Chapter 16
Mikhail
I’m fresh out of convalescence, peeling off an asshole’s vocal cords with a sharp knife.
Images of my last night with Cecilia come back to me, overshadowing the sight of the flesh I’m dangling in front of a dying man. The feel of her body—warm, soft, tormented by her own mind—yanks on something inside me, demanding constant fucking attention.
So much so, I decided to join Niko on his killing spree.
He wouldn’t tell me what we’re really doing at this warehouse—something about a traitor from his past, but I didn’t really care for the details.
I just needed an outlet. An extracurricular to clear my mind and get back to my ways.
Though I might as well have not come here at all.
It’s not working.
Why the fuck did I help her? And why did I let her help me?
My soon-to-be wife is in my house, on my sheets, infecting my world like wildfire.
First, she helps me come back from the dead, and then she runs from me like it means nothing.
She bargains with me, tries to topple me all the damn time.
The little bird has claws, I’ll give her that.
They scratch nice and deep, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.
Still, I shouldn’t have been that close to her. Shouldn’t have hovered like some fucking idiot. I let myself want, and that’s exactly why I need to get my shit together.
The man at my feet—a Russian from Magadan in his forties—gargles, unintelligible sounds coming out of his mouth. My hands are coated with warm blood that keeps on flowing, the stench stronger than that of his piss and vomit from earlier. I don’t mind it. It tells me the job is almost done.
“See, that’s exactly how I know we’re not finished. You’re still talking.” I dig my fingers into his throat, pulling out the last vocal cord like a piece of string before throwing it to the side.
“I see you haven’t lost your touch,” Niko says from somewhere behind me.
“I’ve only been gone a few weeks. Not a lifetime.”
When we were kids, Pyotr—whom my father paid to train us—had me and Wolfgang beat each other’s record time while practicing this exact job.
The knife had to be sharp enough, and we had to be careful not to actually kill the man.
Once the cords were removed, we had to sew him so he could continue his life in agony, living with an improvised neck stoma.
Of course I haven’t lost my fucking touch.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I wipe a hand on my jeans to take it out, standing from the crouched position I was in. The screen flashes an unknown number, and I pick up, placing it at my ear.
“We’re sending over someone to take care of the wedding details,” Cesare says through the speaker.
“Ah, the world’s most insipid criminal,” I mock, walking over to the tray of torture objects and picking up a rag. “The wedding is being taken care of. Anything else?”
“Did I fucking stutter, Rykov? We’re sending someone over. Don Ferrara wants Cecilia’s teacher to chime in on particulars.”
Right. The Hive retiree—Lucia Donatello.
“Such as?” I ask.
“The dress. The bridal suite. Things I’m sure you don’t really care about.”
I don’t. And Victoria doesn’t seem too eager to help organize this wedding as long as I’m forcing Cecilia to be my bride. Tough luck.
“Fine.” I sigh. “Send her over to my penthouse in Manhattan. I’ll bring Cecilia there tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Or… you could give us your real location since you already know our address. We’re allies now, are we not?”
I smile. Looks like the consigliere isn’t too sold on this alliance either. “Allies, yes. But that doesn’t make me an idiot. I’ll text you the details. Now, is that all?”
“If I find you’ve laid a fucking finger on Cecilia—”
I roll my eyes, shutting down the call.
“I’m out,” I tell Niko, who is tending to the Russian in the same corner. “Have fun with whatever it is you’re chasing.”
He doesn’t turn to look at me, but the amusement in his voice is clear as day. “Oh, I am.”
I’m in a no-name bar in the Bronx, face to face with the Cosa Nostra traitor. Wearing a three-piece suit with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, Massimo Bellini surveys the space from the usual table we always share.
The scent of cheap beer hangs thick in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of stronger alcohol. A barely perceptible twitch at the corner of his eye betrays the wheels turning in his mind.
“One of the Capi went missing. Probably dead by now,” he murmurs low enough so no one can hear, despite the loud soccer game blasted on TV nearby.
I quirk a brow. “Hm. I would’ve expected Antonio to blame it on us. Unless he’s keeping the information for later.”
“Nah. It was an inside job. Whoever took him left us a hint.”
