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I think that last part is a lie. Or, at least, that Mila would do anything to feel as if she could accept something for free. But I can see in her face that she’s not going to back down.
This isn’t a fight that I’ll win tonight.
I nod, taking a step back. There’s a back door out of this room, and I intend to take it when I leave, but I find that I don’t want to leave her just yet. All the same, I need to.
There’s nothing else to be said here, and anything further will only make the situation worse.
“Call me when you’re ready, then.” I turn to leave, and I’m almost certain that I hear her let out a soft, shuddering breath behind me as I go.
I stride swiftly towards the waiting SUV, wanting to be home and in my own bed. But just as I reach it, another figure steps out of the darkness, blocking my way.
“I’m in no mood,” I murmur curtly. “Move.”
“I will. Once we’ve spoken.” The voice cuts through the darkness, thick with a Russian accent, and the man steps into the light to my left.
I recognize him immediately. One of the Bratva, a brigadier for their pakhan, a brute of a man who has caused problems for us before. Their family, the Chekov Bratva, wants a piece of Campano territory.
We’ve long kept them out of it. But ever since our father died and Dante took over, they’ve pressed harder.
“Your brother turned down a meeting with the pakhan again.” The man—Egor, if I remember his name correctly—growls it. “This is an insult.”
“That’s not my business.” I take another step forward, but he blocks my path again.
“I am making it your business. You handle the shipments, yes?”
“Sometimes.” I let out a sharp breath, my irritation rising quickly. The night has been difficult enough without adding this to the collection of problems I’m dealing with. “But my brother is the don, not me. If there is an issue with Dante, take it up with Dante.”
“You would like to be don, yes?” A keen knowledge flashes in his eyes. Where he’s getting his information from, I have no idea, but it’s not the largest of leaps to make. I handle a great deal of the business, especially the illegal side. It’s not hard to imagine that I would want more power than I currently possess.
“My family is more important to me than a title.” My voice is curt and sharp. “I’m sure you understand that, as a man belonging to a crime family yourself. If your pakhan has an issue with Dante, they can work it out themselves. Good night.”
This time, when I push past Egor, he lets me go. But I have a feeling this won’t be the last I see of him.
Dante’s efforts to pull us out of the drug trade allowed them to slip in, to find a stronger foothold. Now that we’ve delved back into that underworld at Fontana’s bidding, it won’t be so easy to remove the infestation of the Russians.
I close my eyes as I slide into the back of the SUV, willing one night of peace into existence. One night where it doesn’t feel as if my responsibilities, my good sense, and my desires are at war with one another.
Since I’ve met Mila, I’ve begun to wonder if I’ll ever really have a night of peace, ever again.
Mila
I’ve never been as confused by anything as I am by my feelings for Lorenzo.
I wake up the morning that I’m meant to meet him flooded with an equal amount of resentment and anticipation—two feelings that I’ve come to closely associate with him. Resentment, because he continues to ignore the offer that I know he wants—that by now, it should be clear we both want—and anticipation, because I want to see him again.
The anticipation is tinged with nervousness, too, after what happened in the back room of the Rosebud.
My face flushes with heat, remembering it. I’ve faked an orgasm while grinding on a man before—with Alfio, with other customers at the club who I knew would tip more if I pretended to be overcome with genuine pleasure while dancing for them—but it’s never been real.
I never would have imagined it could be. But in that moment?—
A different kind of heat crawls over my skin. It felt good. So good, better than any other orgasm I’ve ever had. It was erotic and filthy in the best way, grinding on his clothed lap in nothing but my lingerie, using him like a toy, while I rode him to an orgasm. I knew, the whole time, that I should stop.
And I couldn’t.
I had wanted his control to break. For him to feel me shuddering on top of him, drenching his suit trousers with my arousal, and snap. I had wanted him to put me on my back on that couch and fuck me, hard and fast and desperate, the way I’ve imagined him now a dozen times or more with my fingers buried inside myself.
I’ve never masturbated as often as I have in the weeks since I met him. I’ve never felt the urge to. But every morning in the shower, I can’t stop my hands from straying, the ache that he causes flooding me until it feels unbearable if I don’t come.
