Chapter 12 - Mikhail
“There’s a woman at the gates asking—no, insisting on seeing you,” one of Mikhail’s men said with respectful deference from the doorway. “She said you would want to hear what she has to say.”
“If she isn’t one of our expected guests for tonight’s events, send her away,” Mikhail said, not bothering to look up as he adjusted his cuff links and checked his reflection in the mirror.
The man at the doorway cleared his throat. “We already tried, especially after your instructions the other day about the women we’d been bringing into the villa to work. But this woman is…different. She seems to know you personally. She calls you Nikolai.”
His head lifted at that. He was intrigued. He never used his surname in any gathering, only his first name—which was why most acquaintances knew him simply as Mikhail.
Sure, the name Nikolai was famous and feared all over Chicago, but very few people knew he was associated with that name when they met him in person, unless they also ran in mafia circles. Whoever this woman was, she had to be from a dark part of his life. Who was she and what did she want?
Or was this part of Dostoevsky’s tricks? Mikhail leaned toward his laptop and flicked on his connection to the CCTV. The woman from the limousine was standing right at his doorstep.
Mira.
Shocked recognition went through him as he took in her familiar features. Even through the camera, she was breathtakingly beautiful in a white dress with red flowers scattered all over it. She looked as though she’d just walked out of the pages of a magazine. His dick pressed against his fly as lust surged through him and he became even more furious at her and at himself.
She was Dostoevsky’s spy. He knew that now as surely as he knew his name, and yet knowing that didn’t stop his body from reacting every time she was near. What sort of fool was he? Even now, he wanted badly to bury himself between her legs and fuck her so hard that neither of them would be able to stand straight for a week.
He was suddenly restless. He needed a cold shower, but he couldn’t very well dash off to have one now. Angrily, he settled for pouring himself a shot of whiskey. As he knocked back the drink, it chased a fiery path down his throat to his stomach and his senses refocused.
Good. Dostoevsky must really think he was a fool, sending his woman here to tempt him again after what he’d done to his mole, Sam.
“Throw her off my property. If she lingers, kill her,” Mikhail ordered.
Even as he said the words, he felt emptiness yawn in the pit of his stomach, but he swallowed his instinctive need to recant the order.
He hadn’t gotten to where he was in life by believing in coincidences. Mira knew Dostoevsky and had gone directly to his house after their night in the limo. It could only mean one thing—she was working hand-in-glove with Dostoevsky and that automatically meant she had the worst intentions possible. Mikhail couldn’t afford to let his feelings of lust or whatever the hell this was get the better of him.
As the man bowed respectfully to leave, a thought occurred to Mikhail and it gave him pause.
Wasn’t it infinitely more prudent to hear her out, especially if she was working for Dostoevsky? That might give him some insight into what Dostoevsky was up to lately.
“Wait,” he called. The man paused immediately at the door. “On second thought, bring her in. Let her mingle with the guests until I get downstairs then find me and bring her straight to me. But do not take your eyes off of her for even a minute.”
“Yes sir,” came the reply.
As the door shut behind the other man, Mikhail tried to put the woman from the limo out of his mind momentarily as he prepared to greet his endless parade of guests.
He tucked his gun into the small of his back, completing his attire. He was throwing a dinner party for several of the investors in his companies, intending to mingle with them and find out as much as he could about Dostoevsky and his plans. If he spoke to enough people, he would know who was being pressured to sell their shares in his companies and he could forestall it by purchasing those shares for himself. He would probably also get a few tidbits about Dostoevsky’s plans from his associates and from his little spy, Mira, whether she knew it or not.
His lips quirked in a secretive smile at the prospect of crossing verbal swords with Mira. She was an intelligent woman, he had to give her that. Of course, if she hadn’t been intelligent, he wouldn’t have given her the time of day. His blood stirred at the challenge she posed; she was beautiful, enchanting, entrancing and probably a lying betrayer too. He would meet her and get as much information as he could from her; and he would somehow manage to do it without letting her know what he was doing.
He went over to the windows to contemplate the rolling fields of greenery beneath him. His villa had acres and acres of planted fields in every direction. Mikhail had always loved nature, and something about it calmed his soul.
But now, looking down at the lush green vineyards beneath his windows did little to calm him. He aroused, simply because he knew Mira had somehow found her way into his villa.
The thought that she was probably there as a spy and not because she missed him and has sought him out, spurred anger in him; anger was good, he assured himself. He would use that anger he felt to defeat his enemy. He was more ruthless than Dostoevsky, and if the other man thought he could be defeated so cheaply, then maybe it was time for Dostoevsky to retire from the mafia game.
