Page 118 of Sexting the Boss

18

DAMIEN

I sitat the head of the long table in the war room—what Roman likes to call my private office tucked away in the basement of Zaitsev Industries.

Concrete walls. No windows. Signal blockers.

No one hears what happens down here.

Roman, Oleg, and two others from my team are seated around me, files spread out, laptop screens glowing. They’re waiting on me, but my head’s not fully in it.

It hasn’t been since I woke up this morning and reached for my phone expecting…what? A good morning text? From her?

Pathetic.

Still, it doesn’t stop the hollow pit that’s been gnawing at me since the other night.

I pull out my phone again, thumbing over the messages. Nothing.

I sent her a text yesterday—short, yeah—but it wasn’t like I was about to pour my goddamn heart out.

No reply.

I shove the phone face down on the table.

Roman clears his throat. “We found a partial print,” he says, tapping the photo on the screen. “Doesn’t match anyone in our internal database. But the way this guy moved…he knew the layout.”

Oleg glances up from his laptop. “So what’s the play? You want us sweeping the building?”

“Find out who it was. I want a name,” I say, voice low, clipped. “I don’t care how. Call every favor.”

Roman clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Don’t we already know?”

I lift my gaze to him. He doesn’t flinch.

I already suspected as much the second Roman texted me the update this morning. Lev’s name has been hovering like a storm cloud for weeks. I just didn’t think he’d be bold enough to come to my fucking home.

“He was in the apartment,” I say, my jaw tightening. “While she was there.”

“I still don’t get why now. He’s been a ghost for years,” Oleg says.

“Because Lev doesn’t let shit go,” I mutter. My throat feels dry. “Eighteen years he’s been waiting. Biding his time.”

Roman lets out a humorless laugh. “And here we thought he was dead.”

“He should’ve been,” I grit out, raking a hand through my hair. “My father put a price on his head before he died. Someone got paid, but clearly the job wasn’t finished.”

Oleg raises a brow. “So what’s his angle now? He still pissed you didn’t pull the trigger back then?”

I don’t answer. The image flashes in my head anyway—me, seventeen, standing in that frozen Moscow graveyard, Lev staring me down as I held the gun.

My father watching like it was a test.

It was. And I failed.

I let him run.

“He blames me for what happened to his father,” I say finally. “For the bullet that should’ve been mine but wasn’t. He’s here to settle the score.”

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