4. No Name
NO NAME
GAbrIEL
In Gabriel’s world, payback was hell. The Bratva were coming for him, and they were coming in hot.
Hours after leaving the Black Site, Gabriel was still so damn heated. Despite the chill ambiance in the hotel lounge, anger burned through him like a five-alarm fire. To appease the group at the Black Site, he’d agreed to leave the country. Truth was… he had no intention of going anywhere.
His home had been too damn quiet, and he was too riled.
He couldn’t silence his mind, couldn’t calm his anger.
After thirty minutes of pacing, he drove himself to Rebel’s hotel.
With no underground parking at Hotel Dillinger, he had to walk three blocks.
By the time he got there, his leg was screaming at him.
Sitting at the bar was working and, after the attractive woman pulled up beside him, his evening got a lot more… promising.
“Welcome to Hotel Dillinger,” said the bartender. “First time?”
“Yes,” replied the sexy stranger.
“What can I get you?” asked the bartender.
“I’d like one of everything,” she replied, her thick Russian accent catching his attention.
Gabriel and the bartender laughed.
“Not really,” she said. “A glass of red wine. Chianti.”
The bartender returned with an unopened bottle of Santini Chianti. It’s the only Chianti we offer. Can I pour you a glass?”
“Da, pozhaluysta. Yes, please.” She glanced over at Gabriel’s empty glass, then her smokin’ hot gaze met his. “What are you drinking?”
“Sparkling water.”
“A refill for my drinking companion,” she said.
“Chianti,” Gabriel said to the server.
He hadn’t taken the prescribed painkiller, and he’d forgotten to pop the Tylenol. A glass of wine might help numb the pain—or his brain—and blur the last seventy-two hours.
After pouring the red wine, the bartender asked if they wanted to see a menu. Neither did, so he moved on.
Gabriel’s phone buzzed. He fished it from his pocket, read the text from Teddy.
You doing okay? Taking it easy?
He replied with a thumbs-up emoji.
After pocketing his phone, Gabriel lifted the wine glass, shifted toward the Russian. “To the wicked and the brave.”
She smiled. “I’ll drink to that.”
Fuckin’ irony.
He’d been at war with the Bratva for years. Almost gotten himself killed by them. Three days later, a Russian woman cozies up at the bar next to him.
Fire streaked down his spine.
Dammit to hell. Those sons of bitches sent her. Is she gonna poison me?
He’d taken his eyes off her when he’d read the text. She could have slipped something into his drink.
He flagged down the bartender. “Let’s change this to a whiskey, neat.”
“Yes, sir.”
His favorite wine was exchanged for a top-shelf whiskey, but not a Santini Whisky. For him, it would be subpar. The bartender poured, he tossed back the alcohol, let the burn slide down his throat and into his stomach.
“That’ll kill any infection,” he murmured.
“Are you sick?” she asked.
He stared at her for an extra beat. She was attractive, but there was something off about her, like her hair and eye color didn’t work with the rest of her. “I was in an accident and my leg got banged up.”
“Ouch.”
“You got a name?” he asked.
Her lips curved as her gaze floated over his face. “No, I don’t.”
He chuffed out a laugh. This was a first. Most women were eager to share their names… and everything else about themselves. A lot were flirty with rosy cheeks, asking him to pose for a selfie. She was so chill, so not interested. It was a refreshing change.
Except she’s probably gonna take me out.
He stiffened his spine. “Do you want to know my name?”
“No.”
“What do you do Ms. No Name?
“Nothing,” she replied in her thick Russian accent. “Let’s just be strangers having a drink together. I won’t ask you any questions. Return the courtesy to me. I appreciate the company, but I’m not interested in you.” She extended her hand.
When he shook her soft hand, sparks traveled up his arm, then straight down to Mr. Johnson.
Glad he still works.
Beyond the attraction, her sentence structure was very American.
She might sound Russian, but he wondered how Russian No Name actually was.
Her dark eyes were drilling into his, the intensity in her gaze having an electrifying effect on him.
Yes, he loved women, but it was he who had an effect on them.
This was a completely new—and exhilarating—experience for him.
“I have two questions,” he said.
“Don’t count on me answering,” she replied, her accent gliding through the air between them.
“Are we dead and in hell?”
She chuffed out a laugh, her smile lighting up her eyes, the reaction so immediate and intense, a growl flew from his throat.