A few minutes later, as he strode in to greet his guests, all traces of anger had been wiped off his features. The music was low and well-modulated, the food was rich and expensive, the wine and conversation flowed freely, and the guests were an exclusive set—some of Chicago’s richest and most influential men and women.
Everyone wanted an opportunity to stand close to Mikhail and converse with him. Everyone wanted his attention. Ladies fluttered their lashes when he was close and laughed just a bit louder, while the gentlemen, although already successful in their own right, tried to look and sound more successful when they were in his presence.
Mikhail was listening to Silas Major and his wife Tiffany share titillating stories of their trip to Brazil when he felt the atmosphere change imperceptibly. He couldn’t be sure what exactly it was, but all of a sudden, he perceived Mira’s unique perfume—jasmine and roses.
All his senses went on high alert and his nostrils flared as he picked up that unmistakable fragrance he always perceived when she was near. It wasn’t even really a perfume; it was something more primal and natural. It was her.
No one else, in all his forty years of sojourn on earth, had ever affected him this much.
But it was impossible, he reasoned. He’d told his men to send her away over two hours ago.
Unable to help himself, he turned around, his eyes searching for her in the crowd, and that’s when he saw her. in her floral white dress, she stood out like a wild exotic flower as she strode towards him, drawing admiring glances from almost every man she passed. She neither turned her head left nor right to acknowledge any of the admirers; rather her gaze was locked on him with laser intensity as she made a beeline for him. She was dressed simply, her only jewelry a strand of pearls at her throat and teardrop diamonds that winked at him from her ears. Yet somehow, she exuded an aura of class, sophistication, and royalty that cast every other woman around her into the shade. Her riotous curls were twisted atop her head in an intricate knot, small tendrils escaping to rest tantalizingly against the soft, smooth skin of her neck and shoulders.
When she reached him, she stopped a mere hair’s breadth away, her eyes searching his face.
His man who had escorted her towards him said, “Ma’am? My boss, Mr. Nikolai.”
Her scent hit his nostrils again even as her melodious voice drifted to his ears, laced with incredulity. “This is Nikolai ?”
That voice had been in his head over and over for weeks since he’d last held her in his arms. But it hadn’t been cultured and formal in his memory; it had been breathless and excited as it urged him to go deeper and faster.
He couldn’t afford to think in that direction. He needed a clear head if he was to handle this enchantress properly and discover Dostoevsky’s devious new plans.
She looked almost pale, as though she were about to faint from shock at the sight of him. Either she was a very good actress or she truly hadn’t been expecting to see him -- the man from the limo. Her shock indicated that she had never expected that Nikolai would turn out to be one and the same as Mikhail.
But in truth, he hesitated to believe that she was genuinely surprised because if she was mixed up with Dostoevsky, she was either one hell of an actress or a dangerous sociopath. If she lied about knowing Dostoevsky—by omission, but a lie nonetheless—it stood to reason that she had lied about every other thing she’d ever told him.
Except perhaps being a virgin, his subconscious whispered.
He had to agree; he didn’t think she had lied about that . No woman alive could fake the level of innocent wonder he’d seen on her face when he entered her for the first time.
“Mira, we meet again,” he said in a calm, pleasant tone of voice that betrayed no emotions whatsoever.
Her lips stretched over her teeth in the parody of a smile and then before he could guess her intent, she lifted her hand and slapped him so hard his head snapped backward. The entire room reverberated with the sound of the slap and absolute silence fell at once as all eyes focused on them with unhidden fascination.
In a split second, a flurry of activities resumed and he realized that his guests were practically falling all over themselves in their haste to move closer to the action.
Mikhail didn’t have to look around to hear their thoughts or know what they were thinking. He was Mikhail Nikolai, and a slip of a girl had just slapped him in full view of many people who knew to tread cautiously around him if they valued their lives.
His reputation was shot all to hell in less than a minute all because of this red-headed witch, he thought as he glared at her.
She glared back unrepentantly even as his men descended on her. Each of her arms were grabbed by a man on either side and they waited, poised for his instructions.
Mikhail felt the distaste of his current circumstances rise like bile in his throat. He hated it when people created a scene, and now Mira had not only created a terrible scene, she had effectively endangered him and everyone in his Bratva .
She’d slapped him and now everyone was on tenterhooks waiting to see what he did next. If he let it slide, the message would be received that he had gone weak and was ripe for an attack. That only left the option of punishment; he would have to make a very powerful statement about how he dealt with her impertinence.
He reached for her, and as he grabbed her arm, his men released her at once. With a low, furious snarl, he stalked off toward his library, dragging her in his wake.
He flung open the library doors and jerked her inside, his temper boiling.
