Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Matysh
I hate the way she gets to me. I took her to look at fucking Christmas lights.
I run my hands over the jacket of my tuxedo as I wait for Catarina to join me. This will be our first time officially coming out to the upper crust society about our relationship.
And people are waiting for it, I’m sure.
I take in a deep breath, and as I exhale, I hear heels clicking from behind me. I turn my head to see Catarina finally walk down the hall wearing the ball gown.
My jaw drops. Fuck, she looks incredible.
The dress fits her perfectly, showing off her curves in all the right ways. There's a deep V-neck in the front that cuts between her breasts and exposes just enough of her skin to leave you wanting more. And goddamnit, that makes my cock go rigid.
I’d love to tear the designer dress into shreds, and then make her come relentlessly around my cock over and over all night.
Fuck the ball.
Though beauty like this is deadly. It makes you vulnerable. Men have fought wars over lesser women and this one is mine.
Catarina is mine.
“You did good,” Catarina says sheepishly, as she looks down at the dress. Her silky hair is tied back in an elegant braid that my fingers yearn to undo and make a fucking mess. “Thanks for the dress.”
“Hmm.” I force myself to my feet, and then extend my arm.
We don’t speak as we make our way to the SUV, and Catarina doesn’t say anything about the excessive number of men I have trailing us.
We slide into the back seat of the car with ease, and then Peter pulls away, heading in the direction of the Plaza Hotel.
“I’ve never been here,” Catarina says, as the lights of the Plaza come into view twenty minutes later.
“We've been invited every year, but my father has always felt like he needed to lay low.
A lot of my friends always talk about it like they had to be dragged there, so I didn't think I was missing much.”
I catch the way she justifies her missing out, and I have to wonder… What was it like to grow up under the roof of Boris Petrov? Something tells me it wasn’t what it appeared to be.
However, I don’t happen to be a fan of the ball either. On top of it being nothing more than a social pissing contest, there’s always narks around. And anybody trying to talk about business is immediately outed as an officer.
“Well, from everything I've heard, it seems like you're quite the fan of these events,” Catarina says with an eyebrow raised and a coy smile on her lips.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, thinking back to the last time I went to one of these. It had to have been five years ago, before I was promoted to the Pakhan when my father decided to step down.
“You're no stranger to a scandal,” Catarina mutters, not explaining.
She doesn’t have to. I know my reputation. I’ve left this place with multiple women I shouldn’t have, some being married.
Pussy is pussy.
But the look on Caterina’s face has me rethinking my own fucking thoughts.
“I promise you’re the only woman on my arm tonight.”
She scoffs. “I better be; it's already going to be bad enough hearing what people have to say about us. The last thing I need is rumors about you cheating, too.”
For a moment, I detect a hint of jealousy in her voice. I almost point it out, just to torture her, but instead, I keep my mouth shut and escort my wife into the ballroom.
I wrap my arm around her waist and hold her close while we hand in our invitation, all eyes turning to look at us—the two heirs to the most prominent bratva families in the city walking arm in arm, a wedding ring with a thick diamond on Catarina’s finger.
The room quiets as everybody takes in the sight, realizing the weight of what they're seeing. Some of them are probably shocked we’re together, and others are shocked we had the balls to show our faces here.
“Do you think we have their attention?” Catarina whispers under her breath as a few people turn and stare, immediately whispering about us when we're ahead of them.
“I’d say so.” I lead her to the dance floor, where a few other couples are not paying us any attention as they waltz together to a jaunty classical music melody played by the live band.
I hold a hand out for her with a smile, and she places it gently in mine. “Shall we dance?”
“We shall,” Catarina says, eyeing me. “But don’t think I want to.”
“Trust me,” I grunt. “I don’t want to.”
You’re lying. I jar myself with the thought, and then push it away. Fuck that. I’m just here for the performance. Nothing more.
I twirl Catarina in rhythm with the music, not letting my guard down once. My men are surrounding us, but I still feel the vulnerability here. We’re sending a message, and my fucking back is exposed to the world in the middle of it.
As is my child’s. And my wife’s.
But she’d rather be here with him.
Fuck!
Why is my head spinning around this? I knew this when I agreed to marry this woman. I knew she’d always yearn for someone else. Why the hell is it bugging me now? Because I fucked her?
Goddamn, I need to get my head on straight.
