Filthy Promises: Chapter 8

My first full day as Vince Akopov’s executive assistant is a baptism by fire.

And I’m the lit match.

“Your login credentials,” Diane barks, slapping a piece of paper onto my new desk. “Memorize them, then destroy this.”

I blink at her. “Destroy it? Like, shred it?”

“No. Chew and swallow it.”

I can’t tell if she’s joking.

I don’t think she is.

There’s dead serious and then there’s this: like someone took her sense of humor, shot it, buried it, dug it up, shot it again, and put it through a wood chipper. I think a knock-knock joke might actually send her into the afterlife.

“First order of business is clearing your old desk,” she continues, still completely expressionless. “You have twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes?” I repeat stupidly. “But I’ve been there for five years. I’ve got plants and⁠—”

“Nineteen minutes and forty-five seconds.”

I scurry to the elevator like my panties are on fire.

Down in Marketing, chaos erupts when I announce my promotion. Natalie screams so loud that someone calls security.

“Executive assistant?!” she shrieks, hands fluttering like cracked-out butterflies around her very pregnant belly. “To VINCENT AKOPOV?!”

I shush her frantically. “Keep it down! I only have—” I check my watch. “—seventeen minutes to clear out my desk.”

“Screw your desk! I need details. Didn’t I tell you that last time? I thrive on particulars.”

“Later,” I promise, already shoving five years’ worth of desk plants, coffee mugs, and emergency granola bars into a cardboard box. “Dinner tonight?”

“You better believe it. And you better have some juicy stuff to tell me!”

If only she knew.

Back upstairs, I nearly crash into Vincent himself as I struggle off the elevator with my overflowing box.

“Ms. St. Clair,” he purrs, his eyes trailing over me like he’s trying to decide which meal of the day I’d belong to best. “Settling in?”

“Trying to, sir,” I pant, shifting the heavy box. “Just got my old desk cleared out.”

His lips quirk. “Need help with that?”

The idea of Mr. Akopov carrying my sad little box of ficuses raised on fluorescent lights and lukewarm bottled water is so absurd that I actually snort.

His eyebrow arches at the sound.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “No, thank you. I’ve got it.”

“Very well.” He checks his watch. “Diane will walk you through the calendar. We have the Nakamura meeting at eleven.”

“‘We’?” I squeak.

“You’ll take notes.” He walks away without another word, leaving me staring after him like an idiot.

When I return to my new desk, Diane is giving me a look that somehow combines pity with contempt without dimming the light of either emotion.

“You have ten minutes to learn the calendar system before your first meeting,” she announces.

She’s really making my drill sergeant assessment look spookily accurate. I drop my box and scramble to my seat.

For the next three hours, I’m in a constant state of barely-controlled panic. The calendar system is a cryptic labyrinth that makes no logical sense. Appointments are color-coded, but Diane refuses to tell me what the colors mean.

“You’ll figure it out,” is all she says, which feels ominously similar to “sink or swim, sucker.”

I do notice oddities right away. Blocks of time marked simply “OFFSITE” in bold, bloody red. Appointments with single initials instead of names. Meetings scheduled for 3 A.M.

Who the hell meets at 3 A.M.?

The rumors about the Akopov family have circulated through the company for years. Some say they’re just that—rumors. Others swear that Andrei Akopov, Vince’s father, smuggled himself into America with luggage spilling over with cocaine and firearms.

I never gave the whispers much credence.

Until now.

At eleven sharp, I follow Vince into a glass-walled conference room where three stern Japanese businessmen await. I clutch my tablet, praying I don’t drop it or accidentally press play on the Hamilton soundtrack in the middle of negotiations.

“Gentlemen,” Vince says, his voice pure steel, “this is my new assistant, Ms. St. Clair.”

They barely glance at me. I’m furniture. Less than furniture. I’m the air molecules between pieces of furniture.

Then, with a crisp nod, they launch into business. No one bothers to ask if I can keep up as I frantically type notes. Vincent discusses shipping routes, tariffs, exclusivity agreements. It’s dry as dust and twice as technical, but I don’t miss a word.

I wouldn’t dare.

Occasionally, I feel his eyes on me. Each time, my heart does a little tap dance against my ribs. It’s the cardio workout I never asked for.

By the time lunch rolls around, I’m exhausted.

“Eat at your desk,” Diane advises, dropping a stack of folders in front of me. “These need to be digitized by three.”

“All of them?” The stack is at least a foot high.

“Mr. Akopov rewards efficiency, Ms. St. Clair. I advise you to make that your north star.” She sweeps away, leaving me alone with my granola bar and mounting dread.

