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I personally had zero to do with either Russian being killed, but as my brother’s underboss, peacekeeping and negotiating, sounding like the reasonable one during a knife fight, is my job.
“How are you going to make reparations, O’Rourke?” Grigori still wants his pound of flesh.
“Weplan no such thing. Dante Caruso, the Cosa Nostra underboss, killed Alexei’s nephew.”
“Caruso is dead,” Grigori remarks and strokes the woman’s hair, who’s still kneeling.
“AndItalian.” I shrug, because I’m Irish. “Go talk to them. They owe you the apology.”
“Your sister-in-law is Italian.” Grigori’s lips lift into a smirk. “Shall I talk to her?”
“She’s an O’Rourke. Married to my don. Heavily guarded. You won’t get near her.”
With Grigori communicating silently with Maksim, I stare at his sub. Our eyes connect and the energy around me rearranges. Something fiery passes through me. Fuck, my cock hardens, taking in her alabaster face with hazel eyes and shiny, wet peach lips that curl into a faint smile.
My cock thumps at the idea of dragging her down a dark hallway and roughly fucking her against the wall. IfIwas owed reparations in this meeting, I’d take that cunt in a second.
She looks tough, and I bet she’s wild in bed. With that collar around her neck, I’m guessing Grigori doesn’t let her freak shine on. I would.
“What’s your name,dorogaya?” I ask her, greenish-blue eyes still glued to mine.
“None of your business,” she purrs in a thick Russian accent like it’s foreplay.
I mutter dirty thoughts in Gaelic because sayingI’d love to fuck you in a dark alleyout loud in English would get a bullet in my eye socket.
Grigori shakes his head at me, thinking I’m just another pissed-off mick, cursing to myself.
I glance at the time on my phone, practicing my exit speech. When I look down, the sub is blushing.
Did she understand me?
High-class, educated Russians speak many languages. I’d just never met one who knows Gaelic.
I’d love to whisper:While you’re on your knees, suck my dickto see the reaction, but too many of those words in Gaelic are recognizable in English.
“Gentleman,dorogaya,”I call herdearagain to get a rise from her. “I’m here to make sure there’s an understanding that we don’t want a war with you.”
“And your brother did not buy his Italian wife for thirty million dollars to finance a war with us?” the sub says boldly, getting to her feet.
Grigori backhands her in a shocking swift move, sending her knees back to the cold cement floor. “Khvatit, the khitrets!”
I’m shaking with rage and I don’t know why. Why should I care about a Russian submissive? Even one who makes the air in this room unbreathable with palpable tension. Something I’ve not felt before.
Well once, but that was for a whole other reason. And it was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.
When Grigori doesn’t help her up, I push forward, but the Bratva underboss steps in front of me.
“We don’t hit our women,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Then it is good she is not your woman, O’Rourke.” Grigori reaches to help his sub up by the collar, but she snaps her hand away. “But she makes a good point.” He takes her hand roughly and kisses it. Next, he’s devouring her with his mouth, licking the blood from her lip and nose.
She’s rigid as fuck. I know a fake kiss when I see one. A submissive is supposed to adore her dom. Not talk back, or fight back.
Grigori is handsome in that brutal, Siberian mountain-man stock, fucking the sheep when there isn’t a woman around, kind of way. He’s got a face full of deep lines and a full head of dark brown hair, graying at the temples. He’s nearly as tall as me, and by the way he’s built, I’m guessing he packs a punch in the cock department.
Grigori lets her go and then pushes her down again like she’s trash. I’m transfixed on her for some reason, but the underboss drops the leash to grab my cheek, the smell of vodka less, and the sub’s peach lip gloss makes my nostrils flare.
Fuck me…
