Lord of Passion (The Bratva Lords #4)

Prologue

In which we meet the most horrifying suitor in modern history.

Johann…

Straightening my tie and shrugging on my jacket, I check my appearance in the enormous gold-gilded mirror in the entryway of the Presidential Suite.

Black hair, swept back into a ponytail. Check.

Pale blue eyes, looking almost normal again. Check.

Holding up my hands, I examine my fingernails and the calluses to be certain that there is no blood I'd missed when scrubbing them. Clean. Check.

All in all, I look almost… Human.

Picking up the phone, I place a call to the VIP concierge's desk.

"Mr. Johann, how may I help you, sir?" The voice is warm and solicitous, trained to make people like me happy.

"I would like fifty pounds of ice delivered to my suite," I say, strolling over to look out the window at Boston Harbor. The water is choppy tonight, the wind is rising. I can hear it screaming around the tower of The Four Seasons, the Presidential Suite perched at the very top.

There's a short pause.

"Fifty pounds of ice, Sir?" she asks, uncertain.

"Yes," I say crisply. "I've received a special shipment of meat- a bit earlier than I'd planned," I chuckle. "I need to be certain that it stays fresh until I leave tomorrow."

"Well, we would be happy to store it for you in one of our refrigerated meat lockers." She's eager to solve my problem.

"No worry," I say, "it's all contained. I simply require the ice. Ah, also, send up the Assistant Manager, would you? I have a couple of questions about the suite."

"Of course," she says, her tone going back to professional. "I will have Miss Basha and the ice up to your suite within ten minutes, is that acceptable?"

I'm looking in the mirror again and my eyes flicker. In a past life, I was a lizard, I'm certain, and the nictating membrane somehow stayed, flipping my eyes from reptilian to human and back again.

"Yes, that will be acceptable." I hang up and smooth my hands over my hair again, feeling uncharacteristically as well as unpleasantly giddy. There's nothing to be excited about.

This is simply what is owed to me.

At exactly nine and a half minutes, the elevator opens and my bodyguard Morris steps back for the two kitchen workers pushing the rolling cart with fifty pounds of ice in tubs. They are followed by a tall woman, dressed in a sharp blue suit. Her name tag identifies her as Caroline Basha.

"Good evening, Mr. Johann," she says cheerfully. "I hope you're well this evening?"

I think of what is waiting for me in the bathtub and I fight back a shiver of excitement. "Quite well, Caroline, and you?"

Her smile slips slightly as I use her first name. "Just fine, thank you. How can I help you tonight? Our concierge said that you had questions?"

I wait until my bodyguard has directed the confused kitchen workers to leave the ice in the hall between the master bedroom and bath, and hands them a hundred-dollar bill as they leave.

He returns to his position by the elevator door, hands folded, expressionless.

He's perfected this look after years of countless atrocities, never deviating from his professional stance.

"Well, Caroline, if you would sit down for a moment?

" I say, sweeping one hand toward the seating area in the living room.

It's huge, lined with tall windows showing the magnificent view of the harbor.

Her eyes narrow very slightly, and she looks me up and down, back at the bodyguard, then sweeping around the living room, possibly for threats.

Clever girl, I think. So clever, perhaps she is worthy.

"Of course," she says, seating herself, hands folded in her lap as I take the chair across from her.

"I want you to know, Caroline, that I put a great deal of thought into this," I say, leaning back and steepling my fingers. "To be frank, your disadvantages are many, including that the Bashas are a somewhat lesser family in our world."

When I speak of our world, her body freezes, like a bucket of slush has been poured over her.

"And of course," I say, examining my fingernails again. Is that blood wedged on the corner of my index finger? "The matter of your brothers being such disappointment. I know this must be terribly embarrassing for you and your family's reputation."

Her hands tighten into fists and I see her thighs tense under the blue wool of her suit, as if she's ready to bolt for the elevator, or possibly punch me. "Where are you going with this, Mr. Johann?" she says, calmer than I expected and that pleases me to no end.

"You are painfully aware that you no longer have a place in our society." I continue, "And you think, perhaps, that it is presumptuous of me to bring this up."

Caroline is leaning forward now, like an arrow ready to be shot out of a bow.

