Chapter Forty-Two
Sweet… soft… trembling flesh.
Pop!
Warm breaths, gasping. Rasping. Purring.
Pop pop!
I close my eyes tight and squeeze, ignoring it. Desperate to stay in this reverie…
“Come deep in me, baby.”
“God damn.” I bite the tip of my thumb.
“Spill it in my pussy… Manuel Blanco.”
Pop pop pa-pop pop pop!
Growling out loud, I grab the walkie, slamming down on the button and snarling into it, “Pull back! Right the fuck now.”
The gunfire stops. But I get no response.
My jaw tics. “Are we fucking clear??”
“Ten-four, sir,” Pedroia croaks over the channel, and I roll my eyes, tossing the walkie.
Sucking in a deep breath, I can finally fucking think straight again, without all that goddamn noise.
Jesus…
They don’t tell you how loud war is until it’s outside your goddamn home, twenty-four goddamn hours a day.
Slumping back in my chair, I attempt to go back to daydreaming, but it’s no use. The stupid gunfire ruined it. And I’m salty.
But no matter. It’s already nearly sundown, which means in only a few short hours, I’ll be with him again…
Mi pajarito.
For our… date.
My mouth is doing something crazy, so I force it to stop, pursing my lips into a frown. But it won’t take. I just keep smiling. I can’t stop.
I have a date…?
Really? Me??
I’ve never had a date before…
I know, that’s sort of pathetic. I’m forty-five years old, going on my first date, in my house, with my twenty-two-year-old prisoner.
Not exactly romance novel material, but we’ll make do.
I don’t even really know what to think about Angel Alvarez. It’s like everything I thought would happen if and when I eventually saw him again has been blown to smithereens by what’s actually happening. But in a good way. He’s just blowing my mind, and my body…
Lots of blowing going on.
Keeping him in the mansion right now isn’t the best of ideas, I get that.
What with everything that’s happening here—my former employees staging a coup, hijacking my prison and threatening to murder us all unless we surrender to their demands.
But truth be told, having Angelito here is making all of that much easier to deal with.
I don’t feel anywhere near as entombed in wrath as I might if I didn’t have my little bird here to flutter those long lashes at me; blink those wide, emerald eyes at me. Squirm and pout, give me orgasms and tell me he’s going to kill me.
He’s just so cute, no puedo.
But more importantly, he’s making it all so much more tolerable. Dare I say, I’m actually… happy.
Well, happier than usual. Certainly happier than I would be if I were dealing with this war without him locked away in the garden.
Maybe that’s what I should have told him… when he asked me why.
What I want from you is you, pajarito. Because you make everything better.
Yea, right. I can’t say that. Who am I, Oscar Wilde?
Keeping my head on straight right now is a must, because things are thoroughly fucked, and there’s no shying from it.
The storm really gave Jonathan the perfect opportunity to strike.
And because I was distracted by the girl I’d forgotten about in the East Wing—otherwise known as Arianna, my little bird’s sexy and salacious alter ego—and dealing with Warren and Lexington and their codependent nonsense, my plan to round up Jonathan and his team in the prison and lock them all up was too little too late.
The storm was already raging, and they were already using it to their full advantage.
Ugh.
I hate to say it, but Jonathan really impressed me. I always knew he had it in him to be this kind of leader. I just wish it didn’t take him wanting me dead to figure it out.
And now, things are tense with a capital fucking T. We’ve been shooting at each other for a week, my team mowing down prisoners who attempt to escape.
Quite frankly, they deserve it. I mean, really… where do they think they’re going to go??
They’re better off staying and fighting with Jonathan. But you can’t fix stupid, so… Here we are.
I’ve been bringing men from all over to help me shut this shit down. Ferries arriving daily, stocked to the brim with able-bodied soldiers, heavy artillery and provisions. Because if it’s a war Officer Chevelle wants, then that’s what he’ll get.
He needs to know that while this stand he’s taking is sweet, and Daddy’s proud, ultimately, he’ll be getting a good spank on the bottom, and will be sent to bed without his dinner. All metaphorical, of course.
I’m afraid it’s the only way he’ll learn.
The most irritating part of all this is that Jonathan’s seizing of the south is only the tip of the iceberg. Since the grid went down, I’ve had Governor Russo flying around my face like a goddamn gnat that just won’t die.
