Chapter 6
LUKA
Ifind Leo in her bed this morning after ten gut-wrenching minutes of searching the grounds. I had mobilized half my security team before Viktor suggested checking Cindy's room.
They are both sound asleep. Leo curled against her side like a kitten seeking warmth. Her arm wrapped protectively around him, even in sleep.
She’s beautiful. I rarely look at a woman and see beauty. I see sex. I see tits and ass and think about the many ways they can please me.
But Cindy, she’s different. She’s tough and soft at the same time. I want to know her story. How the fuck did she end up with the Tremaines?
She wakes suddenly. Sees me looming over them. Her eyes are filled with fear—but she still brings a finger to her lips, silently telling me not to wake Leo. That small gesture, putting his peace before her own safety, makes my heart feel like it is caught in a vise.
I leave them, but station two guards outside her door. I can't trust her—not after yesterday—but in my gut, I know she would never hurt Leo.
Two hours later, I return to her room. She didn’t come to breakfast. I assume she’s pouting.
"You're coming with me tonight," I tell her.
Her head snaps up. "Where?"
"Bratva dinner. You're going to be my girlfriend." The words taste strange on my tongue. "Fiancée, actually."
She shakes her head. “No.”
“It wasn’t a request.”
“I’m not your girlfriend,” she hisses. "I’m your captive."
After yesterday, I need her where I can see her. Where I can control the variables.
“You’ll be ready at six.”
She scoffs. “And what makes you think I won’t try and run?”
“Because I’ll kill you if you do.”
Her mouth drops open. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. There will be a dress delivered soon. Wear it. Don’t fuck around. I’m not in the mood.”
I turn and am about to leave when I step back inside. “And go get some fucking breakfast. I’m not doing this whole hunger strike thing.”
She glares at me. “I thought I was confined to my room—you know, just in case I try to escape.”
I walk to her, watching her tense up. She’s afraid of me.
Good.
“Dikaya, you can’t escape. Do you think you have any chance of getting away? You don’t. You’re mine.”
“What the hell does that mean? Dikaya. What are you calling me? Too afraid to say it in English.”
It’s cute that she thinks I would ever be afraid of her. “Wild one.”
I leave her room.
I don’t trust the woman to do as she’s told. I stop by her room later to make sure she is following orders. My stylist is just finishing her makeup. Cindy sits rigid in the chair, her jaw clenched as the woman applies lipstick to Cindy’s plump lips.
The dress I selected hangs on the closet door. Black silk that will hug every curve, with a neckline that skims her collarbones and leaves her shoulders bare. Heels that will put her at the perfect height for my arm to rest possessively around her waist.
Cindy's reflection catches mine in the mirror. For a moment, something passes between us—a flicker of the heat from that night in the garage. Then her expression hardens, walls slamming back into place.
She doesn't trust me either. Fair enough.
Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders. Elegant but touchable. The kind of hair a man runs his fingers through when he's claiming his woman in front of other predators.
"The dress," I say simply.
The stylist steps out, leaving us alone. Cindy stares at the black silk like it might bite her.
"I've never been to anything like this," she admits, vulnerability creeping into her voice.
"Just stay close to me. Smile when I tell you to. Don't speak unless spoken to directly." I step closer, close enough to smell the expensive perfume the stylist applied. It’s an opium scent that fits her so well. She is addictive.
“You’re an overbearing asshole,” she mutters.
"You're mine tonight. Act like it."
Her eyes flash with that familiar defiance. "I'm not your possession."
"Tonight you are." I reach out and trace my thumb along her jawline, feeling her pulse jump beneath my touch. "These men will eat you alive if they sense weakness. If they think you're not under my protection."
She jerks away from my touch. "And whose fault is it that I'm in this position?"
I shrug. “Ask your father.”
Her lips press together angrily.
"Get dressed. We leave in twenty minutes."
When she emerges from the bedroom, my breath catches in my throat.
She's stunning.
Dangerous.
Mine.
I offer her my arm.
She takes it with obvious reluctance, her fingers barely touching my sleeve. She straightens her spine and lifts her chin.
Whatever else she is, Cindy Russo is not a coward.
The drive to the estate is quiet. I can feel her nervousness radiating from the passenger seat, but she doesn't ask questions. Doesn't complain. Just stares out the window at the Miami nightlife blurring past.
"Remember, you're happy to be here. You're in love with me. And you don't know anything about business."
She turns to look at me. "What if they ask how we met?"
"Tell them I stole you." A ghost of a smile touches my lips. "It's the truth."
The dinner is held at Alexei Volkov's estate, a sprawling monument to excess and blood money. I keep Cindy close as we navigate the crowd, my hand possessive on the small of her back.
She moves with surprising grace for someone who claimed she'd never worn heels before. Every man in the room notices her.
Let them look. Let them see what belongs to me.
We're seated at the main table, a position of honor that isn't lost on anyone present. Alexei raises his glass in greeting, his cold eyes assessing Cindy like she's a piece of art he's considering purchasing.
"Luka brings us a gift," he says in accented English, loud enough for nearby tables to hear. "Such beauty."
I feel Cindy tense beside me, but her smile never wavers. She's playing her role perfectly.
