Chapter 4 #2
I shrug. “It’s all very boring. Business and financials. Imports/exports. You know—nothing as exciting or introspective as art.” It’s not a lie… it’s just not as legal as I’m making it sound.
Mara chuckles, taking another sip of her cappuccino. "Somehow I doubt anything about you is boring."
It sounds like a flirtation, and she seems to realize it the moment the words leave her mouth. A faint blush colors her cheeks. She looks down at her cup, suddenly fascinated by the coffee.
“You could find out. Over dinner?” I press a little harder, wanting her to accept. To move this forward enough to either cure my obsession or move me further down the path of claiming her. “Before your flight.”
"I..." She looks flustered now, uncertain. "I don't think that's a good idea."
I smile. "Why not?"
"Because I'm leaving. And I’m not someone who does long-distance. It’s just not something I’m interested in.”
I chuckle. “It’s just dinner,” I offer, and she flushes.
“I know. I didn’t mean to imply—” She sets her cup down, straightening.
“I’m here to see my friend. I can’t spend my last evening out with a guy.
And I still need to pack.” She's making excuses, but they're real enough, practical.
I think I can see the flicker of disappointment in her eyes; she wishes she could bring herself to say yes. "I'm sorry."
I should accept this gracefully. But I've already decided I'm not letting her go.
Mara takes the last sip of her cappuccino, and now I’m sure I see the regret on her face. “I should go,” she says finally. “Annie will be up soon, and I don’t want to waste time with her.
I nod as if I’m accepting all of this—the end of what could have been. "Of course."
We walk to the counter together as she puts in the order for Annie, and then stand as she waits. “You don’t have to wait with me,” she says, and I shrug.
“Maybe I’m just enjoying the last moments of this… connection.”
She glances up at me, not quite meeting my eyes, like someone trying not to look directly into the sun. “Is that what this was?”
“It certainly felt like it.”
I walk her to the door. The morning sun is bright, making her squint slightly. She turns to face me, and I realize this is a moment that I need to make count.
I take her hand. But instead of shaking it, I lift it to my lips.
I kiss her knuckles, letting my lips linger against her skin. I swear I can feel her pulse jump beneath my mouth.
Her breath catches, a small, quick intake of air. Her hand trembles slightly in mine.
I don't let go immediately. I hold her there, her hand at my lips, my eyes locked on hers. I let her feel the heat of my breath against her skin, see the slightest flicker of the hunger in my eyes.
Then I release her and step back, giving her space to breathe. To run, if she's smart.
But she doesn't run.
She just stares at me, her cheeks flushed, her eyes dark. Then she turns and walks away.
I watch her go for a long moment, that hunger a banked, burning ember inside of me. I watch the movement of her hips, the fall of her hair down her back, and I imagine the moment when all of her… every inch, every thought, every molecule, will belong to me.
She's mine. She just doesn't know it yet.
—
I call Kazimir to meet me in my office when I arrive back at the penthouse. I can feel urgency humming beneath my skin, and Kazimir seems to pick up in the change in my mood, his gaze wary as he walks in.
I wait until he closes the door behind him before I speak. "We're expanding to New York.”
Kazimir pauses for a moment, his gaze carefully neutral. "New York?"
I nod. “We’ve discussed this before. The opportunities there are significant. I don’t want to let them go to waste any longer.”
“What about Sergei?”
My jaw tightens. If I were really making inroads, the pakhan of New York’s largest Bratva would not like it.
And if he catches wind of my presence, he may not like that, either.
He’ll infer me taking up any kind of residence there as a threat, which I can understand.
I would feel the same if he came to Boston for any length of time. “What about him?”
Kazimir is still watching me. I can feel the uncertainty wafting off of him, but he’s not a man to argue. He follows orders; he always has.
“When?” he asks finally.
“We’ll fly out tomorrow, you and I. I want to keep our presence there small at first.”
“Tomrrow.” Kazimir's tone is carefully measured. He's questioning me without questioning me, a skill he's perfected over years of working together. "That's fast."
I look at him. "You have concerns?"
"No concerns." But I can see them in his face—see him trying to understand the urgency, the sudden shift in plans. "Just surprised."
“I’ve been thinking about this for a while. It’s just time now to put it into motion. I’m always careful about what I do; you know that.”
He nods. He does know that. I've never given him reason to doubt it.
Until now—because I'm lying to him. Lying to all of them.
The realization sits heavy in my chest. In all my years of building this organization, I've never lied to my men. I’ve never hidden my motivations, never pretended my decisions were based on anything other than cold, calculated strategy.
But I'm lying now, because this isn't about business. This is about her.
I need to be near her. I need to watch her, to learn her, study every aspect of her life until I know her better than she knows herself. I need to understand what makes her laugh, what makes her angry, what makes her moan.
I need to make her mine.
This obsession should concern me. I'm losing control, making decisions based on emotion rather than logic. But I don't care.
I've spent my entire life being controlled, strategic, patient, building an empire on discipline and restraint. And now I want something for myself, something that has nothing to do with business or power or money.
I want her.
And I'm going to have her.