“It does to me.”
The truth of it surprises us both.
She nods, swallowing hard. “I won’t let you down.”
I watch her for a long moment, something unfamiliar stirring in my chest. Curiosity. Interest. A sense of…responsibility?
“I don’t know why,” I say finally, more to myself than to her, “but something tells me you won’t.”
She offers a small, hopeful smile and I can’t help but notice the soft creases on her lips, the fine delicate curves of her face and the little birthmark on the upper left side of her mouth.
Cut it out, Andrei. She’s only eighteen.I checked her file. She’s just graduated high school and wasn’t sure what she wanted to do long-term, my team thought she would be a good fit—knowing how quickly I go through assistants.
“Get to work,” I say, my voice coming our rather curtly.
She thanks me quietly again then backs out of my office like she’s afraid of disturbing the air. I watch her retreat to her desk through the glass wall, shoulders still tense, movements careful. She sits, smooths her skirt, and stares at her computer like it holds the secrets of the universe.
I don’t linger on it. I can’t afford to. I have a pile of files to attend to. I sit behind my desk and open the folder that the headof accounting dropped off earlier, thick with quarterly reports and neatly tabbed sections, trying to shake my young, beautiful assistant from my mind.
You’re eight years older than her, for fucks sake. Get it together.
Numbers calm me. They don’t lie. They don’t fidget or apologize or look at me like I’ve just handed them a second chance they don’t deserve.
At least, they’re not supposed to…
I scan revenue first. Then expenses. Margins look healthy…too healthy. I slow down, narrowing my eyes as I cross-reference line items. A familiar itch starts between my shoulder blades.
Something isn’t right.
I scan the shipping manifests next. I pull up the digital logs on my screen, flipping between documents, comparing dates, vessel names, container counts. That’s when I see it… Three containers listed on the ship manifest. Same vessel. Same route. Same week.
They’re not on the financials.
I sit back slightly, my jaw locking up.
Containers don’t move for free. They’re paid for, insured, logged, tracked down to the last seal number.
Unless someone doesn’t want them to be.
I dig deeper, pulling the shipping logs. Container contents are usually summarized by codes, weights, origin points.
Those three containers aren’t there.
Not misfiled. Not mislabeled.
They’re missing.
A cold chill settles in my spine.
I pick up the phone and dial the dockyard directly.
“It’s Popov,” I say when the line connects.
“Yes, sir,” Kevin Herd, the yard manager replies immediately. “Everything alright?”
“Walk me through the last shipment on the Volkov Star,” I say. “Specifically the three containers loaded at Pier Seven.”
There’s a pause. Papers rustle on his end.