Chapter Fifteen
In which some things are worth walking bow-legged for.
Violet…
I was wrong. The issue is not having trouble walking after waking up the next morning. I have trouble even standing upright after sliding off the counter.
Roman wraps an arm around my waist as he runs his finger up our combined finish dripping down my thigh, giving me the filthiest look as he puts it in his mouth, tasting us together.
My shaking hands are useless, trying to get my bra back in place and he brushes my clumsy fingers aside and putting me back to – more or less – someone who didn't look like she had been fucking her host/guy she hired to kill her stepfather. Buttoning up his jeans, Roman looks a little feral.
"I want to do that again," he says. "Right now."
Wincing as I take a step, I say, "Flattering.
But I'm going to need to get the feeling back in my legs first." Something he said earlier hits me.
"Wait. You said you knew I was clean and on birth control.
" I put my hand up as his mouth opens. "I do not want to know right now how you know that. But, are you clean?"
Roman smooths my hair away from my face. "Yes. I was tested last month. But I've never had sex without a condom before."
Gaping up at him, "Really? You're, what- thirty? And you've always worn a condom?"
"Twenty-nine and yes. I've never had sex without one and you…" His voice drops to a growl. "Make it worth being careful all these years. The feel of you around my cock…"
Noting with some alarm that he's getting hard again, I take a step back. "We should go." He watches me take another pathetic step, tottering like a baby fawn, and scoops me up, shouldering his way through the door.
"Put me down!" I hiss, mortified as two of the Morozov employees pretend they don't see their boss carrying me through the lobby.
A horrible thought occurs to me as he puts me into the Bugatti.
"Please God, please," I moan. "Please tell me there's not a security camera in that range? You're so big on cameras."
"There's not," he says, looking over his shoulder and backing us out of the parking space.
"Are you lying to me?"
"Yes."
"Sweet Mother of Mercy and all the angels and saints!" My head sinks into my shoulders like a turtle's. "We're like some sort of terrible OnlyFans show! Who could see it? Did the guys at the counter see it?"
His warm hand lands on my thigh. "Sweet Violet, do you really think I would let anyone see you like that, other than me?
I'd already disabled the camera before we came onto the range.
I wanted you to learn how to shoot in privacy.
" He glances over as we hit a red light.
"Though I did enjoy the finish even more than the gun play.
" He considers it. "Maybe more like foreplay, eh?
If that's the case, I'm gonna buy you twenty-seven guns and take you shooting every day.
I will strip this city clean of ammunition. "
I'm laughing helplessly. "Is that Bratva humor?"
"I like this brazen side of you, Violet," he says, patting my hand approvingly.
"Well, I hope you enjoyed it," I say. "Because I'm going back to Sane and Rational Violet now, thank you very much."
I'm lying.
Just sitting next to him and seeing those thighs, thick with muscle and his competent hands on the steering wheel, I already know I would jump back on that dick in the middle of Madison Avenue during rush hour.
Back at Roman's house, Iris and Rose are lounging in the living room, snacking from a huge plate of pastries no doubt brought by one of the bloodthirsty Bratva men that they're turned into their minions.
"Hey!" I snap. "No eating in the living room. You're making me look bad, like I didn't raise you with any manners."
"But we get to eat in the living room at your place," Rose points out.
"That's because my living room is also my kitchen." I say.
"It's also your hallway," Iris adds, "and the vestibule."
"What is a vestibule?" Rose says.
"I don't know," Iris admits. "I just think it sounds cool and Violet's apartment is too tiny to have a separate vestibule."
Sniffing as I walk closer, I ask, "What is that smell? It's like one of those candles you put out to repel mosquitoes."
Iris looks wounded. "That's my new perfume! I'm searching for my signature scent."
"Unless your only intention is repelling insects," I say, waving my hand in front of my nose, "You might want to reconsider.
" Glancing down at the table, I see six different bottles of perfumes scattered there.
