Chapter 19
Mikhail
At two in the morning, I’m sitting across from an empty seat in a private booth at The Hive. After leaving Cecilia at the penthouse with her pizza, I was supposed to meet Massimo in the same old bar as last time—only he didn’t come.
Instead, an anonymous text dragged me to the high-end gentlemen’s club with precise instructions of where to sit and how long to wait.
If they had mentioned a different location, I would’ve brought Rodion and Niko, but here is a no-man’s-land for the corrupt powers of this country, which means no one enters with knives or guns. The message promised me intel on the Italians’ situation. So, I took the bait.
Red light flashes across my face, bringing in curls of cigar smoke from the other booths.
You can’t see who’s meeting whom—the place is designed in such a way that privacy is paramount.
Somewhere behind that black curtain in the back, you get to hire honeypots for whatever reason you can think of—many of the wives of dead governors, senators, and mafia heads are rumored to have been spies.
As I sit here trying to stay alert, thoughts of Cecilia invade my mind like a storm hitting the Himalayas.
Her in that gorgeous fucking white dress, waiting for my reaction with big doe eyes.
Her playing the piano at her recital, spotting me in the crowd.
Her lying by my side when she thought I was dying, caring for me with concern I hadn’t earned.
My fingers drum on the table, tracing the lines of her collarbone in my imagination. She let me touch her, let me buy her food, and take her shopping, and…flirt. I fucking flirted with my future wife, and she surprised me in the most delicious way when she flirted back.
“What if you’ll corrupt me? What then?”
I knew better than to give her the real answer. That me corrupting her wouldn’t be the problem, but the other way around. Because let’s be for fucking real right now…
She’s beautiful beyond past or modern expectations.
She’s kind. And talented. And has a backbone that makes me want to drag that feisty mouth to mine.
She’s a mixture of sweet, na?ve, and fierce, with a past so dark and tragic, it adds to the power I know she harbors inside her.
All this fuels the madness in my head, and I have a dreadful feeling only a bullet could stop it.
Leaning back in my seat, I huff out a frustrated sigh as an unknown figure steps into my booth—a man. Brown eyes, buzz cut. No tattoos, no rings, nothing out of the ordinary. Impossible to place within any of the crime families. I watch him sit down and dip his hand into his chest pocket.
“Your informant is dead,” he mutters.
I quirk a brow, acting like I don’t know what he’s talking about. “My informant?”
He slides a small piece of paper over to me across the table. I watch him first without touching it, searching his eyes for anything that might reveal his game. Still nothing. So, I tilt the paper up toward me before staring down.
Shit. Fuck.
“Yeah, I’m going to need more than that,” I tell him, although at this point, I’m bluffing. The reason Massimo didn’t show up to our regular meeting place is, apparently, because he’s fucking dead.
“I’m here on behalf of a senator. And before you ask for a name, it’s not important right now. What’s important is we would like to sponsor your efforts debilitating power on the West Coast. We were already working with your informant.”
“Who killed him?”
“Say yes to working with us, and I’ll be able to share more information.”
“How did he die?” I insist, remembering what Massimo told me about the other Capo who disappeared, something about a note written in blood on a coffee table—always family. I can’t help but wonder if whoever did that also killed him.
A pause, and then—“Again, say yes to working with us…”
I stand, buttoning my suit and stopping next to him. “Pretty sure you’re not here on behalf of a senator. And we don’t work with the feds. Have a terrible evening.”
I exit the club into the cold New York weather, pulling out my phone as I walk to my car. This news—if it’s real—couldn’t have come at a worse fucking time. If Antonio hears both his Capo and his underboss are dead, he’ll be looking for someone to blame. He might even think it was us.
“Sorry to ruin your beauty sleep,” I say when I hear the call connect to my brother, “but we might be in deep shit right now.”
A deep groan sounds from the other end. “Talk to me.”
“Well, how do I put this? Antonio’s underboss is dead. And I know this because the feds, of all people, summoned me to The Hive tonight.”