“You have two seconds to explain yourself,” he snarled.
She looked almost white, but she gamely lifted her chin and glared right back at him. “You knew who I was that night at the club, didn’t you? When I thought you were just Mikhail and we had sex, you already knew who I was!”
He lifted one eyebrow. So that’s how she was going to play it? “I’m not sure I understand you.”
A strange expression crossed her beautiful face as she looked up at him. She looked…murderous.
He soon found out why.
“You absolutely despicable fiend. Why didn’t you ever tell me that you were Mikhail Nikolai ? Was that it? Was our night together just part of your plans for revenge against my—against Dostoevsky?”
My Dostoevsky? Who the hell was Dostoevsky to her? She couldn’t be his lover. Who was she?
His phone pinged just then and he automatically checked the text message. It was from Armando Luca. Ever since he’d persuaded the man of the futility of being loyal to Dostoevsky, he had become more reasonable. He sent occasional information to Mikhail via texts.
This one read: Dostoevsky’s in high spirits. His daughter’s engagement ceremony is this evening.
Mikhail frowned. He hadn’t been able to find much on Dostoevsky’s daughter, because she’d always been out of the area from a very young age, schooling at some impossibly secret location. If she was back in town now, and getting engaged…
He looked at Mira, his thoughts in a whirl. Had Dostoevsky sent her to distract him so that he could be certain his daughter’s engagement would go off without a hitch?
“Why are you here? What do you want?” he asked her.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were Nikolai when we met? You said your name was Mikhail,” she persisted.
“I am Mikhail Nikolai,” he said silkily. “Who are you?”
“Mira Dostoevsky,” she returned.
Mikhail couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d gawked at anyone or anything, but in that moment, he came close. “Dostoevsky? You’re a Dostoevsky?”
She couldn’t be his sister; she was way too young. Cousin? Niece? Daughter? That last was impossible. The daughter’s engagement was this evening, so why would she be here? Unless she’d been sent as a decoy to keep him busy so that he’d be too engrossed with taking her captive to realize the real daughter was getting married.
That last explanation made sense, but before he could say a word, her words lashed out at him. “He’s my father,” she said simply. “ Was ,” she added more forcefully.
“More lies,” Mikhail said airily.
“It’s true,” she said, flicking open a locket at her throat, which he hadn’t even noticed until now. In it, a five-year-old who was unmistakably Mira was seated on the lap of a much younger Dostoevsky. He was kissing her cheek and holding a childish drawing that said Happy birthday, Daddy .
With a sigh, she flicked the heart-shaped locket closed once more, allowing it to look like a simple pendant nestled between her breasts.
What were the odds? He had banged his archenemy’s daughter, and he’d been hungry for more ever since. Go figure.
She was the greatest key to his revenge against Dostoevsky. All he had to do was kill her and he would effectively destroy Dostoevsky, because no matter how tough the other man tried to appear, Mikhail didn’t need a crystal ball to know the man’s daughter had to be his one weakness.
But he knew he couldn’t bring himself to harm a hair on her head or to use her so despicably all because he wanted revenge. Even now, knowing who she was, a part of him still felt as protective toward her as he had that night at the club.
Mikhail’s gaze scanned her bodice, where the soft swell of her breasts was visible beneath the soft cut of the dress she was wearing. His dick stirred with interest.
Whoever said the easiest way to kill a man was through a woman he wanted to fuck sure knew what they were talking about. Even now, knowing who Mira was, he still wanted her desperately. What the fuck was wrong with him?
His gaze bored into hers as he demanded, “Whatever possessed you to slap me in front of all those people?”
She shrugged. “You pretended to be an average Joe the night we met, and you fucked me without mentioning that I was fucking my father’s greatest enemy.”
He grabbed her arm and gave her a small shake. “This isn’t the first time you slapped me, Mira. You did that at the club and I let it slide. But this time, I can’t overlook this insult. You will have to pay dearly for it.”
She rolled her eyes at him, trying without much success to look unaffected by his words. “What are you going to do? Paddle my bottom?”
“I wish it were that simple, Mira. Those are my business associates as well as some of my most dangerous rivals out there. You know the cutthroat world of the mafia more than anyone else. If you go unpunished, they will think me weak, which means I’m wide open for an attack. The suitable punishment for what you’ve done is your death. Now. Today.”
Mira stared at him out of large round eyes, completely immobile. “What?” she croaked.
“But I’m not entirely a monster, Mira. So I’ll give you one other option,” he told her. “You have to marry me and help me convince everyone that this was a lovers’ tiff. It’s the only way I’ll save face and it’s the only way you get to keep that pretty little neck of yours.”