“What kind?”
“Sempre famiglia. Always family. Written in blood on his coffee table.”
I take a sip from my drink. “And what does that have to do with anything?”
Massimo drums his fingers on the table. “I have reason to believe this is someone we haven’t met yet. Maybe a distant relative of Antonio’s, and this is just my assumption, but it could complicate things if he wants to take over the business.”
Indeed, it could. One of our goals with this so-called alliance is to replace Antonio with someone we can influence in the long run. That won’t be Massimo, of course, but he doesn’t have to know it just yet. Not before we take back Chicago.
“Who told you this might be someone we haven’t met?” I ask.
“Lucia Donatello. She knows more than she’s letting on.”
“Does she now?” I had a feeling the retired honeypot wasn’t done scheming. They never are. “Anything I should know about this woman?” I ask.
Massimo shrugs impassively. “Don’t know. She came to the Ferrara estate once or twice since you took the girl. I overheard her saying she was afraid she’d ‘remember things.’ Whatever that means.”
My ears perk up.
As far as I know, Antonio wanted to protect Cecilia—or his reputation—so he made sure her crime wasn’t made public, and told everyone his wife died of a heart attack.
But gauging from what this fucker is telling me, it sounds like maybe Lucia knows more about that night.
Does that mean Antonio confided in her? Why would he do that?
Most importantly, does this woman know something about my Lastochka that I don’t?
Victoria: Don't be late.
I groan as I read the text from thirty minutes ago. Out of all the things that could’ve happened tonight, my sister-in-law has suddenly decided to host a family dinner. Because what a big, happy family we are. She says she wants Cecilia to feel welcome in our house.
As if.
My Lastochka would rather throw herself out of the window than befriend any of us. Understandably so. I know it, and Victoria knows it, which is why the whole thing is so unnecessary. Except, maybe, I wouldn’t mind seeing Cecilia squirm again.
I walk through the main door of my brother’s wing, entering the foyer and taking off my coat.
Corinne greets me somewhere along the way, throwing me a cutting glance for being late.
I refrain from rolling my eyes and mosey into the dining room, where my brother and his wife are seated at the ends of the table.
When they see me, their demeanor changes from all lovey-dovey to sulking and slowly shaking their heads.
“One time,” Wolf says. “One time, we ask you to be on time, and you still show up late.”
I plop down in one of the chairs, ignoring him. “So, where is she? Where is my wife?”
Victoria and Wolf share a knowing look, and then she glances at me. “She didn’t want to come.”
I smile. “That so?”
“Maybe this was too soon for her,” she adds. “Where are you going?”
“To get her, of course. You said family dinner, no?” I stand.
“Yes, but…”
“Let him,” Wolf says. “She needs to know we mean no harm. And we’re already here anyway.”
I hurry upstairs, perhaps a little too eagerly, and when I reach her bedroom door—my bedroom door—I stop, cracking my neck, and wait for my impatience to seep out of me. I listen for any small sounds, but she’s completely still, utterly silent.
I picture her in my bed, rolled to the side, her hands between those creamy thighs and tears swarming her eyes, her long hair splayed all over my pillow, waiting to be pulled into my fist and—
Fuck. I look down at my cock, the hard bulge undeniable. Look what she’s doing to me. I should leave her alone, stay as far away as possible, but my hand still goes looking for the key in my pocket. As expected, she locked the door.
When I open it, I’m faced with her petite figure directly in front of me, arms crossed and eyes glazed with fury.
“You gave me this room,” she says in place of greeting. “Why are you acting like it’s still yours? You can’t just enter whenever you feel like it.”
My lips twitch upward. “Of course I can. I just did.”
She scoffs, her nostrils flaring as she avoids my gaze and walks further into the room, giving me her back.
“Come down for dinner,” I say.
“I am too tired.”
“Lie.”
“I am!” she protests. “Besides, I’m nothing to you or your family, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
I let out a sigh, pretending to be exasperated, when in reality, I fucking love the way she’s trying to topple me. “Come here, Lastochka.”
She shakes her head, but the low, no-bullshit tone of my voice has her throat bobbing as she swallows. “I am not hungry.”
