Page 3 of Sexting My Bratva Boss
“What can you tell me about Dubai.”
I take my place near his desk and open the top folder, beginning to recite the revenue and expenses of his Dubai projects. Right now, at surface level, it appears that he’s close to being in the red; after all, he’s building lavish condos that are selling for half what they’re worth. But once they’re finished, they’ll be used as safehouses for criminals escaping Eastern Europe.
I touch briefly on the low-income properties he just put up in the UK and how the head church in the area is so grateful they are willingly laundering his money via donations. Before I can get to the Black Orchid project, he interrupts.
“Down.”
“I—what?”
“Sit down.”
Hesitantly, I reach out to maneuver a leather chair, but Martynov points at the floor in front of him.
“Not there. Here.”
I swallow, and it feels like a stone is stuck in my throat. This time, a cold sweat comes on and the folder trembles in my hand.
“Put that down. If you make me tell you one more time you won’t stand back up, Miss Wolfe.”
With a quiet gasp, I drop the folder on his desk, take two steps to him, and drop to my knees, biting back the pain as I kneel before him. They’ll be bruised later no matter how thick my pencil skirt is.
Konstantin Martynov towers over me. I stare up, trying hard to ignore the fact that my nose could graze his inner thigh and the slight bulge that always makes my mouth water.
“Miss Wolfe.” He reaches out. His fingers and thumb wrap around my jaw, squeezing just enough for it to be uncomfortable. “I hired you at the behest of your manager, when my last accountant was unfortunately deemed…dispensable. I can tell you that what she was fired for was nowhere near as grievous as what you’ve been doing,zo´lotse.So, explain to me why I shouldn’t throw a chair through that window and have your delectable little body follow it to break apart on the street below.”
The breath catches in my throat. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry, and tears gather at the corners of my eyes.
This is it.
But… something catches in the back of my mind.
Did he say ‘delectable’?
Twisting my fingers together to hide their trembling, I try to ignore the pool of desire that rushes to my core. Ishould notbe turned on right now, not when one of the most dangerous men in the world is threatening to kill me. Even if his thumb is stroking reassuringly along my jaw.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The words sound brittle, weak. Mr. Martynov smiles. He reaches into the hidden pocket of his suit jacket and removes papers folded in thirds. Before he’s even dropped them in front of me, I know what they are.
“It seems you’ve made an error. Here.”
He nudges the papers with his foot, as if pointing, but it’s performative and he doesn’t have to make his point—I know exactly which line item on the account he’s talking about.
Exactly what error.
Because it isn’t an error.
“And another one.”
Another paper flutters to the ground.
“Last month. And the month before that.”
Despite it all I can’t help the flash of defiance that I know shows in my eyes.
His own narrows when he notices. Was he expecting me to grovel?
I should; I should beg. I should slit my own throat right here, because a man like Konstantin Martynov won’t let anyone get away with this.