Page 8 of Sexting My Bratva Boss

“Well, that’s because I don’t exactly enjoy talking about Excel spreadsheets with Jeanette, Grace, and Duscha.”

She gives me an apologetic smile and steps up to the curb to flag a taxi. Mr. Martynov isn’t an idiot; his stronghold is located on the far side of the city, away from the Italian section and Sottovoce—the bar I met Sal at.

“Do you really think Duscha had something to do with getting you in trouble?”

“Where to?” the driver interrupts as we slide into the backseat of the cab. Chrissy gives him a curt response, just enough time for me to process how to respond. She knows that Mr. Martynov wasnothappy with me, but I couldn’t tell her why.

Chrissy’s been my best friend since I started as a head accountant for Martynov Global Holdings a year ago. Before that, I was the accountant for one of Mr. Martynov’s construction offshoots—a grimy job that Sal got me not too longafter my grandmother died, when I was unmoored and scared I’d lose her house.

Turns out I did anyway.

Forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window, I stare up at the Obsidian Spire—Martynov’s NYC headquarters and the place we work, all the way up on the 28th floor.

Chrissy nudges me with concern.

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I think so, yeah. I… made an error in an account, and Duscha must have caught it and told him. She gave me such a shit-eating smirk when I came out of his office.”

I wrap my arms around myself, remembering the fear and desire coursing through me as I walked stiffly back to my desk. My ankle still pulsed with a bruise from tripping, and then the strain of kneeling before him.

Submitting.

“She’s always been a bitch,” Chrissy mutters. “Although I have no idea why she’s snooping in your assignments. I wonder if she’s been in the rest of ours, too.”

The cab cuts through the back streets as Chris continues to chat, mostly complaining about the complexity of handling the Eastern European accounts and the headaches she’s been getting at night.

This is what I like most about her; Chrissy lets me just… exist. It was exactly what I needed after Nana passed, and it was part of what made me give in to Sal’s pursuit as well. It was so easy to give up control then when I was grieving. So easy to let someone tell me what to do, or to let them talk about their day mindlessly as I floated in the foggy loss.

But Nana has been gone for a long time now.

And it’s hitting me just how dangerous what Sal has me doing is; just how close I’ve come to burning up like a moth in a flame.

The only thing keeping me safe is the fact that Mr. Martynov wants to toy with me.

And that he wants an answer as to why I would steal close to $50K. The thing is, he’s right; normally I’m not that stupid. I did it because Ihaveto.

Thepingof Chrissy paying our fare rouses me, and I follow her out of the cab and onto the street. It’s early fall and even though the trees aren’t changing color yet, it’s darker earlier. A chilly breeze makes me shiver as we hurry into Sottovoce.

Inside isn’t much better; Sottovoce is dimly lit, a classy wine bar of leather and velvet, whispers, and trysts. The first time Sal brought me here I found it exciting and took Chrissy here a few times after work… before I realized that this is actually a front for Giuseppe Sartorre, Mr. Martynov’s competition, and leader of the Italian mob.

“Miss Wolfe,” the bartender greets us, “Miss Lin.”

He gives Chrissy those Italian stallion bedroom eyes, and I almost roll mine, then hope to God she isn’t actually falling for it.

The last thing I need is forherto get mixed up between crime syndicates, too, since I can barely keep myself safe.

“Two glasses of white, please,” I snap, and he eyes me up darkly.

“Mr. Imperi isn’t here tonight, Miss Wolfe. But I can let him know you stopped by.”

His words are cold.

They make my heart stutter.

I don’t want to see Sal tonight, not just because I’m pissed at the danger he’s put me in.

I’m also… scared of him.

And I hate that.