Her eyes sweep in the room again, looking for a way out.

The elevator in the marble entry. I am sure she also knows about the emergency exit through the master bedroom to the stairwell, and most likely, the fire escape extending from the kitchen's sliding doors.

She wouldn't have time to reach any of them, of course.

"I do not say these things to upset you, dear," I smile as gently as I can, but I can feel the excitement swirling at the base of my spine.

I wish I could have one of my knives right now, to spin it on my palm, check the weight and balance.

If I could play with one of my blades, it would keep me calmer, but for the moment, I am in my human skin.

"I am simply stating that you can see there were many things for me to consider before approaching you with my generous offer of marriage –"

"Excuse me?" she shoots to her feet, eyes wide.

"Please, sit down for a moment," I say. I am trying to look soothing, but based on her expression it's not working. "I assure you, I have no intention of causing harm."

To you, I think with a silent giggle.

"But the matter is simple, I'm in need of a wife.

You are beautiful and well-recommended despite your recent unfortunate family history.

I will give you anything that you need or want and I assure you, I will be a good husband.

You will associate with the right kind of people.

You deserve that, instead of serving others in your position here. "

My lip curls with distaste before I can stop it. "My wife, having to visit the suites of strangers, doing something so pedestrian as delivering ice, making arrangements for opera tickets or handling someone's detestable little 'service dog'. You are meant for better things than that."

Her lovely eyes are glowing, luminous. Not exactly the fear I expected, more like fury. "This conversation is inappropriate," she says, still sounding calm. "I don't know who you are, other than the information listed on your check-in, but I have no interest in finding out."

I stand up, feeling disappointed, even though I knew she would respond in this way. But foolishly, I'd had a vision that she would fall into my arms and thank me, offering her beautiful face up for a kiss in gratitude for my offer to restore her to organized crime society. But she has her pride.

"You're proud," I say approvingly. "It's one of the things that I admire about you. But given time for some reflection, I think you will find that my offer is very generous."

I pull a ring box out of my jacket, flipping it open with practiced fingers.

I've opened and closed this box half a dozen times today, and a dozen more yesterday when the jeweler finally sourced it- a yellow diamond perfectly suited for her coloring.

I hold it up, angling the ring so that the light catches all the facets, making the diamond flash.

She stares at it, not with the joy I had expected, but with rising alarm.

She slips her hand into her pocket and I wonder if she has an alarm button there, perhaps on her cell phone or a key fob. "I am not interested," she says slowly, precisely as if she's dealing with a madman.

Well, she is, I think, shaking with another silent giggle.

"I will be leaving now," she says calmly. "I think it is best if we both pretend this conversation never happened." She turns away from my offering of this beautiful diamond, striding confidently toward the elevator.

"Are you in the least bit curious about who I am?

" My voice rings out behind her and her steps slow, just slightly.

"Don't you want to know how I know everything about you?

That you graduated with honors from Boston College?

That your parents were killed in a car accident when you were only twenty-one?

Or why your profoundly stupid brothers were so willing to fall in with the likes of Bujar Krasniqi? "

Ah, there's the rage I was looking for, with a dash of fear. She's hiding it quite well. "Don't ever speak to me again," she snarls over her shoulder. "Take your diamond, and your delusions and shove them straight up your ass."

My joy at her fury bubbles up into laughter. "We'll speak again, Caroline Basha."

She cocks her head, staring at Morris until I give him a nod and he steps away from the elevator. My last look at her is as she stabs a button on the panel, her eyes meeting mine as the door closes. Neither of us look away.

"Well, then," I say, the sound echoing in the big, empty room. "It's a beginning. Now, back to the meat."

Morris follows me down the hall, picking up one of the tubs of ice and stepping over to the generously-sized tub, pouring it over the meat.

It groans, whimpering as its blackened eyes open wide, flaps of skin hanging loose on its face and chest. We've been playing since my lieutenant was caught delivering information to my chief competitor.

My former lieutenant. Now, he's just meat.

Taking my knife from the counter, I hold it up to appreciate it in the subdued light of the master bathroom, how it gleams along the steel blade. "We're not finished yet, meat."