She’s hot.
Then, as if she was self-conscious, her smile dropped like a bungee jumper off a bridge.
Dammit.
“No, we are not dead,” she replied. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s a long story.”
She pressed the glass to her lips, let the liquid fill her mouth. He got lost in the way she savored the wine before swallowing it down. And his thoughts jumped to her full lips over his swollen cock.
“Do you like the wine?” he asked as his dick twitched in his pants.
“It’s perfect,” she replied. “That’s your follow-on question to ‘are we in hell?’”
He cracked a smile. She glanced at his mouth, then back into his eyes.
The energy swirled around them, the chatter faded away, the music slipped into the background. Nothing but this Russian woman without a name and the constant throbbing in his thigh.
But Mr. Johnson worked. That was good. Damn good.
“Did you poison my wine?” he asked.
The playfulness in her eyes gave way to a coldness that made him regret asking the question.
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Just answer me,” he pressed.
“I did not.” She took another sip, set down her glass. “That was rude. Are you always rude or rude because I’m Russian?”
“Always,” he replied. “I’m a difficult person.”
She broke eye contact, stared straight ahead. Normally, women went along with his bad behavior, but she shut him down.
She waved over the bartender. “I’m settling up.”
“Let me make it up to you,” Gabriel said.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said as the bartender returned with the tab. She slid her credit card into the billfold, handed it back to him.
“Are you staying at the hotel?” asked the employee.
“What difference does that make?” she asked.
“I can put it on your room tab.”
“Charge the card.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I insulted you,” Gabriel said. “What can I do?”
“I’ll get over it.”
“I won’t.”
She arched a dark eyebrow. “I think you will.”
The bartender returned. She scribbled a tip, slid the plastic into her pocket. With a delicate touch, she lifted the glass, drained its contents.
Then, her intense gaze found his. “I’m out.”
She moved off the stool, made her way around the small dance floor and over to the wall of records. There, she began leafing through them.
Gabriel Santini was a player. He was also a womanizer. Never before had a woman walked away from him. She might be the enemy, but curiosity had him pushing off the stool and going after her. If anyone liked a chase, it was him. If anyone liked a challenge, it was him.
He approached her, she glanced over.
“I never thanked you for the drink.”
One acknowledgment nod before she went back to perusing the albums.
“Got a favorite?”
Ignoring him, she continued flipping through the records until she found one that caught her eye. She pulled it out, set it on the turntable.
It was Lynyrd Skynyrd’s debut album. Seconds later “Free Bird,” the well-known classic rock song, filled the lounge. Several couples moved onto the dance floor.
“Interesting choice,” he said.
“My parents’ favorite when I was a child.”
Again, their gazes locked on each other. The more he stared into her dark eyes, the more he wanted to know about her. Intrigue and mystery were like shark bait to him. She was either playing coy or she was being honest. She had absolutely no interest in him.
His over-inflated ego didn’t know how to process this. He was the bossman. Everywhere. Cosa Nostra, Santini International Euro, Santini Wineries, and Santini Spirits. If he wasn’t running his businesses with an iron fist, he was leaving mayhem in his wake.
He ran the back of his finger down her soft cheek, the heat from her skin rocketing through him. Her whisper soft moan held his attention. Like earlier, her hungry gaze moved from his eyes to his mouth. Then, up to his hair. Now, back into his eyes.
If he was going to make a move, it needed to be now.
Do it.
He clasped her hand, led her onto the dance floor. He didn’t ask, she didn’t resist.
The second he touched her, every cell in him came alive. Energy charged through him at an accelerating pace. When he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, her flowery, feminine scent filled his wicked, wicked soul, and he breathed her in.
In that moment he knew three things about the stranger in his arms. She was telling the truth about “Free Bird” being her parents’ favorite song… but that song meant something to her as well. And the third thing?
She was about as Russian as he was.
HALSTON
His alluring scent wrapped around her like velvet.
He smelled like leather and whiskey… and a man.
Her heart beat a little faster, the excitement charging through her at a maddening pace.
He held her with a possessiveness that left her breathless, yet she felt no fear.
The confidence roaring off him was an aphrodisiac, and she bit back a smile.
This is what a dog in heat must feel like.
Her insides were on fire, the desire reminding her that she was more than a double agent. She was a woman.
Who wants the good stuff.