Apparently, he’s concerned about what’s going on over here. Worried about the condition of the island, and where the funding is going, and blah blah blah.
He’s being a nosy prick, involving himself in my business in an attempt to feel like he’s in control, when the rest of his world is on the verge of eroding.
Russo Jr. is up for reelection this year. He was all set to be running unopposed until out of nowhere, this talk, dark, and tasty Middle Eastern morsel named Zayn Mansur showed up and announced that he was running for the Democrats.
It was amazing, honestly. When I heard, I think I laughed myself out of my chair.
I could just picture Russo’s face… Being shown up by a Gen X Palestinian immigrant former small business owner turned Congressman from the 11th District, with barely a decade of political experience, and virtually no funding.
I’m sure he thought the dude would be laughed out of the running.
But so far… not quite.
Mansur hasn’t even been elected yet, and they’re already calling him “the people’s governor”.
He has the young voters, with his TikTok going viral on damn near every post. Marginalized communities love him—of course they do.
Everyone is sick of the same old political bullshit, being bought out by the wealthy and the mafia connected to keep corruption alive and well.
New York has long since been itching for a change, and Zayn Mansur came in at precisely the right moment.
I’m sure I should be worried myself, given that I doubt Mansur will offer the same kinds of exceptions for my business that the Russo’s have for decades. But honestly, I can’t find it in myself to care. I have too much going on here to worry about the future.
Too many new developments on this island have captured most of my attention.
Plus, I’m nothing if not adaptable. To paraphrase Dr. Ian Malcolm, The Ivory, uh uh uh, finds a way.
Anyway, it’s because of all this drama that Russo won’t let up.
He calls Yari every day, threatening to come out here, which he’s never done before, mind you.
Not once in the history of this island has anyone from the board come here.
But now, all of a sudden, out of the blue, Russo is desperate to check on things.
Yea, I smell an ulterior motive, and I can’t have it.
Not only is this the worst possible time for him to come here—what with the insurgency and all—but there’s something missing that I know he’ll expect to be here should he show up… A certain pouty-lipped Russian bank robber with a world of chaos in his head.
Despite what I promised Alexander when he escaped, it might be time to get Dascha back here, just in case ol’ Russo decides to pop in for a visit.
The only problem is that we can’t seem to find him.
I know. It’s ridiculous.
We tracked him down in Mexico, but when my guys down there went looking, he and Kellan Kemper—who apparently found his way to Dascha after quitting to get away from him, make it make sense—had conveniently vanished. Now they’re in the wind somewhere, and it’s not great.
I just need him to be here if Russo shows up. I’m not in the mood to find out what kinds of problems he’ll cause if he finds out Dascha escaped. And worst of all, I have to ensure Dascha remains unharmed throughout this process, otherwise his fucking father will tank my Vegas connection.
These Reznikov’s, I swear to God…
Family matters aren’t all laughable hijinks like the nineties sitcom would have you believe.
It’s all highly aggravating. Jonathan is upset, leading an army of my prisoners in an uprising against me rather than listening to reason. Dascha, the sneaky little Russian doll, is God knows where with yet another ungrateful former employee, being protected by his father—knowingly or not.
And Felix fucking Darcey, who was picked up by Byron Kang and Trevel Fenwick the night of the storm, somehow escaped their custody, and is hiding out in the woods taking out my men with a goddamn buoy knife and a prayer.
Loco, todo eso. The fact that I’m able to smile at all amongst this much stress and ruin is a true testament to Angel Alvarez’s abilities.
God, all I want is to be done with this day so that I can go get him out of his cage and bring him up here.
We don’t even need to fool around! I’d be perfectly happy just touching him, maybe sniffing his hair and watching his mouth…
Okay, I’d probably need to get between his legs at some point, but it’s not just about that.
He is positively perfect, and I’ve known this for years, since our first encounter.
Not five years ago, though I feel like I’ve known him much longer.
I suppose I have, in a sense, but that night at Club Edge, when I encountered the beautifully broken force of nature he’d become, I realized that he was the true reward.
The cartel, the power, this empire… All of it pales in comparison to what Arturo gave me in his son. Angel Alvarez.
I knew from that moment I’d do everything in my power to get my wicked Angel back. And I have. Finally, he’s right where he belongs, in his cage, tucked securely in my castle, surrounded by flowers and other little birds.