Chapter 17 - Abram
We drive in silence. Occasionally, I glance over at her and try to decipher her expression, but she’s closed off. Guarded. I don’t blame her after all that happened last night, but hopefully, after what I show her, she’ll see that I have nothing to hide anymore.
We reach the flagship restaurant, one of the dozens scattered nationwide. The valet takes over, and when we enter Favella, the crown jewel of our restaurant empire, her eyes widen with delight. Crystal chandeliers drip from coffered ceilings, casting a warm glow over sleek floating tables. The air is thick with the scent of seared meat and truffles, and ambient electronic music plays all around us to help people not notice the passing of hours.
"It's beautiful," Zara breathes, her earlier fury seemingly forgotten.
But I know better. The tightness around her eyes, the smiles that don’t quite reach her eyes—she's still processing the revelation of my true identity. This tour is my one chance to regain her trust.
"I'm glad you like it," I murmur, guiding her past tables of laughing diners with a light hand on the small of her back. Her neck cranes backward as an at-table chef prepares spaghetti fresh in a cheese wheel.
“Wow,” she mumbles.
“We can get you some later,” I promise, thrilled that she likes the space.
Zara's eyes dart around the room, taking it all in with a mix of fascination and trepidation. I can practically feel the questions burning on her tongue. She wants to understand how a restaurant plays into our plans.
"This is one of the restaurants my family owns," I murmur, leaning in close so only she can hear. The scent of her perfume, something light and floral, teases my senses. "It's a front, of course. A way to launder our money and keep everything looking legitimate on the surface. Businesses like these help mask the gritty underbelly of our other operations."
Zara glances at me sharply, her brow furrowed. "How does it work, exactly?" Her voice hushed. Good, she understands discretion.
I guide her past the maitre'd stand and into the main dining area. The hum of conversation and clinking cutlery swells around us.
"See that party over there? VIPs," I nod toward a small group occupying a prime table. "Their bill tonight will be hefty, but not as hefty as we’ll make it."
“Oh?” Zara's gaze follows mine, her expression unreadable. I press on, determined to lay it all bare for her.
"Tomorrow morning, my accountant will generate fake invoices for their tab. Caviar, champagne, the works. We'll register those sales in cash and deposit the funds, making the dirty money appear clean. It's a well-oiled machine."
I risk a glance at Zara, trying to gauge her reaction. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes. Curiosity? Revulsion? I can't quite tell.
“And your other legitimate businesses?” she asks quietly, not meeting my eyes.
“We have casinos, restaurants. We generate 30% of fake invoices, and that’s how we deposit cash from other businesses into the bank. This helps us fund other legitimate operations,” I explain.
“And this cash,” she asks, her voice quivering. “Where does all that come from?”
Old habits die hard, and for a brief moment, I wonder if I should sugarcoat the truth. But that would be counter-productive. If I’m caught in one more commission or lie, that would be the end of us. So, I brave the truth—consequences be damned.
"Our main source of income is through selling illegal weapons, smuggling of contrabands, and protection money from businesses in areas we run," I confess, watching her closely for any sign of fear or disgust. Surprisingly, her expression remains neutral, although her grip on her purse tightens imperceptibly.
Zara takes a moment to process my words before meeting my gaze head-on. "It's a dangerous world you live in," she comments softly, her eyes searching mine.
"It is," I admit, unable to tear my gaze away from hers. But, she tears hers away from mine.
As we weave through the dining room, I lean close to whisper in her ear. "See that couple by the window? They just paid cash for a $100 bottle of wine. But $500 will show up in our official records."
“So this happens everywhere?” She shivers. I’m unsure whether it’s from my breath on her neck or my words.
I hesitate, weighing how much to reveal. But I've promised honesty. "Yes. And the hotels. The casinos. It's all a front, Zara."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing. I fight the urge to fill the silence, to justify myself. This is her moment to decide if she can accept who I truly am.
Finally, she speaks. "Show me more."
