Chapter 22 Ledger
LEDGER
I’m not there personally. That’s what Pedro is for. But I’m awake in my office, phone in hand, waiting for confirmation that everything went smoothly.
“Good. Get everything to the warehouse. I want the distribution completed by Friday.”
“Yes, sir.”
I hang up and lean back in my chair, staring at the city lights outside. Another successful shipment. More merchandise moving through my network. More money flowing into accounts that can’t be traced back to me. This is the machine I’ve built.
And Savannah has no idea how deep it goes.
Or maybe she does. I’ve caught her looking at me differently lately. Like she’s seeing me clearly for the first time and isn’t sure she likes what she sees.
Silas comes by the penthouse at noon. Savannah is in her office on a call, and I meet him in my study.
“We have a problem,” he says without preamble.
“What kind of problem?”
“Mason Porter. Savannah’s ex. He’s been trying to contact her. Flowers to the office building. Multiple phone calls. Social media harassment.”
My jaw tightens. “How long has this been going on?”
“About three weeks. Security’s been intercepting everything, but he’s persistent.”
“Where is he now?”
“Still in Chicago. Working in an entry-level sales job. Living in an apartment in Logan Square.” Silas pulls out his phone and shows me a photo of Mason looking disheveled and walking into a building. “Want me to take care of it?”
I know what he’s asking. Want me to make him disappear?
“No.”
Silas raises an eyebrow. “You sure? He’s not going to stop on his own.”
“If he suddenly disappears, it draws attention. Police investigation. Questions about his connection to Savannah. I don’t need that kind of scrutiny right now.
” I take the phone and study Mason’s face.
Weak. Desperate. Pathetic. “Keep monitoring him. If he tries to come to New York or escalates beyond calls and flowers, then we deal with him. But for now, we just watch.”
“Understood.”
After Silas leaves, I sit with this information. Mason is still in love with her. Still trying to get her back. And part of me wants to fly to Chicago and handle him personally.
But patience is smarter. Let Mason exhaust himself trying to reach her and realize she’s never coming back.
And if he doesn’t get the message, then I’ll send a clearer one.
The Rome trip comes at the perfect time.
I’ve been buried in work for three weeks. The shipment. The Chicago acquisitions. A territorial dispute with another family that required delicate negotiations. I’ve been handling crisis after crisis, and Savannah has been patient.
Too patient, maybe. I’ve barely seen her except at dinner, and even then, I’m distracted.
The hotel acquisition in Rome is important, but it’s also an excuse to get away. To focus on her. To remember that I have a wife who needs attention.
We fly out on a Friday evening. The private jet makes the trip comfortable, and Savannah sleeps most of the way, her head on my shoulder.
When we land in Rome, it’s morning. The city is golden in the early light, all ancient stone and baroque fountains and the kind of beauty that makes you understand why people have been fighting over this place for thousands of years.
Our hotel is near the Spanish Steps. A converted palazzo with frescoed ceilings and marble floors, the kind of luxury that costs obscene amounts of money.
Savannah stands at the window of our suite, looking out at the city, and I watch her take it in.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.
“Wait until you see it at sunset.”
“When’s your meeting?”
“Not until Monday. We have the whole weekend.”
She turns to me, surprised. “Really?”
“Really. I figured you deserve a proper honeymoon, even if it’s three months late.”
Her smile is radiant. “Thank you.”
But by Sunday night, work pulls me back in. There’s a crisis with the New York distribution network. One of my buyers got arrested, and I need to make sure he doesn’t talk. It requires calls, negotiations, and payments to lawyers who specialize in keeping mouths shut.
By Monday morning, I’m back in crisis mode. The Rome acquisition meeting is at 2:00 PM via video conference. The sellers are in Milan, too important to travel. So I’m in the hotel suite’s office, laptop set up, prepared to negotiate.
Savannah is somewhere in the city. She said something about shopping, about wanting to explore without me being distracted. I felt guilty when she said it. But not guilty enough to cancel the meeting.
At 1:55 PM, I’m reviewing notes when the video call connects. Four icons appear on screen. The sellers and their lawyers, all looking serious and ready to negotiate.
“Gentlemen,” I say. “Thank you for making time for this.”
“Mr. Volkov. Shall we begin?”
We’re fifteen minutes into discussing terms when the office door opens behind me.
I don’t turn around. Assume it’s Savannah coming back from shopping. She knows I’m in a meeting and won’t interrupt.
Then I feel hands on my shoulders.
