My Billionaire Boss Was Seconds From Assassination — Until I Corrected His Translator In Flawless Siberian

Part 2

I matched his guttural Siberian pitch perfectly, letting the harsh consonants roll off my tongue with native precision.

I told Craig exactly what the phrase meant, warning him that the Russian lieutenant by the window had his hand tightly wrapped around a suppressed weapon.

The boardroom instantly erupted into sheer chaos.

Before the mercenary could pull his gun, Brian Evans drew his own sidearm and shot the Russian in the shoulder.

Weapons were drawn on all sides in a fraction of a second.

Craig stood up slowly from his heavy chair, kicking it back without ever breaking his intense eye contact with me.

Greg Markov was visibly rattled, realizing his secret assassination order had just been flawlessly translated by a chubby woman holding a duster.

Craig didn’t look at me with the quiet disgust I was so used to enduring from wealthy men.

He took in my flushed, sweaty face with a sudden, burning appraisal.

He ordered his last interpreter out of the building and walked slowly toward me.

I shrank back against the wall, terrified he was going to execute me.

Instead, he stopped inches away, his imposing frame radiating heat and the scent of expensive cologne.

He asked me how many languages I spoke, and I whispered that I knew eight fluently.

Dan Higgins scoffed loudly, calling me a glorified maid who had merely guessed a lucky phrase.

Craig completely ignored his security chief, asking me to translate the triad representative’s earlier insult.

I shifted uncomfortably before revealing the comment about Craig being a loud gecko scrambling on the walls of his father’s legacy.

The triad liaison across the room visibly paled as a dark, lethal chuckle escaped Craig’s throat.

He turned back to the massive table and personally pulled out the heavy leather chair right beside his own.

He ordered me to drop the mop and sit down, casually announcing to the room that I had just received a promotion.

I peeled off my wet yellow rubber gloves and walked toward the seat of honor.

Craig leaned over, his warm breath sending an involuntary shiver down my spine, and told me to translate every lie and every hesitation.

He quietly promised that if I got him through the night alive, I would never have to be invisible again.

For the next three hours, I served as a maestro conducting a high-stakes symphony of criminal diplomacy.

I caught a French arms dealer attempting to hide tariffs in obscure Marseille slang.

I exposed a secret side deal being negotiated in an ancient hacker dialect, completely severing the triad’s access to the Brooklyn docks.

By sunrise, Craig had secured complete control over the eastern seaboard, and the rival syndicates left utterly defeated.

When Dan Higgins aggressively suggested they put a bullet in me because I knew too much, Craig crossed the room in a blur.

He slammed his security chief against the wall by his throat.

He squeezed Dan’s windpipe, swearing to cut the man’s tongue out if he ever looked at me with anything less than absolute reverence.

Craig dropped the choking man and walked back over to me, gently taking my calloused hand in his.

If the most dangerous man in the city offered you a place by his side after a lifetime of being entirely unseen, would you have taken his hand?