Two I recognize and have names like Dior and Prada that guarantee they cost over a thousand dollars.
"Where did you get these? Remember we're saving money for college? "
"Oh they came in this big sample box. All the girls were trying them out at school." Rose waves her hand. "It was like some introductory sale."
Just then, her nostrils flare slightly, her brow arching and I step backward in a hurry, edging towards the stairway. I know I smell like sweat and sex.
"Where have you two been? I thought we couldn't leave the house," Iris asks.
"I took your sister shooting," Roman says, picking up one of the bottles and sniffing at it. His face scrunches up in distaste before setting it down again. "Don't use that one either. It smells like a wet cat on a hot summer afternoon."
Rose moves that bottle over to the discard pile. "I want to learn how to shoot."
Roman shakes his head. "You two are dangerous enough. You can strip a man's will to live within twenty minutes. Your charm is deadly enough."
I haul myself up the stairs, wincing on each tread as he gives me an out, bantering with the girls and keeping them busy.
Showering, I slide my hands down my thighs.
I have never been tossed around in someone's arms like that, never been impaled on something so big I was concerned it would pierce a lung.
My center still aches and burns, but in the best possible post-orgasmic way, those last tingles refusing to leave.
As I undress for my shower, I look at my breasts in the mirror. They're still red from being treated so harshly, my nipples sore from being tugged. The sharp pain and the shock of Roman slapping my tender breasts made me come.
This is… I never thought about myself like this, adventurous, someone who could mix pain and pleasure to make an orgasm so explosive that I'm still recovering.
Roman is right. We should definitely do this again.
I don't let myself think about the complications this could create. I don't think about the fact that I just had torrid, spectacular sex with a Bratva assassin. Instead, I remember how good it felt, the thick, hard slide of him inside me and a tiny orgasm shivers through me again.
Roman…
Violet is glowing. I don't think any woman has ever walked out of Sinful Secrets looking as satiated as Violet does now. A vivid image of tying her up in intricate knots, suspending her from a hook in the bondage room, just the two of us, is making my cock unhelpfully hard again.
I kept busy and out of temptation's way with family business all afternoon, but by midnight I'm heading further downtown.
The Chads are not particularly difficult to find.
Many extremely wealthy assholes enjoy having people know they live across from Central Park, or on 57th Street.
This particular Chad lives in an uninspiring steel and glass skyrise with only perfunctory security.
The resident's co-op fees are going to waste.
Picking his front door lock is almost hilariously easy.
He's the type of asshole who keeps another house up in Connecticut, commuting there on the weekends so he can go rowing on the Lower Connecticut River.
No doubt he's planning on stashing Violet there, keeping her trapped like a hothouse flower so she'll bloom only for him.
This pisses me off so much that I make another trip through the living room, looking for something to destroy.
Alexsey is a gifted artist, and he's taught me enough to suspect the Degas painting hanging over the mantel is genuine.
It is a tempting target. With a sigh, I put my knife away.
Alexsey would never forgive me for desecrating an original.
Maybe I'll carve into The Chad instead.
Making my way to the bedroom, I settle in a chair across from his ridiculously elaborate bed. This asshole sleeps in pajamas. Could he be any more white bread? Royal blue Gucci pajamas, matching his slippers.
There's a heavy silver picture frame on the little table next to me; an image of him and three buddies on - of course - the golf course, posing next to Tiger Woods, preening.
The Chads are, at any rate. Tiger Woods wears a look of bleak resignation.
Tossing the picture across the room, it slams against his shoulder and he sits up with a pained yelp, looking around the room.
"Oh, good you're awake," I say. Not that I'm shy, but I have my balaclava pulled down over my face because there's no reason to give him a clue as to who's watching over Violet.
"I will cooperate," he says, blank blue eyes watching me. He's surprisingly calm for a civilian who woke up to find a masked intruder in his bedroom. "I don't keep a lot of cash here. I have a couple of watches - good ones - a Louis Vuitton and a vintage Rolex-"
"I don't want your fucking watches." I cut him off, strolling over to the bed, flipping my stiletto to let him see the gleaming, razor-sharp tip as I catch it. "Did you know, Colin, that a blade like this can peel the skin off a man's muscle and bone as cleanly as skinning a rabbit?"
