Eleanor Thorne was practically vibrating with excitement. Alessandro Volkov had barely let her finish the third slide of her presentation on the Caravaggio sketch, yet his decision was instantaneous and final.
"It's a fine piece," Alessandro stated, leaning back in his chair, his dark eyes never quite leaving Elara, who was still wrapped in the heavy, unfamiliar luxury of his cashmere throw. "A worthy addition to my collection. The price is acceptable."
Eleanor inhaled sharply. "Mr. Volkov, are you—are you sure? We can finalize the paperwork next week—"
Alessandro cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. He glanced at the portfolio resting next to Elara. "I am certain. And I prefer efficiency." He reached inside his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a checkbook that looked impossibly expensive. With a smooth, practiced hand, he scribbled a series of numbers that made Eleanor's eyes widen to saucers. Ten million dollars. Just like that.
"Here," Alessandro said, sliding the check across the polished mahogany. "Consider the transaction complete. The delivery details can be handled by your team and my security director later today."
Eleanor snatched the check, her usual professional composure completely shattered. "Mr. Volkov, this is… phenomenal. We are so honored! Elara, pack up the materials, we need to leave immediately and get this to the bank!"
Elara was already moving to gather the portfolio, eager to escape the suffocating intensity of the room, when Alessandro's voice stopped them both.
"Kindly stay for a moment, Ms. Vance."
The request was gentle, almost polite, but his tone held the undeniable weight of command. It wasn't a question; it was a clear statement that she was not dismissed.
Elara froze. Her heart, which had just begun to slow its frantic rhythm, quickened instantly, slamming against her ribs. She glanced at Eleanor, who, still dizzy from the ten-million-dollar transaction, seemed ready to obey any order from her now-favorite client.
"Of course, Mr. Volkov," Eleanor chirped. "I'll just step out and coordinate the transfer of funds. Elara, wait here for Mr. Volkov." She practically fled the room, leaving Elara alone with the mafia boss.
The silence descended, heavy and charged. Elara, pale and visibly trembling, clutched the cashmere throw tighter around her.
Alessandro rose from his chair, a slow, predatory movement. He walked around the table and didn't sit down, choosing instead to lean against the edge of the mahogany desk, putting him exactly level with her, but close. Too close.
"I find myself curious, Elara Vance," he began, his voice dropping to that low, intimate murmur he used only for her. "Tell me about yourself. You don't look like the typical gallery assistant."
Elara's mind was racing. He was a terrifying, rich stranger. She knew she should be guarded, invent some details. But the sheer dominance of his gaze, the chilling knowledge that this man likely knew everything about her already, made her feel helplessly honest. Her innocence was a barrier, but her fear was an open book.
"I… I just moved to the city," she stammered, twisting her fingers in the soft wool. "I graduated from NYU this spring. Art History. I'm from upstate New York, sir."
A genuine smile—the first one she had seen—tilted the corner of his mouth. It was a beautiful, devastating flash of warmth that somehow made him look even more dangerous. "Upstate. Quiet, ordered. A long way from here."
He knew she was telling the truth. He had already researched her, of course. He knew her clean background, her lack of connections, her vulnerable isolation in the city. Her honesty only confirmed his findings, making her seem even more appealingly fragile to him.
As he was speaking, Elara, trying to find a comfortable position in the huge chair, accidentally shifted her leg. Her knee brushed lightly against his knee where he leaned against the table.
It was the briefest of contacts, yet it sent a sharp, electric shock through her. Her breath hitched, and she yanked her leg back as if burned, her face instantly heating crimson. She dared not look up.
Alessandro's low chuckle filled the silent room. It was rich, dark, and filled with private amusement.
"Careful, bambina. We wouldn't want a scandal."
He straightened up, the moment of physical contact clearly satisfying him. "I imagine a train ride back to the East Village will take you at least an hour during this rush. That would be unpleasant."
He made the next statement not as a question, but as a conclusion to an internal debate. "I will drive you home."
Elara looked up, startled. "Oh! No, thank you, Mr. Volkov. Really. I'm happy to take the subway. It's no trouble at all." She tried to sound firm, but her voice wobbled weakly.
"No, I don't think you are," he countered smoothly, stepping away from the desk. He didn't raise his voice, yet the words brooked no argument. "I found your presence here today… enjoyable. And I have some business downtown. It will be better than the subway for you."
It wasn't a choice. It was an escort. He was taking her, not asking her. Sensing her rising panic,
Alessandro's expression softened, the coldness lifting just for her. "Come, Elara. Do not fear me."
She followed him.
The car was waiting downstairs—a black, sleek Maserati, long and silently expensive. Elara expected a driver in a uniform, but Alessandro opened the driver door himself.
He drove.
Settling into the plush leather seat felt like falling into a cloud. The scent of new leather and his distinct cologne wrapped around her. She was so flustered, so consumed by the sheer terror and thrill of sitting beside this man who owned ten million dollar paintings and ruled hidden empires, that she forgot the most basic safety step.
Alessandro slid into the driver's seat. He turned the key, but before he pulled away from the curb, he glanced at her. His eyes darkened with sudden, gentle concern.
"Your belt, Elara."
She looked down, realizing her mistake. She fumbled clumsily for the seatbelt, her trembling hands missing the latch.
With an impatient but incredibly tender sigh, Alessandro leaned over her.
The movement was slow, deliberate, and devastatingly intimate. His chest was inches from her face, his hard shoulder brushing her ear. The heat radiating off his body was overwhelming, and Elara's breath hitched in a tiny gasp. She could see the dark stubble on his jaw, the thick column of his neck, the casual, deadly confidence in the set of his shoulders.
He found the buckle easily, pulling the strap across her body, and securing the latch with a soft, final click. For a moment, he paused, his face lingering close, his eyes holding hers in the dim light of the garage. It was a silent, intense invasion of her space, a soft claim.
Then, he straightened, put the car into gear, and pulled into the chaotic flow of New York traffic.
The drive was silent, punctuated only by the low rumble of the Maserati's engine and the distant city noise. Elara, tightly held by the seatbelt Alessandro had secured, stared out the window, her mind racing too fast to form a coherent thought. She felt safe, undeniably safe, beside him, but the feeling was mixed with a terrifying sense of being captured.
When they reached her East Village building, Alessandro pulled the car smoothly to the curb.
"Here you are, Elara Vance," he said, his voice soft, almost regretful that the journey was over. He didn't try to touch her or prolong the moment further. He simply waited.
Elara fumbled with the handle and practically tumbled out of the car. She managed a hurried, flustered, "Th-thank you, Mr. Volkov," before racing up the steps and into the safety of her building without looking back.
Alessandro watched the door close behind her. He let out a slow, satisfied breath, the barest hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He ran a large hand over the empty space on the passenger seat where she had been.
Cute. He thought. He knew she was terrified, but he also saw the small spark of forbidden excitement in her eyes. The innocent little art historian was his now, and the game had just begun.