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Somewhere along the line, my hatred for Ivan took a back seat to my growing obsession for his oldest daughter, the one whose presence has tormented me day after day for the past two months that I’ve been watching her.
I know she has music lessons today. I know her first student is Javi Lopez, a smiley six-year-old who definitely has a crush on her. I already called the school this morning and pretended to be her father. I said she was sick and wouldn’t be able to teach today, not that I’m going to give her the satisfaction of knowing what I did.
I’ve watched her walk into the music school every single Saturday morning at eleven o’clock to teach little kids guitar and piano. After a while, I started to loiter outside of the school, catching glimpses of her with her students. I spent so long watching her from a distance, when I had the chance to see her up close and personal, I took it. I knew Dima would bust a nut if he knew what I was doing, how I was stalking his future wife, fantasizing about her at every turn.
I’ve fucked her six ways from Sunday in my mind.
But it wasn’t her body that captivated me. It was who she is as a person. Innocent, sweet, talented, and so damn enthusiastic about life. I’d forgotten what that last part was like. It has been a long time since I’ve felt anything but numbness about my bleak and meaningless existence. How could I feel anything when I have a selfish and self-serving brother-slash-boss who would cut anyone’s throat for a nickel and a news headline? He let me wander into the lion’s den, and then slammed the cage door shut.
So, yeah, part of me wants to take something from him.
A big part.
My self-control is waning.
But there are a lot of people in my family who would suffer if I did what I’d been relentlessly plotting for five long years while I was in prison. I don’t want to hurt them. I only want to hurt Dima.
Except screwing him over would put them in the line of fire, and knowing my brother, he’d be the one to hire the execution squad. To Dima, appearances are everything, and he will never let anyone outside of our inner circle ever see him in a vulnerable position. That would compromise the perception of power and control he’s been so careful to create.
Immediate death to anyone who fucks with said perception.
So instead of acting on the carnal impulses that fueled me for the better part of the past couple of months while in pursuit of the princess, I focus on getting the hell away from Miami.
And from Natasha.
I rake a hand through my hair, staring at the toaster.
Every time she’d laugh or praise her kids or encourage them to try something new, something harder than they were used to, I’d feel a foreign tingling sensation erupt deep in my gut.
Not the kind that I get when I think about fucking her. It’s the kind that makes me realize I’m in too deep, and that I need to claw the hell out before I’m lost forever.
She thinks I hate her. She doesn’t know shit.
I finish cooking the eggs and Canadian bacon and move the pan off the burner. I cheat on the Hollandaise sauce, though. I pull out the jar, heat some up in the microwave, and set it aside. This cooking thing really isn’t me, but at least it distracts me from the things I’d much rather be doing to Natasha. I drop an English muffin into the toaster. When it pops up, I jump, my thoughts jarred by the startling sound. I drop the slices onto a plate, scoop the Canadian bacon and poached eggs on top of each slice, drizzle the sauce over each one and shove the whole thing far away from me.
A few deep breaths does nothing to calm the storm raging inside of me. I thought my life had been hell before, when I was behind bars with nowhere to go and nothing to look forward to.
But this life of being an order taker and a glorified babysitter when Dima knows how he’s slowly crushing what’s left of my soul?
I can’t live it anymore. I’d rather be in solitary confinement. It’s how I feel most of the time anyway. I don’t let people in, and for damn good reason. My own twin brother, the one who was supposed to be my instant best friend forever, is a backstabbing bastard who’d love nothing more than to torment me. Dima neither forgets nor forgives. And he hates me because I shake things up. Always have.
Yes, I’m impulsive.
Yes, I make people suffer if they wrong us.
And fucking-A yes, I punish those who attack what’s ours.
Dima likes to play games and turn the other cheek because he’s a pussy and doesn’t know how to handle blood stains on his Armani. He thinks if he can build and build and build, that people will cower to our empire. But he doesn’t know how to deal with the nasty fuckers who will tirelessly chip away at the foundation until it cracks and crumbles. That’s what I do best. And he’ll never admit it, but he will miss that talent of mine. He’s enjoyed the benefits of it for a long damn time.
The doorbell rings. My brow furrows since I don’t expect any visitors today. I pad over to the front door, then peer at the camera feed to see who just rang the bell that saved me from the toxic thoughts about my brother. It’s Ilia, one of Dima’s guys. His arms are buried under with plastic bags.
I pull open the door. “Doing a little shopping?”
Ilia smirks, holding out the dress bags. “Dresses. Where do you want them?”
“I’ve got them.” I take the hangers from him. “They got ya doing the laundry next?”
“You know I’d do it if the boss asked.”
