Page 86 of Mafia and Scars

“Yes, my first day,” Avelina replies. She seems genuinely excited to get started.

I stand from my seat once I finish my coffee. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Avelina smiles at me, and my heart stutters. Her smile is that radiant one that makes my chest tight and everything feel wonderful. My lips tug up in the corner as I stare back.

Some nervousness flutters through me at the thought of her working with my files and spreadsheets. I shake my head to dispel the feeling. I know she’ll do just fine. But that loud, chaotic part of my brain keeps telling me this is a bad idea. I’m too picky and peculiar about how things happen and what goes where. This is just asking for trouble. I don’t even let the guys touch my stuff, but the words just flew out of my mouth. I wanted her to stay.I needed her to stay. And offering her the job was the only way I knew to make it happen.

Avelina brushes a hand to smooth down her outfit. I squint very slightly. Her dress is yellow, and it’s definitely as far as one can get from my favorite color—black.

“Lead the way,” she says.

Babulya shifts to the seat next to Leon, nodding to let Avelina know that she’s got the kids. My grandmother has practically mandated that she’ll be minding the children whenever Avelina needs to work, and I can tell by the twinkle in her eye that she’s excited about spoiling the little ones.

Before we leave, I glare at a few of the soldiers. If they’re unhappy with the presence of the children like the men from the other day, they don’t show it.They must value their lives.

“Have fun, and don’t get into too much trouble,” Matvey says with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

I scratch my brow with my middle finger, earning a hearty chuckle from him before I turn back to Avelina, gesturing for her to go first.

Guiding her down the south corridor toward the large officewhere Grigory, Matvey, Nikolai, and I each have our own desks, my hand hovers near the small of her back. I relish the heat radiating from her and itch to press my palm to her. And it’s a jarring thought that wars with every other one I have.

The sound of my boots rings out against the polished floor, a stark contrast to the soft taps of her ballet flats. The nearer we get to my office, the tighter the band around my ribs pulls. No one else touches my business spreadsheets—not Grigory, not Nikolai, and especially not the rank-and-file soldiers who think Excel is the fucking name of some exotic island.

Avelina’s scent—vanilla and a hint of clean linen from my soap—fills my senses. It’s distracting but not enough to quell the anxious knot in my stomach.

“It’s this one.” I unlock the door with a swipe of my card and hand over a copy keycard to her so that she can let herself in and out whenever she needs to work. I let her walk in first. Just like my bedroom, my part of the office is meticulously organized. Neat shelves of books line one wall behind the modern desk. The filing system is tucked to the left of the large windows that bring natural light into the space.

“I can add another desk for you later,” I say, moving toward my workspace. It’s bare compared to the other desks, and I always keep it clean and organized. There’s a place for everything—everything in straight lines and in order.

I pull out a chair for her and lift open the laptop. Quickly typing in my password, I try not to let myself be distracted by the way she crosses one leg over the other.Would she let me have her in here?The thought spirals into others.How would it feel to take her over my desk?

I clear my throat, telling myself to get a grip, and turn to the Excel sheet. “You’ll work on this,” I say, letting her see the screen.

Hundreds of rows of data from the last quarter fill the screen. Invoice IDs, routing numbers, shipping dates, payments, delivery windows, names, and collections. I perch on the edge of my desk as she looks at it.

“It’s a lot of data,” she says, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

I nod. “It is. But we’ll go over it.”

“Okay.”

Line by line, I explain the cells, formulae, and functions. I pull out a shipping order from the labeled pile. “You’ll update the status, due dates, the paid columns—this line here,” I point, “and this one. That’s it. The formulas do the rest.”

“I’m, um, not that used to such complex spreadsheets.”

“It’ll be fine once you get into it. We’ll do one together, okay?”

“Okay.”

Cell by cell, we input the data together. The formulae work flawlessly.

She leans closer to the screen, and her intoxicating scent unfurls beneath my nose as she brushes my arm.

My chest hitches, and my dick jumps. I try to concentrate. “Okay, now you try,” I tell her.

I roll up my shirt sleeves as I watch her.

Slowly, she runs through the steps.