped in her lungs, her hands instantly flying up into the air as her body started to tremble violently. A gun. A real, loaded gun was pointed directly at her heart. This was the absolute last thing she had expected when she woke up to do her dad a favor. She couldn't move; she couldn't even scream. Pure, unadulterated horror held her captive.

But before the man could take a step toward her, a second figure stepped out of the room.

Slowly adjusting the silver cufflinks of his immaculate, gray suit, the giant from last night walked into the dim light of the corridor.

Rodion Volkov.

His thick blonde hair was perfectly styled, his massive frame dominating the narrow hallway, radiating a terrifying aura of absolute authority. He looked up, his piercing, stone-cold grey eyes cutting through the space.

The moment his gaze locked onto her, he stopped.

Rodion tilted his head slightly, his sharp jaw tightening as his eyes scanned her terrified form, taking in her wide brown eyes and her raised, shaking hands. A slow, cynical smirk crept onto his lips.

He raised a lazy hand, gesturing toward the man.

"Lower the weapon," Rodion commanded, his deep, gravelly voice rumbling through the corridor, the sound sending a wave of heat and terror through her veins.

The man instantly lowered the gun, stepping back into a respectful stance, though his eyes remained wary.

"What do we have here "Rodion took a slow, deliberate step forward, his polished shoes clicking against the floor as he closed the distance between them, cornering her in the narrow hallway. The smirk on his face widened just a fraction.