Relief floods through me, followed quickly by desire. I want to pull her close, to kiss away the wariness in her eyes. But I restrain myself. I've been given a gift—her willingness to understand my world. I won't squander it.
"Of course," I reply, leading her deeper into the belly of the beast. "Whatever you want to see, it's yours."
Zara's eyes narrow as she surveys the elegant dining room. "Do the patrons know? That this is all…" she trails off, gesturing vaguely.
I shake my head, leaning in close. "No. The Zolotovs only recently acquired these establishments. My siblings and I manage them, but our ownership remains hidden." I let my gaze sweep across the room, taking in the unsuspecting diners. "To them, I'm just another wealthy businessman."
She raises an eyebrow. "And it’s worked so far? No one has ever had any doubts?”
"Yes," I nod, a hint of pride creeping into my voice. "We're very good at what we do, Zara."
Suddenly, a commotion erupts from the back of the restaurant. My body tenses instinctively, years of training kicking in. Zara's eyes widen in alarm.
"Stay here," I command, but she shakes her head stubbornly.
"No. I want to see."
My heart races. This could push her away for good, but I've promised transparency. "Fine. But stay behind me."
We rush to the back entrance. The scene that greets us makes my blood run cold. One of my employees is viciously beating a man on the ground—clearly, the intruder did something he shouldn’t have.
"Enough!" I roar, yanking my man off the prone figure. “What happened?” I ask.
“Boss,” he explains. “This man tried stealing a carton of the wine during shipment.”
The thief scrambles to his feet, terror etched on his face. In one fluid motion, I draw my gun and level it at his head.
“Why?” I ask through gritted teeth.
He says nothing, cowering under the gun.
"You might have had your reasons, so I won’t call the cops. But you chose the wrong place to steal from. If I ever see you here again," I growl, "you won't leave alive. Understand? I saved your life this time around, but my men won’t let this pass next time around, and I can’t promise I’d stop them."
He nods frantically, stumbling backward and disappearing into the alley. I can feel Zara's eyes boring into me, but I don't dare look at her, petrified of her judgment.
I turn to the flustered employee, keeping my voice low and steady. "Mitch, what have I told you about handling these situations?"
Mitch's face is flushed, his breath coming in quick gasps. "I'm sorry, Mr. Zolotov. I just… I lost control."
I place a firm hand on his shoulder, guiding him away from prying eyes. "I understand your anger, but we can't afford such displays. What if a patron had seen?"
He nods, shame coloring his features. "It won't happen again, Sir."
"See that it doesn't," I say, my tone softening slightly. "Now, go clean yourself up."
As Mitch hurries away, I turn to face Zara, bracing myself for her reaction. Zara is silent, her eyes wide and her face pale. I walk toward her, my heart clenching at the sight of her fear.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," I murmur, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face, unable to stop myself. "But this is my world, Zara. It's not always pretty."
She nods slowly, her eyes searching mine. "I know. But I'm not running away, Abram. I want to understand, to see it all. No matter how ugly it gets.”
To my surprise, somewhere in the depths of her gaze, I see… admiration?
“That was kind,” she says, her voice low and husky. “For you to not call the cops.”
“In my experience,” I shrug, “I’ve learned people steal in desperation. Some need to feed a kid, others an addiction. The cause is not for me to judge.”
“Abram.” She reaches up and clutches my cheek. “Most men wouldn’t care. You handled it as the man I’ve grown to know.”
A warmth spreads through my chest at her words. "You're not… afraid?"
Zara shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "No. You did what you had to do, and generously at that. And I'm glad you let me see it.”
Her words send a thrill of hope and desire rushing through me, and I pull her close, crushing her body against mine. She melts into my embrace, her arms winding around my neck as I bury my face in her hair, breathing in her scent.
For a long moment, we stand there in the shadows of the alley, lost in each other's touch. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel a flicker of something that might just be happiness amidst the recent darkness of my world.
"Zara," I breathe into her hair, my voice rough with desire. "You have no idea what you do to me."
