Chapter 6
DANTE
She's angry, confused, trapped, and yet she's rubbing her ass against my crotch.
She wants me as badly as I need her.
"I hate you," she whispers, but her body tells a different story.
"No, you don't," I murmur against her ear. I feel the shiver that runs through her.
She doesn't fight me. She should. Any rational woman would be screaming, clawing, doing everything in her power to get away from the man who just told her she's his prisoner.
But Hannah isn't any woman. She's mine.
She twists around, staring up at me with anger flashing through her eyes.
Anger and passion.
Our mouths collide, tongues dueling in a dance that's both familiar and foreign. She tastes even better now.
"You're mine," I growl against her lips. "You know it, right?"
She moans softly, arching into me. It's a yes and a no all rolled into one. I break the kiss, trailing my lips down her jaw to suck gently on her neck. She shudders beneath me, leaning back into the window with a sigh of surrender.
"So fucking beautiful," I whisper against her skin.
My hand slides up her arm and rests around her throat, holding her head against the window while my other hand jerks at the skirt. I manage to hike it up enough to get my hand between her legs.
She gasps when I drag my fingers through her wet heat, making her gasp and moan. Her body is asking for more, begging me to take her hard and fast and rough. But there's something else there too - fear mixed with desire, uncertainty lacing each thrust of her hips against my hand.
I pull away for a moment, looking down at her flushed cheeks and parted lips. Her eyes are half-closed, heavy-lidded with lust and the promise of submission. It's intoxicating.
"Tell me to stop," I murmur against her ear, nipping gently at the lobe with my teeth. "Tell me you don't want this."
She shakes her head violently, pushing herself even harder against my hand as it continues to tease between her legs through her silk panties. "Don't stop," she whispers hoarsely. "Please..."
Her head falls back against the glass as I slip a finger inside her, pushing past the wet folds and into her core.
She’s so tight, so fucking hot around me.
My other hand slides up her stomach, pressing against her breast through her blouse.
She gasps, arching into the touch. It's too much.
She should be hating me, but instead she's moaning my name.
"Hannah," I whisper, my voice rough with desire. "Tell me you belong to me."
She shudders beneath my touch. "No.”
I groan, thrusting my fingers into her as she grinds against my hand with unbridled need. It's almost enough to make me lose control. I pull my hand away reluctantly.
I have to be inside her. I jerk my zipper down, fumbling with my belt and the button on my slacks and let them fall around my ankles.
“Take it off,” I order.
She doesn’t question me. Her hands fumble with the zipper on her skirt until it drops to her feet.
I push her lacy panties down. I lick my lips at the sight of her.
My cock throbs in response.
“Fuck,” I hiss.
What is it about this woman?
“Turn around,” I murmur.
She does as I ask. Her hands press flat against the glass, her back arched and her ass out.
That’s an invitation.
I position myself behind her, my hands gripping her hips as I line myself up with her entrance. The sight of her bent over like this, waiting for me, trusting me despite everything, makes my chest tight with something I don't want to name.
"Last chance to tell me to stop," I say, though every cell in my body is screaming at me to take her now.
She looks back at me over her shoulder, green eyes blazing with want and defiance. "Don't you dare stop."
I thrust into her in one smooth motion, burying myself to the hilt. She cries out, her palms pressing harder against the glass as her body adjusts to me. The feeling of being inside her again after weeks of thinking about nothing else nearly undoes me.
"Fuck," I growl, fighting for control. "You feel even better than I remembered."
She pushes back against me, taking me deeper. "Move," she demands breathlessly.
I pull back and thrust again, setting a rhythm that has her moaning my name. Her body responds to mine like it was made for this, like we're two pieces of the same puzzle finally fitting together.
Anyone with a telescope could see us, but I don't care. Let them watch. Let them see that she's mine.
"Tell me you're mine," I command, my grip tightening on her hips.
"Never," she gasps, but her body betrays her, clenching around me in a way that makes my vision blur.
I lean over her, pressing my chest to her back, my mouth at her ear. "Your body knows the truth even if you won't admit it."
She shudders beneath me, her breathing ragged. I can feel her getting close, can sense the tension building in her muscles. I slide one hand around to find her clit, circling it with my thumb.
"Oh God," she moans, her head falling forward.
"Not God," I murmur against her neck. "Just me."
The combination of my thrusts and my fingers pushes her over the edge. She comes with a cry that echoes through the apartment, her body clamping down on me like a vice. The sensation triggers my own release. I bury myself deep inside her as I come harder than I can ever remember.
We stay like that for a moment, both breathing heavily, my forehead resting against her shoulder. Reality starts to creep back in around the edges of my consciousness, what I've done. What I'm doing. What I'm going to have to continue doing.
She straightens slowly. I step back, giving her space to turn around. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair messed, her lips swollen from my kisses. She's never looked more beautiful.
"This doesn't change anything," she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
“Pick up your clothes. I’ll show you to your room.”
Her mouth drops open. “I am not staying here!”
“You are.”
I see her struggling to make sense of the situation. "You tell me my father owes you money, hold me prisoner, and then we... and I..." She shakes her head. "This doesn't make sense."
