Chapter 8
T error made me cruel.
- Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
Dimitri
I pulled up to the unassuming dark grey stone building of the Red Square Spa a short while later.
As I reached into the console for the valet key, a flash of red caught my eye.
I yanked out the Cartier box, which held the two hundred and fifty thousand dollar bracelet I had just purchased, from its hiding place.
The little minx. A rare smile crossed my lips as I thought of the pleasurable punishment I would inflict on that gorgeous ass of hers the moment I saw her next.
Of course, that was as far as I could go, at least for one more day.
I hadn’t missed her pained reaction when I pushed a single finger inside her still perfectly tight cunt.
My baby was sore from the pounding I had given her last night.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. She was such a tiny thing, and a virgin at that.
If I had been a gentleman, I would have stopped, or at the very least been more gentle with her.
Unfortunately, I was no gentleman.
Giving her a few days to recover would be the extent of my willpower where she was concerned.
The primal, possessive urge I had felt the moment I broke through her maidenhead had not left me.
It was undeniably intoxicating knowing you were the only man in a woman’s life.
Something I had never experienced before.
She was just so adorably innocent and na?ve.
I had this odd need to protect her, like a treasured doll I wanted to keep locked away, sheltered from the darkness of the world.
The fact that I was part of that darkness was immaterial to me.
I was selfishly claiming her as my own, regardless of the consequences.
As I said, I was no gentleman.
Peter, the usual valet, greeted me as I opened the car door.
“Whoa, is this the new Mercedes-Benz S-Class AMG S 65?”
Handing him the key, I nodded. “Yes, Peter, and I expect it to remain up front,” I instructed as I peeled off a hundred-dollar bill from my money clip.
“Yes, Mr. Kosgov. Absolutely. I won’t take my eyes off it.”
I climbed the outside steps and swung open the glass door before climbing the remaining stairs to the dining room floor.
“Dimitri Antonovich!”
Vaska Lukovich clasped me with both hands on either side of my neck and kissed my cheeks.
“Hello, my friend,” I said as I patted him on the shoulder, easily slipping into my native tongue.
“Come, I have a table in the back.”
We walked past the various Americans and other patrons dressed in white spa robes to the more private dining room in the rear.
Surrounding the wood-paneled wall were small television screens flanked by short curtains with a running video of the Russian countryside, meant to mimic the view from a train.
A server brought over a basket of brown bread, a narrow crystal tray of pickles, two shot glasses, and an ice-cold bottle of Moskovskaya Vodka. I picked up the bottle and stared at the white and green label with distaste.
“I can’t believe you drink this shit.”
Vaska scoffed, “That is your problem, my friend. You earned a little money and now have luxurious tastes. This is the vodka of my people!”
I had known Vaska Lukovich Rostov since we were both expat students at Oxford. We had both earned a great deal more than a little money doing business together over the years. None of it legal, of course. Except for the vodka, his taste for extravagant luxury was just as refined as my own.
He poured us both a shot. We lifted our glasses.
“Будем здоровы!” we said in unison before exhaling loudly and tossing back the shot.
He reached for a pickle while I broke off a piece of brown bread.
“So what is so important we had to meet immediately?”
Vaska poured us another shot as the server brought over a tray of caviar with blinis, hard-boiled eggs, and onion.
“I could tell by the scowl on your face when you walked through the door I must have interrupted something. A woman, perhaps? That new girl from the agency?”
“A woman, yes, from the agency, no.”
Like me, Vaska found it more convenient given our line of business not to entertain any romantic relationships. A protocol that until recently I had strictly followed as well.
“I will share many things with you, my friend, but not this, not yet.”
“Be careful.”
I nodded before drinking.
“There’s trouble in Morocco. They killed our contact at the port.
The government has seized our shipment of the PKP Pecheneg machine guns we intended for our friend in the South.
One of us will have to go there soon and…
reestablish diplomatic ties,” he said as he scooped a small amount of caviar onto a blini.
I rubbed my jaw. The Moroccan trade route had become problematic over the last year.
Perhaps it was time to find an alternative route.
Dealing in illegal arms required a constant delicate balance of bribing the correct government officials while establishing ties with the more unsavory characters on the global market.
It was a far cry from the classic concert pianist my mother had hoped I would become when she’d sent me to Oxford, but it paid much better.
The irony was the motley crew of royalty, aristocrats, and political sons Vaska and I had met at Oxford was what had allowed us to embark on this lucrative venture.
While we usually operated in the shadows, the average citizen would be surprised by how often their governments came to us for assistance when they needed to deal with certain rogue nations.
After all, we were the ones with all the government officials in our pockets and with the knowledge of all the ways you could sneak past the borders of just about any country.
Our connections and usefulness allowed us to operate in a grey area of the law.
The Russian government didn’t care, and as long as we didn’t arm anyone currently firing at U.S.
soldiers, neither did the American government.
“Very well. Make the arrangements. I will head to Morocco next week,” I conceded.
It would disrupt my plans for Emma, but it couldn’t be helped.
Besides, she would need to become accustomed to my leaving the country for long stretches of time without notice.
I would make sure I had her ensconced in my home with twenty-four-hour security before I left.
I had known her for barely a day and already it bothered me that she was not under my protection, living under my roof and in my bed.
She was too innocent and vulnerable. There was no telling what trouble she would get herself into. That she had somehow stumbled through her first twenty-three years of life without my oversight was of no matter to me. I was in her life now, whether or not she liked it, and would take control.
“There is another situation that may need your special attention.”
I knew what he meant by special .
“Go on.”
Vaska poured us another round. “You will need it.”
We both drank.
“The Petrov brothers are back in town.”
“Fuck.”
“It’s bad.”
“Tell me.”
The Petrov brothers were two idiot wannabes who took with brute force what they could have acquired through more diplomatic means and a well-placed bribe, which was how Vaska and I preferred to operate. We might be dealers in death , but that didn’t mean we had to be the ones pulling the trigger.
“Somehow, those two morons got their hands on two crates of ORSIS-CT20s. They’re here in Chicago looking for a buyer.”
I leaned back in my chair. The ORSIS-CT20 was Russia’s new large caliber sniper rifle. The military would not take too kindly to the embarrassment of learning two crates of their latest toy had wound up in America before they could even announce the acquisition.
“Set up a meeting for tomorrow night.” Then I remembered my date with Emma. “Wait. Make it the night after. Tell them we are interested in making a purchase.”
Vaska nodded. “Consider it done, my friend.”
“Contact General Yahontov in Moscow. Tell him we are about to make him a hero.”
“And that is why you are the brains and I am the good looks of this operation,” said Vaska with a hearty laugh.
Afterwards, we headed down the steep staircase to the men’s lockers.
Changing into our robes, we entered the banya .
The dry heat hit us like a wave as we made our way past the granite oven to take our places on one of the tiered cedar benches.
As the hot air scalded my skin, it did nothing to burn away the memory of Emma’s sweet moans as I’d entered her body.
Soon, моя крошка.