Page 168 of Sexting the Boss

Mother is safe now—relocated to a friend’s vineyard in Provence, surrounded by old stone and men with rifles who owe me more than they can repay.

She called meoverprotective. I called it arithmetic. One less soft target for Lev to exploit.

Oleg is still in recovery, stapled together and cursing the nurses in three languages. He tried to stand when I visited. He nearly blacked out.

I told him to stay down or I’d sedate him myself.

He laughed, then asked if I’d heard from “the girl.”

I changed the subject.

Because I have heard—hourly reports, discreet photographs, timestamps—proof that Sasha is alive, commuting, eating toast, hating morning meetings.

“She went to a hospital last week?” I ask Roman.

“Yes, we believe she accompanied her roommate,” Roman says noncommittally. “She looks fine otherwise, we couldn’t tell if something is up with her.”

The answer isn’t enough, but I know pushing too hard would alert her to my men’s presence. And she would hate that.

My men tail her at a distance she never notices.

Lev must believe I’ve let her go. The world must believe it.

But I can’t stop watching.

Every blurry photo of her in a subway car feels like oxygen.

Two days ago, one of my top commanders, Tyson, was found dead in broad daylight, a Bratva coin lodged in his teeth.

Roman says he’s playing a longer game now. That Lev wants to gut me from the inside out, not just take me out. I believe him. It’s exactly what I’d do if I were that twisted.

So I play my part.

Keep Sasha far, far away.

Make Lev think I’ve cut her loose. That she doesn’t matter.

But she does.

More than she should.

She’s working. She’s healthy. She’s walking alone most of the time, headphones in, lost in thought.

One of my men reported that she cried during her lunch break last week. He said it like he was apologizing for telling me.

Today, I’m back in the office, tie knotted too tight, eyes burning from lack of sleep. Roman is giving me updates, but I’m barely listening.

I just need ten minutes of silence.

Ten minutes to remember why I still bother pretending this is just a corporation and not a kingdom built on blood.

“…so I told them, if they keep dragging their feet on the Rotterdam shipment, we’ll reroute through Antwerp. It’s not ideal, but it’s cleaner than getting shaken down in Marseille again,” Roman says as he flips through his notes, pacing casually across my office.

“Also, I don’t know if this is important or not but I saw Nina hanging out with one of Sasha’s friends. I saw them at a restaurant three days ago.”

“Who?” I ask, barely even there.

“That guy Ryan.”

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