Chapter 41
Alexei
I push through the nondescript brick entrance of the Banya Club, my body still humming from this morning’s activities. Three times. We fucked three times before eleven, and I still want more.
The pressure of my gun against my lower back reminds me of the world I’m reentering, but even that can’t erase the memory of Aurora’s thighs trembling around my head just hours ago.
The doorman nods in recognition. No words necessary. This place operates on unspoken rules that keep even Chicago’s most lethal men in line.
As I pick up a pen to sign the entry book, my wedding ring glints in the dim light. The white gold band is still unfamiliar on my finger. I have a wife. When that thought hits me again, my lips curve into a smile.
This morning, I woke to wet heat around my cock, Aurora’s mouth working me in the gray dawn light. Her hair spilled across my thighs like a curtain.
At first, I wondered if I was dreaming, until she sucked me in deeper and my hips bucked off the mattress. My hands tangled in her hair, holding but not guiding as she regarded me with those beautiful green eyes.
“Good morning, husband.”
Husband. The word shot through me like electricity, prompting me to flip her onto her back. Her surprised gasp morphed into a moan as I pinned her wrists above her head and pushed inside her. Still wet from the night before. Still mine.
I fucked her slow at first, then harder as she urged me on with her legs circling my waist, her heels digging into my ass. The sunrise painted her skin gold, transforming her light brown hair into flame where it fanned across the pillow.
Mine. My wife.
The bleached blond receptionist clears her throat, dragging me back to the present. I’ve been standing here, lost in memory, for who knows how long. Forcing myself to focus, I sign my name in the ledger.
Professional.
I need to be professional.
Even as I reprimand myself, my thoughts drift back to breakfast. To Aurora bent over the kitchen table, her flowing skirt around her ankles.
She’d been preparing coffee when I, still riding the high from our morning lay, crept up behind her.
Round two started as a kiss on her neck, evolved into my hand between her legs, and concluded with her begging me to take her right there.
I can still hear her pleas. “Please, Alexei. I need you inside me.”
What else could I do but spin her around, lift her onto the table, and push her knees to her chest?
I told her to hold them, and she obeyed, gripping behind her knees and opening herself to me.
The sight of her glistening pussy, pink and perfect, stole my breath.
I dropped to the floor, buried my face between her creamy thighs, and feasted until she screamed my name.
Once she finished, I flipped her onto her stomach and rode her hard and fast while her fingernails scraped the wooden surface. She pushed back against me, meeting every thrust. The coffee went cold. We never did eat breakfast.
“Sir? Your weapon.”
I blink, focusing on the dark-skinned security guard’s outstretched hand. Right. The Banya’s most sacred rule. No weapons beyond this point. I remove the gun from the holster, check the safety, and place it in the provided lockbox.
The guard seals the box with a numbered tag that matches the one he hands me. I don’t love being disarmed, but I understand the necessity. The Banya serves as neutral ground, the one place in Chicago where enemies can meet without bloodshed. Absolute adherence to protocol helps maintain the peace.
He extends his hand. “Phone as well, sir.”
I surrender my cell, watching as it’s sealed in another box. No recordings, no calls, no outside communication. What happens in the Banya stays in the Banya.
Another rule that preserves the sanctity of this neutral territory.
The guard escorts me to the locker room, where I strip before hanging my clothes in a cedar-lined compartment. The wedding ring stays on. I catch myself staring at the way the white gold encircles my finger.
A mark of possession. Of Aurora.
I never expected to feel this way about anyone, let alone a woman I initially meant to kill.
My life has been all about violence and control, blood and death.
Now my chest aches whenever I think of Aurora’s smile, and a fierce protectiveness compels me to gut anyone who glances at her the wrong way.
No matter how many times I take her, my insatiable hunger for her is never quenched.
The mandatory shower comes next. A brutal blast of frigid water that shocks the system and cleanses both body and mind.
I duck under the spray, hissing as the icy water pummels my skin.
The cold drives away some of the lust fog that’s been clouding my brain all morning, allowing me to focus on why I’m here.
Business.
The Falcones.
The meeting Roman arranged for the day after my wedding.