I dive in, scanning document after document until my vision blurs. Most are routine business files, but occasionally, something odd jumps out—references to unnamed “associates,” coded language about “packages” and “deliveries.”

Could be normal business jargon.

Could be crime family stuff.

Could be my overactive imagination, fueled by too much caffeine and not enough sleep.

Vincent emerges from his office just as I finish the last folder. He pauses at my desk, looming over me like a storm cloud.

“How are the files coming?” he asks.

“All done, Mr. Akopov.” I try to sound professional instead of terrified. I think I do a passable job, but the simmering heat in his blue eyes makes me second-guess that conclusion.

He picks up a random folder, flips through it, then meets my eyes. “Good work.”

Two simple words, but they hit me like a shot of pure dopamine. I feel my cheeks flush with pleasure.

“Thank you, sir.”

“The Nunez call is in ten minutes. Join me.”

Like all the other suggestions he makes, it’s really not a suggestion at all. So I trail after him.

The Nunez call is another blur of jargon, with Vince effortlessly dipping in and out of Portuguese and Spanish as needed. The one after that isn’t much better. Nor is the rest of the day, which mirrors the morning in its complete unwillingness to give a single shit about the fact that my brain is on the verge of melting and leaking out my ears.

But Vincent might as well have “Failure Is Not An Option” tattooed on his forehead. Meeting after meeting, call after call, he neither flags nor fails. I take that as the implication that I shouldn’t do that, either.

I write notes, fetch coffee, anticipate his needs before he voices them.

And the whole time, I feel him watching.

Not obviously. Not creepily. But with a subtle attentiveness that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

Every time I turn around, those blue eyes flick away just a fraction of a second too late. Every time I reach for something, he’s already extending it toward me. Every time I shift uncomfortably in my seat, his mouth curls into that knowing grin.

It’s like he’s studying me.

Does that make me a specimen under his microscope?

Or prey in his sights?

By six o’clock, the office has emptied out. Even Diane has packed up and left, giving me a cryptic “Good luck” on her way out.

I’m just shutting down my computer when Mr. Akopov’s voice comes through the intercom. “Ms. St. Clair, a moment, please.”

I smooth my dress and enter his office, trying to ignore the memory of Vanessa bent over the very desk he now sits behind.

“Close the door,” he says, not looking up from his laptop.

I do as instructed, then stand awkwardly, waiting.

Finally, he closes his laptop and levels those blue eyes at me. “How was your first day?”

“Overwhelming,” I admit. “But, uh… interesting.”

For lack of a better word.

“You did well.”

There it is again—that rush of pleasure at his approval. It’s pathetic how desperately I crave it. “Thank you, Mr. Akopov.”

“I noticed you picked up the calendar system quickly.”

I hesitate. “About that… There are some appointments that seem a bit…” I search for a neutral word and end up settling on, “ … unconventional.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Such as?”

“The 3 A.M. meetings, amongst other things. The ones marked ‘OFFSITE’ in red.”

He steeples his fingers. “Does my schedule concern you, Ms. St. Clair?”

“Er, no, sir. I just want to make sure I understand my responsibilities.”

“Your responsibility is to do as you’re told.” His voice is soft but it contains a warning I’d be stupid to ignore. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

I swallow hard. “Yes, sir.”

“I appreciate curiosity.” He leans back in his chair. “But in this case, what you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

My stomach does a little bachata step. It’s as good as a confirmation.

“That will be all for today,” he says. “Go home, get some rest. Tomorrow will be even busier.”

“Yes, Mr. Akopov. Goodnight.”

I’m halfway to the elevator, already wondering whether my mattress will support my weight when I cannonball onto it, when I realize I’ve left my purse at my desk.

Dammit. Groaning, I turn back.

As I approach my desk, I hear Vincent’s voice from his office. The door is slightly ajar. “… shipment arrives at the docks tomorrow night,” he says in a low tone. “Make sure our people are in position.”

I freeze.

“No witnesses,” he continues. “Andrei wants this handled cleanly.”

Oh my God. This isn’t corporate business. This is… something else entirely.

“If the commissioner gives you trouble, remind him of our arrangement,” Vince adds. “And Mikhail? No mistakes this time.”

I back away from the door, but my heel catches on the carpet. I stumble, catching myself against my desk with a thud.

The phone call stops abruptly.

“Hello?” Vincent calls out. “Who’s there?”

Terror shoots through me. I grab my purse and dart toward the stairwell, not risking the elevator’s ding giving me away.

I take the stairs two at a time, my mind racing faster than my feet.

Shipments. Docks. No witnesses.

Holy shit.

The rumors are true. Vincent Akopov isn’t just a businessman. He’s involved in something dark, something dangerous, something illegal.

And I just overheard it.