Colin stares at me, expressionless.
I slap him and he puts his hand up to his cheek, shocked, as if no one has ever struck him before. He really needs another one, so I backhand the other side of his face, too.
"What do you want?" he says, tight-lipped.
Oh, I just need your cooperation," I say, seating myself next to him on the bed, tapping my blade across his cheek.
I'm a bit careless because it opens a small gash underneath his jawline and a trickle of blood drips onto his 5,000 count linen sheets.
"You've been a predatory prick," I say pleasantly.
"Chasing after girls half your age? Now ordinarily, your pathetic midlife crisis is really no concern of mine.
In this case, though, you're bothering my client. "
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," he says. "Can you be more specific?"
"This will be your only warning." I trace the stiletto over his neck, watching his pulse thunder in his neck.
Such a juicy vein, it would take seconds to sever it.
"First, you will leave Violet and her sisters alone.
You will not attempt to contact them again.
Whatever genuinely fucked-up plan you might've had for matrimony will no longer include them. "
"You misunderstand. We look after family at Pinnacle Ventures –"
"Shut up. Do I look like I'm an investor?" I put my gloved hand around his throat, squeezing the sides of his neck. Not too hard, just enough to make it clear how easy it would be to choke him out in seconds. "You don't get near the Monroe girls again. Am I clear?"
"Crystal."
This country-club motherfucker is a wasteland. No expression. No inflection in his tone. Did I hit him too hard with that picture frame?
"Second thing. Where is Jack?"
His brows knit, possibly in genuine confusion. I examine him for a minute before releasing my grip enough to let him pull in a gasping breath. "I don't know," he says. "He got injured during a mugging. He's seeing a specialist in London, I believe."
"You don't know where one of your senior managers is?"
"Jack was in fear for his life. Understandably shaken after his encounter." Colin pulls the sheet up to staunch the blood on his neck. "He took a brief leave of absence to receive medical treatment. I can give you his phone number."
I burst into laughter.
"It would be best for the future of Summit Ventures if you terminate Jack's employment," I say.
"Pinnacle. It's Pinnacle Ventures," Colin corrects me. This fucker is seconds away from getting his throat sliced open and he's concerned that I'm not getting the company name right.
Priorities.
"I think you'll find that at this point," I say, "that Jack's more of a liability than an asset. And venture capital firms are all about liability and assets, correct?"
"I'd have to take it before the board." Colin says. My knife goes to his throat again and he raises his hands. "You've been clear. I don't wish to know anything about your dealings with him. It's between the two of you."
"Remember what I said. When Jack attempts to return to work, you hand him a small severance package. Nothing fancy. You kick his fucking ass out of the city. If I have to come back, I will make both of you regret it. Very deeply. Am I clear?"
Colin hesitates for a moment as his natural entitlement rises back to the surface. This time I punch him in the stomach, hard enough to hear his ribs creak. It's almost musical.
"Do. You. Understand?" I speak slowly, precisely.
"Yes! Yes," he chokes out. "I understand. We're a reputable business. We don't want to be involved in anything illegal."
"Illegal? Are you fucking kidding me?" I laugh, "A venture capital firm? Remember what I've said. You don't want me coming back."
Colin doesn't have an emergency button on his security system, which is a sloppy oversight for a multi-millionaire. I don't think he'll be calling the police after my visit, but I'm spiteful enough to pull his phone from its charger and crush it under my boot.
Grabbing his head, I knock it briskly against his expensive walnut headboard. He's unconscious before he hits the mattress. Strolling out of his ostentatious apartment, I pause, knocking over a sculpture, some modern piece of shit that I'm pretty sure is worth a million or two.
It's the little things that make my job so enjoyable.