Chapter 4 Gennadiy
GENNADIY
One week later
I was stripped to the waist, my body glistening with sweat. The punchbag twisted and swung, its chain creaking, as I hit it full strength, again and again. But I wasn’t looking at it. I was looking past it, through the window, and down to the street outside. I was looking at her.
It had been a week since the FBI started their surveillance.
I’d seen three other agents following me: two men, one fat and one thin, and a woman with long blonde hair.
But most of the time it was her. I’d done some digging and managed to get her first name: Alison.
So simple and plain next to the Svetlanas and Ekaterinas I was used to.
And yet my mind kept going back to it, like a smoothly perfect stone I couldn’t stop stroking.
I hated her. I hated her for being a cop. I hated her for being so slickly efficient that I couldn’t shake her, and so doggedly determined that she wouldn’t give up. I hated her for not being scared of me and for having the arrogance to think she could take me on.
Most of all, I hated her for being on my mind every minute of every day.
I scowled. Of course I thought about her constantly; she was always there, following me in her car or on that big, cherry-red motorcycle of hers.
I was having to move all my meetings indoors, away from her prying eyes.
And I couldn’t just go and inspect a growhouse, or a pill factory, or check on a cache of guns, because I’d lead her straight to them.
I had to rely on my men to do the legwork and report back, and for a control freak like me, that was agony.
So far, I’d managed to keep the investigation a secret from the rest of my family: this was my problem, and I’d solve it. But I had no idea how.
I cursed. Blyat’! I had better things to do than evade an FBI agent! There were deals to be done, new territory to take, enemies to eliminate...the anger inside me powered me, but it needed to be fed, too, and every day it demanded more and more blood.
I thumped the bag, and it rocked and spun. Alison Brooks was a royal pain in the ass, and the worst part was...I couldn’t stop looking at her.
I scowled down at her car in the darkened street outside.
I had the lights off and the blinds open in my home gym so I could watch her without her seeing me.
The streetlight outside was busted, so I had to strain my eyes to see.
I could just make out the pale curve of her neck and the dark mass of her hair, pinned up into its tight little bun.
Her face was hidden in shadow, so I couldn’t see her mouth.
I slammed my fist into the bag again. That teasing, insolent mouth, gloriously wide, her lips blush pink and just slightly pouting.
I whacked the bag with a left hook. Maybe I should get that streetlight fixed.
It was bad for security to have so many shadows.
Her white blouse was just a slash of white against the dark lines of her jacket, but I’d spent enough hours glaring at her over the past week that my mind could fill in the details.
Those upthrust little breasts, just two gentle hillocks in the white cotton.
I couldn’t stop imagining how she’d look naked, how her breasts would feel under my tongue as I lathed around and around her nipples until she was straining and begging.
Then there was that lean, athletic body.
The door of her car blocked my view below her waist, but I knew how those long, elegant legs looked in her pant suit.
..and best of all, how that tight ass looked as she walked.
I remembered how it had felt as she struggled against me at the casino.
Was that why I was getting obsessed with her, because she was a woman who could actually hold her own against me in a fight?
I felt my forehead crease. Whenever I was around her, I could feel the anger building in my chest, that dark storm begging me to let loose and destroy her.
But there were gold flecks caught in the hurricane, and the faster the anger whirled, the more I wanted to destroy her in another way.
Grab her and slam her up against something and mash my lips down on hers.
Rip her blouse and bra away and feel those pert little breasts stroke my bare chest, her nipples hard.
I’d pull her legs around me, fingers sinking into her ass, and plunge deep into her, that pouting mouth wide and gasping, moaning my name—
I punched the bag so hard the eyebolt it hung from creaked, and a crack appeared in the plaster. Chyort! I stood there scowling down at her car, panting like a bull. What’s wrong with me?
Just kill her. That was the sensible move.
Wrap my hands around her throat again, and this time not stop until her eyes lose their light.
Or even easier, call Valentin and have him slip a knife between her ribs.
It wasn’t as if she was hard to find; she was eight feet away from me every second of every day.
I grabbed my phone and weighed it in my hand, still staring down at her…
And I thought what I’d thought every night that week.
Tomorrow. I’ll kill her tomorrow.