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There’s one thing I still need to cement my place here, the empire that my father and his father built here in New York.
I love my daughters dearly, much more than most men, but I need an heir.
And Caterina Rossi is going to provide me with one.
After what the Irish and the Italians tried to do to me, my family, my business, my men, I need a new show of power. Taking Caterina for my own is part of that show, to establish once again that Viktor Andreyev, theUssuri, head of the Bratva, is not a man to be fucked with.
Not a man to be challenged, to be lied to, to be betrayed.
Colin Macgregor is dead. Franco Bianchi is dead. And Caterina will pay for her husband’s crimes in my bed, taking my cock until she does what my late, cowardly wife couldn’t, until she produces a son for me.
That thought lingers in my head when dinner is finished, when my daughters are bundled off by Olga and Bianca for baths and bedtime, and I retire to my own room with vodka and my jumbled thoughts. It lingers through my hot shower, washing off the stress and exhaustion of the past week. I imagine her standing in the grey-tiled shower with me, her slender body streaked with soap, her slim curves naked to my hands.
My cock swells, and I groan, turning off the hot water and reaching for a fresh towel. I should put her out of my head, set her aside as a task taken care of until our wedding night. But even as I dress for bed, I can’t get the image of her pale, veiled face out of my head, the last time I caught a glimpse of her at her father’s funeral. She was dressed all in black then, her body hidden under the modest dress she’d worn, but in my head, I’m already stripping it off of her, baring her small breasts to my hands, her narrow waist, her pale thighs.
I grit my teeth, my hand sliding down to wrap around my now-aching cock, bracing myself against my dresser with one hand as I start to stroke, my erection rock-hard and refusing to be ignored. I’ve hardly been a monk since my wife died. There’s plenty of women who would do a great deal for a night in theUssuri’s bed, to be able to say they fucked him. But the thought of Caterina Rossi in my bed, her thighs spread for me, inflames me like nothing has in a very long time.
My hand spasms around my cock, squeezing my length as I stroke faster, grimacing with the pleasure of it as I imagine her head thrown back, her dark hair spreading across my pillow, my hand at her throat as I fuck her hard, claiming her as my bride.Mine. My wife, my possession, my payment for all that her family put me and mine through. The final nail in the coffin of the conflict between the Bratva and the mafia, the beginning of a new era.
And Caterina will be the catalyst.Who knows, I think, as I imagine running my hand over her as she trembles in my bed or forcing her to her knees, her lips parting for my cock,she might even like it. Perhaps, deep down, she’s looking forward to being fucked by Bratva cock.
The thought of that, of her getting wet for me, of running my fingers over her pussy and finding her soaked for my cock despite herself, pushes me over the edge. I come with a groan, my palm curling over my pulsing cockhead to catch my release, and I thrust against it, my whole body shuddering with the force that I haven’t felt in some time.
If jerking off thinking about her feels that good, what will fucking her be like?
I’m certainly looking forward to finding out.
I’m sure that Caterina is expecting coldness from me, harshness, perhaps even cruelty. The Bratva, and I, have a certain—reputation. But I don’t intend to be harsh to my new bride.
If she obeys me as she should, I could even be kind to her.