As the song ends, I grab a hold of Catarina's hand, our fingers linking with each other while I guide her through crowds of people. I spot Peter and one of my enforcers, Bogdin, and pass her off.
“Keep an eye on her,” I grit out, grabbing a glass of champagne and downing it. “I need to get some air.” I don’t bother to see what her reaction is going to be. I don’t give a shit.
I slip back through the crowd, grabbing another glassful on the way to the outdoor patio. I step through the door and let the harsh winter air slap me across the face. I fucking hate the way I feel right now.
And once again, it’s her fault.
“You’re away from your wife?” a voice calls out from behind me. I turn to see Mauricio Vitale, in the flesh, joining me alone outside.
“Well, if it’s not the Italian-Russian mutt joining me,” I mutter, not bothering to hide my fucking disgust.
“Here I am.” He doesn’t blink at the insult. His dark hair is slicked back like mine, his bright blue eyes giving away the Russian, but his strong Italian nose remains. I’ve heard rumors he’s vicious.
But he hasn’t reached his full potential at only thirty-four.
And also doesn’t know the potential he has with his birthrights.
The more I look at him as he downs his drink, the more I realize he might have a bigger target on his back—and might be my greatest enemy. And those only approach in public spaces like this.
“What do you want?” I demand, taking a long draw of my drink. “You should know better than to fuck with me here.”
He arches a dark brow. “I came to extend my congratulations, of course.”
I narrow my gaze. “Thank you.”
“And to tell you, you made a big fucking mistake.”
I bristle. “Why’s that?”
A smirk stretches across his face as he throws back his drink. “Your wife is dancing with another man right now.”
The fuck she is. I shove Mauricio Vitale to the side, not caring about the way his insidious laughter echoes in the night. So much for getting air.
I spot them the moment I step back into the party. Catarina. And fucking Peter.
“Matysh, it’s–” Catarina stumbles back from Peter as I storm toward the two of them, seeing fucking red.
But before she can say any more, my fist curls and flies through the air. It crashes into Peter’s jaw as if in slow motion, blood and saliva spraying from his mouth as he staggers backward. He stays on his feet and brings his hand to his face to protect himself on instinct.
The world seems to speed back up after the first punch. People scream, running to back away from me. Glasses of champagne shatter on the ground. Chairs screech against the marble floor.
Fuck them all.
I swing at him again with my other fist, cracking it against his jaw a second time. This time he falls backward and lands on the ground with a thud. Panic is clear in his eyes.
“Boss, I just thought I would keep her company…” He doesn’t understand what he did wrong.
I’ll make him.
I bend over and grab his hand. “You know what happens when you touch my wife? Ya slomayu tebe ruku (I’ll break your hand),” I say before bending his fingers back until I hear an audible snap.
Peter shrieks, crying out, his voice echoing through a now silent ballroom.
I kneel over him so my face is inches away from his. “Posmotri na moyu zhenu yeshche raz i ya otnimu u tebya glaza (Look at my wife again and I'll take your eyes for it).”
The warning is clear. He nods his head in understanding and as soon as I stand, he scoots away.
“You’re fucking fired,” I spit at him, and then turn to Catarina. “You come with me. Now.”
I turn around and grab Catarina’s hand, dragging her away from the chaos.
Catarina struggles to keep up with me as I walk fast to leave the ballroom and call for one of my other drivers to meet us outside.
“I’m sorry,” Catarina says, trying to end my fury before it gets out of control. “He was your man… I-I swear, it was nothing—”
“Nothing? He put his hands on you, he swayed you around, fucking danced with you!” I'm shouting and the chauffeur winces when he opens the door to let both of us in the back seat.
Catarina recoils at my voice, but I can’t stop.
“Fuck!” I can’t keep my head straight. “You’re my wife! People need to know that they don’t get to touch the wife of the most powerful Pakhan in the city.”
She doesn't say anything as she settles into the back of the seat, her eyes dropping to her hands.
We make the entire drive back to the estate in silence, and I try everything I can not to explode as I have to make arrangements for Peter to be dealt with in the appropriate manner—as in, throw him into the warehouse until I have a spare moment.
In the meantime, I have to deal with my wife.
And as soon as we step back into the house, Catarina turns to storm away. I’m sure she’s planning on going to her room and spending the rest of the night there, sulking about not being able to have another man touch her.
And I can’t fucking have that.