Changes

CHAPTER 8

-OUTSMART THE DON-

PAMELA RADEVA'S POV

The lights in my office are off. My eyes sharpen, senses on high alert, as my left hand shoves the door handle down. Pushing the door wider, ears straining—catching the steady, rhythmic click of a pen tapping away.

I'd normally find it calming since I do the same with the tap of my fingers whenever my mind grapples with a tough problem. But now, my hand tightens around the gun in my dominant hand, finger set to pull the trigger at a moment's notice.

I flick on the lights quickly, irritated by the darkness that has been clouding my vision, and turn with my gun aimed at the source of the sound.

The rhythmic tapping continues, and my eyes lock onto a veined hand holding the pen. Its steady rhythm contrasting with the sharp lines of a freshly ironed merlot suit that hugs the rest of his muscular frame.

I exhale slowly, my tension easing when I see no weapon; as my eyes travel upward landing against his hair, dark yet effortlessly disheveled, that hung loosely around his face, molding onto his sharp features, brushing the collar like a shadow.

No one else is this polished, this meticulously groomed, except him...

Closing the door behind me, I tap my watch to activate the lock restriction. I can't risk anyone barging in during the next fragile seconds, no matter what's about to unfold.

Once the green light flashes, I turn to finally face him, with gun aimed to the floor. The clicking of the pen suddenly stops, leaving a silence that I instinctively fill with the imagined tapping of my fingers. But I keep my composure, determined not to reveal any hint of weakness in front of a superior.

His feet rest casually on my desk, displaying his polished black designer shoes. His body remains perfectly composed, but his red and indigo eyes, sharp and threatening, lock onto mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.

All the air seems to be sucked out of the room, and an even longer stretch of silence takes over.

He glances at his watch, a slow, deliberate motion, before his piercing eyes settle back on me, unblinking and intense.

"Do you know what differentiates dons from their subjects, Pamela?" His voice laces the room like a spider web. Invisible at first but one wrong move and you'd be caught inside of it.

That's why I don't entertain his rhetorical question, but leave him continue after he's done sizing me up with his penetrating gaze.

"Not everyone could handle the weight of leading with so much power and still stay sane. But, everyone wants a taste of that very power, and that's when the hierarchy loses its meaning."

I've witnessed the erosion of sanity he speaks of firsthand with Deva. It's been barely a week, yet she's been shattered beyond recognition, her once-resilient exterior now fraying to the core.

I resist the urge to clear my throat, locking eyes with him instead, showing no trace of a singular fear running inside of me.

"Now, do tell me, was knowing the secret don language empowering for you, Pamela?" His eyes darken, and a sinister smile spreads across his face, reaching up to his eyes.

I slipped up. A fucking big slip up—he knows.

Of course, he knows!

The cameras were broadcasting my every move straight to him.