“You are either tired or not hungry. Which is it?” I pause, but she doesn’t answer. “I said come here, and Cecilia? Look at me.” She does. “I won’t ask again.”
Her lips tighten, her hands clenching at her sides until, eventually, she starts walking to me, head held high, as if she’s not scared of the consequences. Too bad the tremor in her hands gives her away.
“Good girl,” I drawl, watching her chest expand as she sucks in a breath.
I cock my head, my own blood coursing a little faster through my veins.
I praised her like this before, but I’ve never seen the effects it had on her body.
Now that we’re out of that dark basement, it’s clear as day. She fucking likes it.
“Either you go downstairs on your terms, or I’m going to carry you there, put you in my lap like a pet, and force feed you in front of everyone. Decide.”
Her pretty eyes hood over with a scowl. “You are insufferable. An egocentric, perverted man who has no idea how to treat a woman!”
“Very well then.” I step into her right as she moves to the side, walking past me and out into the hallway. I chuckle, appreciating her defiance, but my fingers itch with need. They would’ve liked to wrap around her flesh and squeeze as I carried her, but I should be pleased, I guess.
It’s better this way. The longer I spend in her presence, the more curious I get, and fuck knows I can’t allow that. So why is it, then, that the second we’re down into the dining and seated next to each other, she’s all I want to look at?
“So,” Victoria smiles, swirling the wine in her glass, “we heard you play the piano. How long has it been?”
Cecilia looks down at her untouched plate, her voice barely a whisper. “A while,” she says.
Every now and then, she glances at my brother, her brows knitting a little in worry.
She’s heard of him on the West Coast, I imagine.
The fact that he’s Pakhan, combined with the hint of brutality in his stance, must be frightening her.
Wolf would never hurt her, no matter our history.
We might go behind each other’s backs and fight like rabid dogs, but our dynamic is confined to just the two of us.
It’s an unwritten rule: wives, friends, girlfriends stay out of it. Always.
I wrap my hand around the armrest and pull her chair closer with a groan across the floor. Her thigh is touching mine now, the warmth of her body impossible to ignore. Everything in me screams to lay her across this table, pull her pants down, and feast on her virgin pussy until she comes.
I clench my jaw and smile, masking it the best way I know. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Veal not your favorite?”
Her back straightens. “Veal is fine.”
“So eat,” I say, slowly sliding my hand up her thigh under the table, reminding her of my earlier threat.
Her chest locks in, her eyes wide as she glances over to me.
She won’t make a sound. I know that, because she’s been groomed to stay small, especially in front of strangers.
We’ll rectify that eventually. Right now, though, I’m giving her a distraction.
As well as giving myself a reason to touch her.
Slowly, she picks up her knife and fork and starts cutting into the meat with jittery movements. I move my hand lower until I reach her knee, caressing it in slow, gentle circles.
“Cecilia,” Wolf says. She looks up at him, holding his gaze now, as if my touch is giving her strength. Or that’s how I choose to see it, at least. “I understand things turned out differently from the way you wanted.”
A small, barely audible scoff.
“But this is your home now, and I want you to know you’re safe here,” my brother continues.
“I am?” she asks. “Because you almost killed your own brother in this house not too long ago. If it wasn’t for your wife calling the doctor—”
His jaw clenches. “What happens between me and Mikhail is none of your concern. He knew the consequences after what he did at your father’s estate.
This is our world, and you’ll have to accept it.
The sooner you do that, the better. But no one here wants to harm you—it wouldn’t be in their best interest to even try. ”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’ll break every fucking bone in their body if they so much as look at you the wrong way,” I tell her.
She turns to me, and her lips part, drawing my gaze there.
My heartbeat picks up, heat coiling around my chest like poison ivy.
Her thighs—does she realize she parted them?
My cock twitches, and it’s an excruciating fucking effort to take my hand off her knee and pretend I’m no longer interested.
My body remains wired all the way through dinner, until, half an hour later, my soon-to-be wife excuses herself.
When she gets up to leave, the floral scent of her long hair floats between us, and, like an invisible thread, she wraps a spell around me, pulling tighter the longer I breathe her into my lungs.