I have a lot on my mind. I should be thinking about the docks, Boris Petrov and the mess he’s making in Queens, trying to slip his filth into our containers. But all I can see is the way thoseblack leggings moved. The way the fabric stretched tight over her ass every time her foot hit the gravel. The way her thighs rubbed together, the friction practically audible in the morning silence.
This is crazy.
I adjust myself roughly, wincing at the friction of my pants. It’s pathetic. I’m thirty years old, a man who has killed more people than I can count, and I’m standing in my brother’s hallway with a hard-on like a stupid teenager because a woman looked at me with enough heat to start a fire. It’s not even just the look. It’s the memory of her nipples, hard and peaking against the thin fabric of her tank top, scraping against my chest while I pinned her. I can still feel the vibration of her heart hammering against mine.
Get over yourself.
I push open the double oak doors to the study without knocking. I need to get my head back in the game before I lose it entirely.
Artyom is at his desk, staring at a stack of manifests that probably detail enough weapon shipments to start a small war. He doesn’t look up immediately. He’s in his "Pakhan" mode—cold, calculating, and completely detached. He’s probably figuring out which of our captains needs to be made an example of this week.
"You’re late," Artyom says without lifting his eyes. He finally looks up, and his gaze flatlines. He scans my face, my disheveled hair, and the way I’m breathing. "And you look like you’ve been in a street fight."
"I was running," I say, pacing the length of the Persian rug. I can’t sit down. The pressure in my gut is too high. If I sit, I might fucking snap. "I’ll get straight to business. Boris is moving faster than we thought. He’s trying to bribe the foreman at Pier 17. He wants a way to move his cargo without going through our books. He’s testing the fences, Artyom."
Artyom sets his pen down with a deliberate click. He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Oh, no need to rush, brother. Before we get straight to business, I’d like to know exactly what happened last night, I heard you almost knocked out a man in front of the mayor and half the donor pool. What had you so mad?”
Fuck. I knew I couldn’t escape this. I clench my jaws hard.
"He was touching her, Artyom. He was talking about her like she was used merchandise. The bastard was asking for death, I was being merciful." I stop at the window, staring out at the gray, misty lawn. My knuckles still feel tight, itching for the impact of a jaw. "There was no fucking way I’d let him get away with that. I gave him a well needed correction.”
Artyom lets out a short, dry laugh that sounds more like a bark. "Correction? You told me you had everything under control just a few days ago. You said the girl was handled. And suddenly I’m hearing you’re turning galas into bloodbaths over a shoulder touch."
"I am handling it," I growl.
"Uh-huh." Artyom stands up, walking around the desk. He looks at me with that annoying, older-brother smirk—the one that says he knows exactly how much of a mess I am. "Because from where I’m standing, this 'fragile female' has gotten way under your skin. You’re wound so tight I can hear your teeth grinding from across the room."
"She hasn't gotten under anything," I snap, turning to face him. “I’m in control of my fucking feelings."
"Oh? So then you’re just running for running's sake?" Artyom chuckles. "You’re just out there in the woods at six in the morning, chasing her around because you’re worried about her cardio? Don't bullshit me, Mikhail. You’re obsessed.”
"Let’s talk about the important things," I grunt, trying to deflect. The word 'obsessed' hits too close to the truth. "Boris is trying to use our docks for trafficking. We move steel and powder. We’ve stayed clean of the human trade for a reason. If we let Petrov bring that filth into our territory, the feds will be all over us before the end of the month."
Artyom’s amusement vanishes, replaced by the hard, cold logic of our business. He nods slowly. "We’re on the same page there. I told Boris three years ago that if I caught one of his crates with a heartbeat in it, I’d sink his entire fleet. I meant it then, and I mean it now. He thinks because you married his daughter, the rules have changed. He thinks he’s got an inside track."
"He doesn't," I say. I think about the way Irina looked when I told her she was mine. The way she wanted to spit in my facebut couldn't stop her body from reacting to mine. "If anything, having her here makes me want to crush him more. He treated her like a piece of shit. He thinks everyone is as cheap as he is."
I pace back toward the desk, the conversation finally flowing into the territory that’s been rotting in the back of my mind. "It’s not just the docks, Artyom. There’s something else. Something about the girl."
Artyom raises an eyebrow.
"There’s a scar," I say, and the word feels like a heavy weight dropping into the room. "I saw a mark on her last night. A surgical incision. She tried to lie to my face about it. But she was shaking. Her pulse was jumping under my thumb."
Artyom’s expression shifts. The mockery is gone, replaced by the clinical focus of a man who looks for weaknesses in every alliance. "Boris doesn't give anything away for free, Mikhail. We know this. If he finally handed over his 'prized' daughter after six months of you hunting her, there’s a reason. Is she a spy, or is she the bait for a trap we haven't seen yet?"
"I don't know yet. But I’m going to find out. I’m going through every scrap of paper the Petrovs have ever filed, every medical record, every travel log. If there’s a man tied to that mark—someone she’s protecting or someone she’s afraid of—I’ll find him. And I’ll make sure he never draws another breath."
"Don't make it personal, Mikhail," Artyom warns, stepping closer. "This is a business arrangement. The Petrov alliance isthe only thing keeping the Italians from pushing into the North Side. If you start a war over a girl’s old secrets, you’ll lead this family into a meat grinder we aren't ready for."
"It’s both," I snap, my voice echoing in the quiet study. "She’s in my house. She’s carrying my name. Anything that touches her touches me. That makes it personal."
Artyom watches me for a long beat, his eyes searching mine. He knows that once I put my teeth into something, I don't let go until it’s dead or broken. "Vladimir is leaning toward Boris," he says, shifting the subject abruptly. "Our own father is meeting with Petrov’s people at that warehouse in Jersey. He wants to go back to the old ways—the ways Boris likes. We’re moving the weapons storage from the factory tonight. I want you to handle the logistics. No mistakes."
"Fine," I say. The prospect of a job is exactly what I need to clear the fog of Irina from my brain.
I leave the study and head back toward our suite. I’m moving fast, my boots loud and rhythmic on the hardwood floors. I’m angry, I’m frustrated, and I’m still dealing with a half-hard-on that won't fucking quit. It’s a hell of a combination. It makes me feel dangerous, like a wire pulled too tight.
I push open the bedroom door, expecting to find her sitting by the window or pacing the floor. But the room is empty.