My thoughts of Aurora don’t vanish entirely. Instead, they become a constant background hum, like music played just low enough to feel rather than hear. The cold water clears my head enough to remember the stakes.
Whatever the Falcones want won’t be simple or benign. Nothing with them ever is.
I shut off the water and reach for one of the thick white towels stacked nearby.
The club is silent save for the distant dripping of water and occasional hiss of steam.
I wrap the towel around my waist, the heat already building in the air.
The Banya’s main bathing floor will be even hotter, thick with humidity that soothes muscles and loosens lips.
Time to see what game the Falcones are playing.
I roll my shoulders to dispense the building tension. Three times this morning, and I still want to be back in bed with her.
But duty calls, and in my world, family always comes first.
Even if, for the first time in my life, I’m starting to wish it didn’t.
Humid air blasts me as I enter the main bathing area.
A wall of heat, steam, and the faint scent of eucalyptus.
My skin prickles, beads of sweat forming before I’ve taken three steps.
Everything here is designed to render men vulnerable.
The warmth that eases muscles and minds, the steam that obscures clear vision, the enforced near-nakedness that strips away both literal and figurative armor.
Perfect for honest negotiation. Dangerous for those with secrets.
The main floor stretches before me, all dark wood and stone. Men of various ages recline in contemplative silence or speak in hushed tones. A judge soaks in the hot pool across from a city councilman. A police commissioner sweats near the very criminal he’s worked to arrest for months.
The Banya erases divisions, creating temporary equality based on mutual disarmament. It’s why the place works. Why we all respect the location’s neutrality.
Through the thick white steam, I spy my party in one of the private suites, visible through a section of glass wall. The damp fog clinging to the glass obscures my view, but I can recognize them easily enough. As I approach, I catalogue the distinct groups within the space.
Five Falcones on one side, including their Don—Carmine Falcone—and Gio.
Our family on the other, with Roman, Vitaly, Vanya, and Kolya.
The invisible line between us might as well be drawn in blood.
Decades of rivalry, carefully maintained boundaries, and occasional violence quickly smoothed over in the interest of business.
The peace between our families has always been pragmatic rather than genuine.
Even in the midst of all those men, Roman is the focal point, always in control of the room. He wears his power like a second skin, comfortable even here, half-naked with just a towel around his waist. Despite the heat, his posture remains attentive as he listens to Carmine.
The gray-haired Falcone patriarch reclines opposite Roman, his aged body still showing the muscle of his younger days beneath sagging skin.
Even in his seventies, Carmine radiates danger.
A shark who’s survived decades in bloody waters.
Sweat mats his gray chest hair, but his calculative eyes remain sharp, missing nothing.
My gaze shifts to Gio, who’s sitting slightly behind his father. His casual posture belies the intensity in his eyes.
Gio knows something about MJ’s death. I’m certain. The question is whether this meeting will bring me any closer to that truth.
Beside Roman, Vitaly leans forward, eager to be included.
Ever since MJ died, my half-brother’s been positioning himself as Roman’s right hand, filling the void our older brother left behind.
His machinations aren’t subtle. Nothing Vitaly does ever is.
His ambition hangs around him like cheap cologne.
But he’s family, and even if his methods lack finesse, he’s loyal.
He nods at whatever Roman says, jumping in too quickly to agree.
Still the little brother desperate for approval.
Vanya sits slightly apart, lounging as if this were a day at the beach rather than a high-stakes meeting between rival families.
His easy charm works its usual magic as he draws a chuckle from one of the Falcone lieutenants.
That’s Vanya’s gift. He can get anyone to feel comfortable, lower their guard, and reveal more than they intended.
Behind that lazy smile and easy demeanor lies one of the sharpest minds in our organization. He never misses a thing.
I pause, assessing the situation before I enter. The body language suggests this isn’t a hostile negotiation.
At least not overtly.
I see no tension in their shoulders, no hands curled into unconscious fists. Conversation flows, punctuated by occasional laughter. A friendly meeting on the surface. But in our world, surface appearances mean nothing.
The deadliest discussions often happen with smiles and handshakes.