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I growl while adjusting my slacks. Another erection isn’t going to do shit for me but make it difficult to focus. I fold my hands over the front of my body, tingling with desire all over again.
Her tortured squeals stroll through my mind like a marquee lighting up the sidewalk.
Fuck mewas splattered on her features the second her eyes landed on me. She was undressing me as much as I was undressing her. Her denial only made teasing her that much sweeter.
I smile while considering all the things I have in store. A wife will bring structure, legitimacy, and lay down the tracks toward legacy.
Her brother delivered me a proper key into the Citta Nostra the same time he gifted me a toy.
The man is a fool who is making a huge mistake.
The elevator dings when it reaches my floor and I check the mirror, adjust my tie, and fix my blazer. Appearance is everything, and I keep telling myself that’s why I’m checking my reflection repeatedly.
Everything is about appearance here. Nothing more. Nothing less. It’s the only thing that’s going to feed me at the end of the day and keep my brigadiers in line. Appearance will echo through the Bratva and inspire loyalty from every corner of this city, maybe even farther than that. The possibilities are endless.
This isn’t about love or even affection.
This is about power.
And I intend to squeeze every last drop of it out of Liya Bernadetti that I can.
Chapter Eight
Liya
Oh God, oh shit, oh fuck. What the hell am I doing here?
Opulence surrounds me while the woman—Viktoria, I think—shows me through a penthouse encased in white. Plush white carpets, white upholstery, white silk sheets on all the beds—it’s absolutely stunning.
Truly, it’s a dream.
It’s afairy talein real life.
And I can’t find it in me to muster any sort of excitement.
Because why thehellwould I?
My brother just sold me to the highest bidder—the highest bidder who just happens to be the head of a Russian Mafia.
The same guy I smashed literally hours ago.
Viktoria snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Did you hear what I said,krolik?”
I blink at her.
She squints right back, one eye shrinking much smaller than the other. Wrinkles etch her features, and silver streaks her black hair. Icy irises like chunks of glaciers from the Arctic freeze me in place. She’s short, too, so much shorter than me that it’s comical.
But I know better than to laugh.
Everything else about her is prim and proper: black blouse, black skirt, black stockings, black shoes. Her stance is perfect. She doesn’t slouch or fold into herself. While she honors her place as a housekeeper, she also carries herself with dignity. Maybe there’s some kindness under there.
“Well?!” she demands. “Speak!”
Or maybe not.
Jesus, am I looking at an older woman or the Baba Yaga?
Her thick accent laces through my ears with, “Do I need to pinch you?”