That's when I see her. Anna Tremaine, draped over the arm of Adrian Kozlov like expensive jewelry. The rival capo's hands roam freely over her curves while she giggles and preens for attention.
Anna's eyes find Cindy across the table. Her perfectly painted lips curl into a sneer.
"Oh my God, Cindy?" Anna's voice carries that familiar condescending tone. "I barely recognized you! I don't think I've ever seen you in a dress. Or makeup. Clearly, someone did it for you. Did you get the grease out from under your nails? I bet you smell like oil."
The insult hangs in the air like smoke. Several conversations pause as people wait to see how this will play out.
Cindy's fingers tighten slightly on my arm, the only sign of her tension. Then she leans into me, her hand sliding up to cup my jaw as she presses her lips to mine.
The kiss is soft at first, almost innocent. Then her tongue traces my lower lip, and heat explodes through my system. When she pulls back, her eyes are dark with something that looks dangerously close to desire.
"Thank you, baby," she purrs, loud enough for Anna to hear. "For helping me discover who I really am."
I don't mind being used. Not when it feels this good.
Anna's face flushes red. Adrian whispers something in her ear that makes her force another fake laugh, but the damage is done. Cindy has staked her claim in front of everyone.
The evening progresses with the usual posturing and veiled threats disguised as business talk.
Cindy plays her part well—laughing at appropriate moments and staying silent when the conversation turns dangerous.
Her hand rests possessively on my forearm.
Occasionally, when Anna is watching, she makes a big show of sliding her hand under the table.
She only touches my thigh, but to those watching, they assume she’s rubbing something else.
I go along with it.
Then one of the family elders leans forward, his eyes on Cindy like she's merchandise on display.
"She's exquisite," he says. "I'll offer three million for her. Cash."
The table goes quiet. Even the servers seem to freeze mid-step.
Cindy's hand goes rigid on her wine glass. I watch her knuckles whiten and the muscle in her jaw twitch as she forces herself to swallow instead of throwing the wine in his face. When she sets the glass down, her hand is perfectly steady.
I laugh, but there's no humor in the sound. It's the kind of laugh that usually precedes bloodshed.
"I don't sell what's mine."
"Everything has a price," he presses, clearly not reading the warning signs. "Four million."
"Not her." My voice drops to a deadly quiet tone that makes smart men back down. "Never her."
Cindy's hand squeezes my thigh; whether in gratitude or warning, I'm not sure.
"Such devotion," Anna mutters sarcastically.
The jealousy in her tone is impossible to miss.
Cindy slides her hand up my back, gently massaging my neck in a possessive gesture.
No one misses it.
After dinner, we move to one of the elaborate rooms in the house that opens to an outdoor area.
“I have business to take care of,” I whisper in her ear. “Stay alert.”
She nods in understanding.
I can't take my eyes off her. This woman who was covered in grease two weeks ago is now holding her own in a room full of killers and criminals.
She's not just surviving—she's thriving.
I'm pulled into a conversation about territory disputes when I notice Cindy has attracted her own audience.
Three men circle her like sharks sensing blood in the water. She's laughing at something one of them said. After years of being invisible, she's finally being seen.
One of them, a lieutenant I don't recognize, reaches out to touch her arm. His fingers linger longer than necessary, his thumb stroking across her skin.
Something primal and violent unfurls in my chest.
I know Mark or another of my guards here tonight will intervene if Cindy is in any real danger.
But I'm moving before conscious thought kicks in, cutting through the crowd with single-minded focus.
My hand closes around her wrist, pulling her against my side with enough force to make my claim unmistakable.
"Gentlemen," I say, my voice deceptively casual.
The lieutenant's hand falls away immediately, but I can see the challenge in his eyes. He's young, stupid, and clearly doesn't understand the hierarchy here.
"We were just getting acquainted," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Now, you're done."
I guide Cindy away from her admirers, my grip firm but not bruising. She stumbles slightly in her heels but doesn't protest until we're alone in a shadowed alcove.
"What the hell was that?" she hisses, yanking her wrist free. "I was handling it."
"You were enjoying it."
"So what if I was?" Fire flashes in her blue eyes. "For the first time in my life, men are actually seeing me as something other than a grease monkey or a servant. Or a fucking prisoner. Excuse me if I found that refreshing."
The hurt in her voice stops me cold. How many years has she been invisible? How many times has she been overlooked, dismissed, and treated like she didn't matter?
"They see you because you're with me," I tell her, hating how the words sound even as I say them.
"Fuck you."
I hate the way my chest constricts at the thought of other men wanting her.
"You're mine," I growl, backing her against the stone wall of the alcove.
"I'm not a fucking possession," she snaps back, but her breathing has changed. Quick, shallow pants that make her chest rise and fall beneath the silk of her dress.
"Tonight you are."
Before she can argue, before she can push me away or tell me to go to hell, I capture her mouth with mine. This kiss is nothing like the performance she gave me at dinner. This is raw, desperate, the kind of claiming that leaves marks on souls.
She melts against me for a heartbeat, her lips soft and yielding. Then she bites my lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
I pull back, touching my tongue to the wound, tasting copper and defiance.
"Careful, dikaya," I murmur against her ear. "You're playing with fire."
"Good," she whispers back, her voice rough with want and anger. "I've been cold for too long."
“You belong to me. Don’t make me prove it.”