Dominic POV
I found her crying in the bathroom at 3 AM.
She didn't know I could hear her through the walls. Didn't know the penthouse security system carried sound to my office. Soft, broken sobs that she was trying to muffle.
I should have felt nothing. She was a tool. A useful object. Tools didn't have feelings that mattered.
But my hand hovered over the door handle for five full minutes before I walked away.
Weakness. That's what my father would call it.
I poured vodka and tried to forget the sound.
Morning came too fast. I hadn't slept—again. Three days without real sleep, running on coffee and spite. But that's how empires stayed standing. You closed your eyes, and someone took everything.
I found Isla in the kitchen, staring at the coffee maker like it was a bomb.
"It makes coffee automatically," I said. "Press the green button."
She jumped, spinning around. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair messy from sleep. She looked young. Fragile.
Breakable.
"I'm sorry," she stammered. "I didn't know if I was allowed—"
"Allowed?" The word tasted bitter. "You live here now. You can make coffee."
She pressed the button with shaking hands. We stood in silence while the machine hummed and hissed.
"We need to discuss your duties," I said.
Her shoulders tensed. "Okay."
"Sit."
We moved to the dining table—too big for two people, but my father had insisted on buying the biggest of everything. Show strength. Display wealth. Make them fear your power.
I slid a folder across to her. "These are intercepted messages from the Kozlov family. Russian mafia operating in Brighton Beach. They're planning something, but the code is complex. You'll translate and decode."
She opened the folder, scanning the pages. Her Russian was flawless—I'd tested her last night with documents I already had translated.
"This one mentions a shipment," she said quietly. "Coming through Newark port. Thursday night."
Smart. She caught it immediately.
"Good. You'll translate all communications I intercept. Every word accurate, every meaning clear. If you lie, if you change even one phrase, I'll know. Understand?"
"Yes."
"Second duty." I leaned back. "I attend many events. Galas, charity functions, business dinners. I need a date who looks innocent. Sweet. Unthreatening. You'll smile, stay close, and make me appear respectable."
Her jaw tightened. "You want me to be your fake girlfriend."
"I want you to be whatever I need you to be." The words came out harder than intended. "You're my cover. My camouflage. Nobody suspects a man with a girl like you on his arm."
Something flashed in her eyes. Anger? No—hurt.
Why did that bother me?
"Third rule," I continued. "No questions about my business. No curiosity about who I meet, what I do, where I go. You translate, you smile, you obey. That's all."
"I understand," she whispered.
"Do you?" I stood, moving around the table. She flinched but didn't run. "Because you were in my office yesterday. Looking at things you shouldn't see. Asking about Marcus Chen."
"I wasn't—I didn't mean—"
"Stay out of my office." Each word fell like a blade. "Stay out of my business. Stay in your lane, and you survive. Cross lines, and consequences happen."
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she nodded.
I should have felt satisfied. She was learning her place. Accepting her role.
Instead, I felt like I'd kicked a puppy.
"Your mother's surgery is scheduled for next week," I said, softening my tone slightly. "Dr. Chen is optimistic. The tumor is operable."
Her head snapped up. "Surgery? They said she was too weak—"
"She wasn't getting proper nutrition. We've fixed that. She's stronger now." I paused. "You can visit her this afternoon. Viktor will drive you."
Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Thank you."
Two words that shouldn't have affected me. But they did.
I turned away. "Don't thank me. This is business. You're earning your mother's care with your service."
"Still," she said quietly. "Thank you."
That afternoon, I watched security footage of her visiting Elena. The way she held her mother's hand. The relief on her face when Elena smiled.
Love. Pure, simple, devastating love.
I'd never had that. My father taught me love was manipulation. My mother abandoned me at six. Every woman I'd touched left before morning because I told them to.
But Isla loved her mother enough to sell herself to a monster.
What must that feel like?
My phone buzzed. Text from Viktor: Marcus Chen spotted two blocks from the hospital. He's following her.
Ice flooded my veins.
I pulled up the security feed. There—Marcus Chen in a gray jacket, watching the hospital entrance from a coffee shop across the street.
He was hunting her. And he had no idea he was hunting my property.
I called Viktor. "Don't let Chen approach her. If he gets within ten feet, stop him. I don't care how."
"Copy that, boss."
I watched the screen as Isla exited the hospital, smiling for the first time since I'd taken her. Genuinely happy because her mother would live.
Marcus started walking toward her.
Viktor intercepted smoothly, blocking his path with casual precision. Words were exchanged. Marcus looked furious but backed off.
Smart man. For an FBI agent trying to infiltrate my empire, he knew when he was outmatched.
But he'd found her. Despite changing her phone, her address, her entire life—he'd found her in less than three days.
That meant someone was feeding him information.
Someone in my organization was a traitor.
Isla returned at sunset, still smiling. It transformed her face—made her beautiful instead of just pretty.
"Mom looks so much better," she said, actually meeting my eyes. "She has color in her cheeks again. She was laughing. I haven't seen her laugh in months."
"Good." The word came out rougher than intended. "She'll be strong for surgery."
"I don't know how to repay you—"
"You already are." I cut her off. "First event is tomorrow night. Museum gala. Very important people. You'll wear the dress in your closet and stay at my side all evening."
Her smile faded. Right. Back to reality. Back to being my tool.
"Okay," she said softly.
She turned to leave, but I stopped her. "Isla."
"Yes?"
"Did anyone approach you today? At the hospital? Anyone try to talk to you?"
Confusion crossed her face. "No. Why?"
She didn't know Marcus had been there. Didn't know he was hunting her.
Good. That made things simpler.
"No reason. Just be careful. My enemies would love to use you against me."
She nodded and disappeared down the hallway.
I pulled up the security footage again, freezing on Marcus's face. Determined. Obsessed.
He wanted her back. Wanted to use her to destroy me.
Over my dead body.
But the real question burned in my mind: How had he tracked her so fast?
I pulled up personnel files. Forty-seven people knew about Isla. Forty-seven potential traitors.
My phone rang. Unknown number.
I answered. "Yes?"
"Dominic Volkov." The voice was digitally distorted. "We need to talk about the girl."
Every muscle in my body tensed. "Who is this?"
"Someone who knows what Isla Monroe really is. Who her father was. What she's worth." A pause. "You think you have a translator. But you have the key to the entire Bratva empire. And everyone wants that key."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, ice flooding my veins.
What did they mean—who her father was?
I pulled up Isla's background check again. Mother: Elena Monroe, Russian immigrant. Father: unknown.
Unknown.
I'd accepted that. Single mother, secret past, common enough.
But what if it wasn't common?
What if Isla Monroe wasn't just a waitress I'd picked up by accident?
What if she was something far more dangerous?
I looked down the hallway where she'd disappeared.
Who the hell was living in my penthouse?