“You mean the only leverage we had to take Chicago back is gone.”
I open the door to my Bentley and get in the driver’s seat. “Possibly. I haven’t fact-checked yet, but I was supposed to meet him, and he didn’t show up.”
“Fuck.”
Fuck, indeed.
“You know what this means, right?” Wolf asks. “The wedding needs to be tomorrow, or Antonio might go as far as thinking we did it. And instead of a city for either of us to rule, we’ll have a fucking massacre.”
“Already taking care of the details,” I say, texting Rodion and Niko at the same time. “Get Antonio to New York by tomorrow. I’ll figure out the rest.”
And I do. By the time I get back to the penthouse, I’ve already made sure Cecilia’s dress is ready at dawn. Niko is currently at the store, pointing a gun at the stylist while she works her magic. It’s not all bad—I’m paying her a hundred fucking grand for the inconvenience.
Meanwhile, Rodion is on his way to the priest’s house, and I’ve already cleared the church—Catholic—and paid another few hundred grand to rebook the venue for the reception and everything it entails.
When we arranged the marriage, Antonio was adamant about doing things right, in their tradition, so I couldn’t get away with just the religious crap.
But now, this actually works out in our favor.
He needs to see we’re serious about this wedding.
Only when the elevator doors open into the penthouse do I tilt my head back and sigh. Fuck. Of all the things that could’ve happened tonight, I didn’t expect that. It complicates things.
The place is dark and quiet except for the faint hum of the electronics. The pizza boxes are stacked neatly where Cecilia left them, along with the soft light in the hallway. I step toward it, the main bedroom door slightly ajar, allowing the shadows to stretch inside.
And there she is.
Curled up on the side in my bed, wearing my shirt, Cecilia is sound asleep—vulnerable, small, frowning under whatever nightmare seizes her mind again.
A pained moan escapes her, signaling her dreams are probably ramping up. My cock shouldn’t harden at the sound of it, and I shouldn’t imagine her in that white dress, spreading her perfect legs for me., but here we fucking are.
If I were a good man, I’d slide under those sheets and wrap my arms around her frail body, tell her she’s safe and lull her back to a peaceful sleep. Too bad I’m a heartless bastard who only thinks about the warm pussy she’s hiding underneath the covers.
Another complication I haven’t anticipated.
I mean, sure, I’ve thought about fucking Cecilia before, but I always brushed it off as craving any pussy after spending so much time down in that basement. Now, I’m beginning to suspect that’s not the reason. Why else have I not fucked anyone since stalking her?
Her chest dips and rises under the charcoal sheets, hair splayed out across the pillow.
I’ve never had a woman sleep in this bed, the image unfamiliar but oddly satisfying.
Still, I can’t let myself touch her, which drives me fucking crazy.
Because I want to. God, I want to. I know she’d feel incredible.
But what then? Things would get too messy between us.
She’d distract me to an insurmountable amount.
Ever since I made contact with Cecilia, my head’s been all over the place, in fact. My thoughts constantly revolve around her. Even now, I’m asking myself things I shouldn’t be concerned about when I have shit to deal with that’s so much more important.
First of all, why is Lucia Donatello trying to manipulate her? Telling her she’s not good enough to perform on stage when she’s fucking brilliant, convincing her to wear that ugly-ass dress when it was clear she hated it from the get-go?
My soon-to-be wife might be too close to that woman to see her for what she is, but I’m not. I know people like her—sly, overly sweet, performative. I’m not going to sit by and let her dig her claws into Cecilia’s mind any longer.
Secondly, why are Antonio’s men disappearing with clues that point to it being an inside job? If whoever is responsible is working their way up to the top, maybe Cecilia is also in their line of sight. I can’t allow that—I won’t. She’s mine now, and I fucking dare anyone to try to get to her.
The one question that trumps all of them, however, is…what the hell happens when this angel of a woman remembers there’s a devil lurking beneath those innocent eyes?