I freeze. The sellers are still talking, discussing renovation timelines, and I’m trying to focus on their words while Savannah’s hands slide down my chest.
“Gentlemen,” I manage, “could you give me one moment? Continue your discussion. I’ll be right back.”
I mute my microphone and turn off my camera.
Then I spin my chair around.
Savannah is standing there in the most sinfully gorgeous lingerie I’ve ever seen. Black lace that leaves almost nothing to the imagination. Her hair is down, tumbling over her shoulders, and she’s looking at me with a mixture of desire and defiance.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice rough.
“Getting your attention.” She steps closer, straddling my lap. “You’ve been ignoring me for weeks.”
“I’ve been—”
“Save it.” She drops to her knees between my spread legs, fingers ripping my belt open like it insulted her. “You’re going to watch me swallow every inch while your little meeting keeps talking.”
My zipper rasps down. She frees me, thick, flushed, a fat bead of pre-cum already leaking. She drags her tongue from my balls to the tip in one slow, filthy stripe, humming as she tastes me.
Then she sinks down, hot, wet mouth taking me to the root in one brutal glide. My head slams back against the chair. The sellers drone on about profit margins while my wife gags herself on my cock, throat fluttering, spit pooling at the base.
She pulls back, gasping, strings of saliva connecting her swollen lips to my shaft. “Fuck, I’ve missed this,” she whispers, voice wrecked. “Pregnancy makes me so fucking horny I could ride you in the middle of the Spanish Steps.”
I fist her hair, guide her down again. She moans around me, the vibration shooting straight to my balls.
She bobs slowly at first, tongue swirling the underside, then faster, cheeks hollow, mascara already smearing. Tears gather at the corners of her eyes, and she looks so goddamn perfect I almost come down her throat right then.
Her free hand slips between her thighs, rubbing herself through soaked lace. I hear the wet sounds over the muted voices. She pops off long enough to gasp, “Touch me, Ledger. Feel how wet I am for you.”
I yank her up by the hair, spin her, and bend her over the desk.
Papers scatter like confetti. The laptop wobbles.
I rip the lace panties down her thighs, spread her open, and groan at the sight—glistening, swollen, ready.
Two fingers plunge deep, curling hard. She cries out, loud enough that I clamp my hand over her mouth.
“Quiet, princess,” I growl against her ear.
She pushes back, fucking herself on my fingers, muffled moans vibrating against my palm.
I add a third, stretching her, thumb grinding her clit in vicious circles.
Her walls flutter, slick coating my knuckles, dripping down my wrist. “That’s it,” I rasp.
“Soak my hand like the greedy little wife you are.”
She comes hard, body shaking, pussy clenching around my fingers, a fresh gush of wet heat flooding my palm. I keep pumping, drawing it out until she’s sobbing into my hand, legs trembling.
I pull my fingers free, spin her again, and lift her onto the desk right in front of the screen. Her legs wrap my waist, heels digging into my ass. I line up and drive into her in one savage thrust, bottoming out. She gasps, nails raking my shoulders. The desk creaks dangerously.
“Look at them,” I snarl, thrusting slow and deep. “Look at the camera while I fill my pregnant wife.”
Her eyes flick to the screen, then to me, wild and defiant.
She clenches deliberately, and I lose it.
I slam home, once, twice, and come with a silent roar, pumping her full, hot spurts painting her walls.
She follows a second later, body shaking, pussy milking me dry, a strangled cry muffled against my shoulder.
We stay locked together, breathing hard, cum already leaking down her thighs onto thousand-euro contracts. The sellers are wrapping up, none the wiser.
I help her down, fix her lingerie, and wipe the mascara from under her eyes with my thumb. She licks her lips, tastes me, and smiles like she just negotiated the deal of the century.
I kiss her one more time and straighten my clothes. Then I unmute my microphone and turn on my camera.
“Apologies, gentlemen. Where were we?”
One of the sellers clears his throat. “We were discussing the renovation timeline.”
“Right. Continue.”
Savannah slips out of the office, and I catch the satisfied smile on her face before the door closes.
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur. I’m distracted, my mind replaying what just happened, but I manage to negotiate favorable terms and close the deal. When I finally sign off, I find Savannah in the bedroom, changed into normal clothes, reading a book like nothing happened.
“Enjoy yourself?” I ask.
“Very much.” She doesn’t look up from her book. “Did you close the deal?”
“I did.”
“Good. Then everyone wins. But Ledger? Next time you ignore me for three weeks, I’m not going to be this nice about getting your attention.”
“Noted.”