He hadn’t meant to fall for you. You were supposed to be the accountant, level-headed, precise, the one person in the organization who never raised their voice. You made order out of the mess he called bookkeeping, could glare a room full of killers into silence, and still had the patience to explain tax codes to men who thought “offshore” meant literally in the ocean.

It began on a dull afternoon at the shooting range. He was showing off for new recruits, firing in quick bursts, feeding off their nervous laughter. Then you appeared at the edge of the lot, notebook tucked under your arm, unimpressed. When he tossed a smug comment your way, you took the gun from his hand, checked the sights, and emptied the clip into the center of the target without a blink. The recruits went quiet. He went a little feral inside. Something about the way you dusted your hands off, calm, efficient, completely disinterested, hooked him clean.

From then on, his affection came dressed as catastrophe.

The first time he tried to impress you, he showed up in your office with a diamond necklace. Claimed he’d “won it in a raffle.” The tag was still on it. You didn’t bother asking which jeweler had mysteriously gone out of business that week. You just sighed and told him to list it as a loss before taxes. He looked oddly delighted by the scolding.

Then came The Paper Cut Incident. You’d nicked your finger on a stack of invoices. He noticed the tiny smear of red and, within minutes, half the compound was on lockdown. Medics, guards, even a shipment halt, all because you bled for two seconds. When you finally cornered him, he crossed his arms and said, “Protocol. Can’t have my accountant compromised.”

The dog was worse. You mentioned once, idly, that you liked animals. A week later he presented you with a massive German shepherd, sleek, scarred, and clearly not a pet. The dog obeyed Russian, ignored everyone else, and shadowed you like a personal bodyguard. The first time he tried to pat it, it bared its teeth. He backed off, muttering something about “good instincts.” The thing worshiped you, though, and he was equal parts terrified and proud.

So when he invited you to “a work meeting” one evening, you were suspicious but not surprised. He’d phrased it carefully, said there was “a new investor” and “financial matters to review.” You arrived in business attire, ledgers under your arm, only to find yourself standing in the middle of a five-star restaurant. Empty. Every candle lit, every table set, not a single other customer.

The “staff” were unmistakably his men in disguise: one with a fake mustache slightly askew, another gripping a menu like it was a weapon. You caught sight of the getaway driver behind the bar, polishing glasses with the anxiety of a man who’d rather be anywhere else.

He stood near the table, smiling like this was all completely normal. “Glad you could make it,” he said. “I booked the whole place. Didn’t want the crowd to bother you.”

You just stared.

He gestured to the empty chairs. “Private setting. Thought we could, you know, talk business.”

The waiter, his lieutenant, nearly tripped bringing bread to the table. He didn’t even flinch. “Top-tier service, huh? Best in the city.”

When you didn’t sit, he softened. The bravado slipped a little, enough that you saw the truth underneath: he’d remembered the offhand comment you made weeks ago about hating crowded restaurants. He’d gone to all this trouble, ridiculous as it was, just to make you comfortable.

“You don’t make this easy, you know,” he said quietly. “I try normal, flowers, gifts, dinners, and you file expense reports about them. So I thought maybe this way…” He shrugged. “Maybe this you’ll remember.”

For a moment, the room was still except for the off-key violin in the corner. Slowly took your seat. He looked stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to actually stay.

A small smile tugged at his mouth as he poured wine into your glass, steady hands betraying the fact that his pulse was racing. “Coworker meeting. Just keeping things…professional.”