"I don't need your buy-in. I have my own money."
"You have my money," he corrects, his eyes flashing as he looks at me. "And in that room, you are my wife. That means you follow my lead. Do you understand?"
"I understand," I say, though we both know I’m not built for obedience.
We arrive at the Brooklyn warehouse two hours later. The exterior is a derelict brick building overlooking the river, butthe interior has been converted into a high-end, underground casino.
Mikhail kills the engine. He turns to me, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, his thumb dragging across my lower lip.
"Don't make me regret this,dorogaya," he whispers.
"I won't," I say, my heart doing that wild, hopeful beat again.
We step out of the car. Mikhail wraps his arm around my waist, his palm hot against my silk dress, pulling me close until there isn't a single millimeter of air between us. He leads me through the heavy metal doors.
We walk into the casino and all eyes turns to us.
Well, shit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MIKHAIL
The second we step through the warehouse's heavy iron doors, every head in the room turns.
I fucking hate it. Normally I wouldn't care, but she’s with me, and every lingering gaze makes me want to tear this place down.
They’ve styled the massive space like an exclusive London speakeasy: dark wood, leather armchairs, and the heavy scent of cigars and expensive whiskey. A dozen men linger—Brooklyn’s hungry, rising underbelly, not the rotting legacy families who only talk of tradition.
And they’re staring at my wife.
I tighten my grip on Irina’s waist, my palm hot against the bare skin of her back. Her dark red silk slip dress clings like liquid, its low back exposing the pale skin I spent all morning markingwith my mouth. It’s dangerously short, showing off her legs, and the way the rich crimson catches the light makes my blood run hot.
I shouldn't have let her wear it.
"Mikhail," Vance says, stepping forward from the main poker table. He’s a block of a man, his thick arms covered in prison ink. His gaze drifts down to Irina, staying there a second too long. I’m going to fucking kill him. "I didn't think you’d bring company."
"She’s not company," I growl, my voice a low, warning rumble. "She’s my wife."
"Ah. The Petrov princess," Silas says, leaning back in his leather chair with a greasy smirk. He’s younger, sharp-featured, wearing a suit like he’s trying too hard. "I heard you found her in Mexico. Didn't realize she was allowed out of the house."
My hand drops to my side, fingers curling into a fist as I calculate how many teeth I can kick down his throat before his guards can even draw. Give me one wrong word, you bastard.
Konstantin steps into the light, hands in his pockets, his face a stone shield. "We're here to talk transit routes, Silas. Let's keep the focus where it belongs."
"Of course," Vance says, his eyes still tracking Irina’s hips. "Sit down, Mikhail. Fifty-grand buy-in. Let's see if the Morozovs still have the stomach for a real game after yesterday."
"My stomach is fine, Vance," I say, pulling out a chair for Irina near the table before taking my own seat. "Let's see if you're ready to lose."
She doesn’t sit. She stands behind my shoulder, her fingers resting lightly on the back of my chair. I can feel her heat, the scent of roses cutting through the heavy cigar smoke.
The game starts—a quiet war of attrition. Silas plays loud and aggressive, trying to bully the pot. Vance is steadier but greedy. Konstantin sits in the corner, sipping whiskey, watching the room like a hawk.
I’m holding a pair of jacks when the betting gets tight. Vance throws in ten grand. Silas raises ten more.
"He's baiting you, Vance," Irina says quietly. Her voice is a cool thread in the hot room. "He’s played the same check-raise pattern on the river since we sat down. He doesn't have the spade."
The table goes dead quiet.