“Follow me,” I order.
It’s hard to have a serious conversation with her pussy on display and my dick hanging out.
She snatches up her skirt and holds it against herself. I know she’s not going anywhere. She can’t. I made sure of it.
I show her to the guest room.
I don’t typically take prisoners, but I have on occasion needed to keep someone locked down. The room locks from the outside.
“Bathroom is through there,” I say and gesture toward the door.
I do up my pants while I wait for her.
She comes out of the bathroom, her hair falling around her shoulders.
“This is bullshit,” she snarls.
"Your father stole from me," I say quietly. “I could have just killed him. I’m giving him a chance to return what he took.”
"My father isn't a thief."
"Your father is an accountant for the Bratva, Hannah. Has been for twenty years. He handles our books, manages our legitimate business accounts, makes sure our money stays clean and untraceable."
The color drains from her face. "The Bratva?"
"Russian organized crime. My family has controlled Chicago operations for three generations."
"You're—" She stares at me like she's seeing me for the first time. "You're in the mafia."
"I am the mafia. At least, the Chicago branch of it."
She backs away from me like I've just told her I'm a serial killer. Which, depending on how you look at it, might not be far from the truth.
"This is insane," she says. I'm starting to recognize that phrase as her default response to overwhelming information. "My father works for a construction company. Sokolov Enterprises builds shopping centers and office buildings."
"Among other things. Your father helps us manage financially."
"No." She shakes her head violently. "No, he wouldn't. He's the most honest person I know."
"Honest people don't embezzle five million dollars."
"He didn't!" The words explode out of her. "I know my father. He would never steal from anyone, let alone people like you. He would never work for you people.”
I smirk. “But he does. My father and your father were good friends.”
She shakes her head. “There is no way my dad works for the mob. No. Absolutely not.”
She's crying now, tears streaming down her face as the reality of the situation hits her. Her father isn't the man she thought he was. Her life isn't what she believed it to be. And she's trapped in the middle of a war she never knew existed.
"What happens to him?" she whispers.
I don't answer, because the truth will destroy her. Richard Quinn signed his own death warrant the moment he decided to steal from us.
"What happens to me?" she asks when my silence stretches too long.
"You stay here until the debt is paid."
"And if it's not?"
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. It’s security in the lobby. “Yes?”
"Mr. Sokolov? Bogdan is on his way up."
Perfect timing. "Thank you."
I end the call and turn to Hannah, who's still standing by the window like she might throw herself through it. "Stay here. Don't come out until I tell you it's safe."
"Who's Bogdan?"
"My cousin. And you don't want to meet him."
I lock the door behind me. A loud thud against the door makes me smile.
She’s pissed.
My office is at the other end of the penthouse, a masculine space of dark wood and leather that reflects the legitimate side of my business. When I enter, Bogdan is already there, standing by the window with a glass of my expensive scotch in his hand.
He turns, his eyes taking in my rumpled appearance, the fact that I'm not wearing a tie. A knowing smile spreads across his thick features. "Ah. The Quinn girl. It took me a second to place the face. The woman from the street.”
“Yeah. Collateral."
"Collateral you're fucking." He laughs and takes another drink. "Well, I suppose there are worse ways to pass the time while we wait for her father to pay up."
I pour myself a drink, using the time to control my temper. Bogdan has always been crude, but something about the way he talks about Hannah makes me want to put my fist through his face.
"You said you had more information about the Quinn situation," I say instead.
"I do." He pulls out another folder, thicker than the first. "Our friend Richard has been even busier than we thought. The five million was just the beginning. There are at least three other accounts he's been skimming from."
He spreads documents across my desk—bank statements, wire transfers, transaction logs that paint a picture of systematic theft spanning years. The evidence is overwhelming, damning, exactly what I'd expect from someone who's been stealing from us.
And yet something about it feels wrong.
"This is extensive," I say, studying the papers.
"Richard Quinn is a smart man. Unfortunately for him, not quite smart enough." Bogdan drains his scotch and sets the glass down. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
It's a test. I can hear it in his tone, see it in the way he watches me. He's waiting to see if I'll be strong enough to do what needs to be done.
"I've already done something," I say. "I have his daughter."
Bogdan's laugh is harsh, approving. "Clever. Let him know we can reach his family anytime we want. Nothing motivates a thief like the safety of his precious child."
I keep my expression neutral. "She stays here until the situation is resolved."
"And if daddy can't come up with the money?"
I meet his gaze steadily. "Then we'll discuss other forms of payment."
The implication hangs between us, ugly and necessary. In our world, debts are always paid, one way or another. If Richard Quinn can't return the money he stole, his daughter becomes a permanent asset of the organization.
The thought should satisfy me. Instead, it makes me feel sick.
"Excellent," Bogdan says, apparently pleased with my response. "I knew you would handle this properly. Your father would be proud."
I don’t say anything.
"Enjoy your collateral, cousin. But don't get too attached. Business is business, after all."
Hannah Quinn is mine. I’m not sure I can give her back even if Richard does pay.