Her voice is fierce, and she admits the truth. "Maybe I do, Abram. Maybe you do the same to me."
My heart pounds in my chest, every fiber of my being screaming to find us a place alone.
"Come," I say, stepping away and taking her hand with urgency.
I can't resist the urge any longer. My hand still clasping hers, I lead Zara through the bustling kitchen, past curious glances from the staff. We reach a nondescript door at the far end, and I pull her inside, shutting it behind us with a soft click as I push her against it, my arms keeping her in place.
The food storage room is dimly lit, with shelves stacked high with supplies. But all I can focus on is Zara, her chest rising and falling rapidly, her brown eyes locked on mine, wide with longing.
"Abram," she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. "What are we doing here?"
I step closer until our bodies are mere inches apart. "What I’ve been wanting to do from the moment I rescued you from that van," I murmur, my breath hot against her ear.
She shivers, and I can't hold back anymore. I look down, arms on the wall beside her, and inch closer until her breasts are squeezed against my chest. She stares up at me, lips parted, breathless.
She barely manages to get my name out of her mouth, “Abr—” when I slam my own against hers, closing my eyes. I feel her in every crevice, in the way her lip gloss sweetens my tongue when I glide it across her lips, and she parts her mouth, letting me in.
Zara responds instantly, her arms wrapping around my neck, pulling me closer as our tongues wage war like two soldiers waging for war.
The kiss deepens, growing more urgent, more desperate. My hands slide down to roam her body, feeling every curve. The sides of her breasts, the skin of her waist, the gentle softness around her stomach. When we break apart, gasping for air, Zara's fingers fumble with the buttons of my shirt.
"Are you sure?" I ask, giving her one last chance to back out.
Her answer is to pull me in for another earth-shattering kiss. Groaning, I slide my hand under her shirt, cupping her breast through her bra. She arches into my touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.
"God, Zara," I breathe against her skin. "You're driving me crazy."
I can't resist sliding my other hand up her skirt, my fingers trailing along her inner thigh. She trembles in the wake of my fingers. When I reach her panties, I pause, savoring the moment. Zara's breathing quickens, her eyes dark with desire.
"Please," she whimpers, and it's my undoing.
I twist the cotton around my fingers and part her panties, feeling how wet she is for me. My cock strains against my trousers, aching to be inside her. I want nothing more than to turn her around, slam her against the wall, and fuck her senseless right here.
But no. Not like this.
Instead, I slide my fingers inside her, watching her face as I do. Her mouth falls open in a silent gasp, her eyes fluttering closed.
"Look at me," I command softly, curling my fingers just so.
Her eyes snap open, locking with mine as I start to move my hand. She's so responsive, so perfect. I can't look away from her face, drinking in every expression of pleasure.
"Abram," she moans, her hips rocking against my hand. "Oh god, I'm—”
"That's it, Sweetheart," I encourage, increasing my pace. "Let go for me."
I reach for her neck, biting into it gently, while placing my thumb on her clit, massaging her softly while my finger thrums away inside her. She reaches for my back, her nails digging into my shirt.
“Fuck,” I moan into her neck and begin to pound her with my finger. She almost buckles down, and I wrap my other arm around her waist, holding her in place while my finger and thumb feel the softness of her pussy.
She clamps down on my finger, her legs trembling. She throws back her head, screaming my name. “Abram…”
She comes with a cry, her body shuddering against mine. I hold her close, working her through it until she slumps against me, panting.
After a moment, Zara's hand reaches for my belt buckle. "Your turn," she murmurs, her fatigue showing with every word.
It takes every ounce of willpower I possess, but I gently catch her wrist. "Not here," I tell her, my voice rough with desire. "Not like this. When I take you, it'll be in a bed where I can worship every inch of you properly."
The disappointment on her face is quickly replaced by anticipation. I press a final, heated kiss to her lips before stepping back.
"Consider this a preview," I say with a wink, leaving her wanting more.