Chapter 12 #2
I nod. “I remember, but I hope you’ll accept it now. Other than being an engagement ring, it’s also a symbol of sorts.”
She looks intrigued and starts turning it over as though searching for an engraving or secret mark. “What kind of symbol?”
“One that marks you as my partner according to me.”
She lifts the ring from its velvet nest, studying it in the light. “An emerald.”
“To match your eyes when you’re angry.” The admission slips out before I can stop it, revealing more than I intended. “Which seems to be most of the time.”
“Only around you.” She smiles. “My eyes are hazel, not green, though.”
I shake my head. “They turn green when you’re furious… Especially when you’re furious with me.”
“Then I suppose this ring will be very appropriate.” She slides it onto her hand, next to her wedding band, and holds her hand up to admire the effect. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I stand and move around the desk, stopping close enough to catch her scent but far enough away to maintain some semblance of professional distance. “Being my partner comes with responsibilities and risks you might not be prepared for.”
“Such as?”
“Such as learning to shoot properly.” I study her face for any sign of revulsion or fear.
“I also want you to understand the financial operations well enough to spot discrepancies. You also need to know which of my men can be trusted and which ones are looking for opportunities to advance their own interests.”
She tilts her chin, meeting my gaze directly. “And in return?”
“In return, you get a voice in decisions that affect our future. You get access to information that will help you protect yourself when I’m not around, and you get the truth about this business instead of pretty lies designed to keep you comfortable and ignorant.”
“The truth about everything?” She’s asking whether I’ll share the dark parts of my world, including the violence and moral compromises that keep the Bratva functioning. She’s asking whether I’ll trust her with secrets that could destroy us both if they fell into the wrong hands.
“Everything,” I confirm, “Including things you might wish you didn’t know.”
She stands and comes around the desk to lean on the space beside me. I want to touch her, but I force myself to keep my hands at my sides. “I don’t want to be protected from reality,” she says. “I want to understand it well enough to help shape it.”
The conviction in her voice steadies and reassures me that I’ve made the right choice.
My father warned me about when a woman stops being an obligation and starts being a necessity.
When her safety becomes more important than the business, it’s time to cut her loose.
There’s a kneejerk reaction to distance myself, but staring into her eyes quells it.
My father was right about a lot of things, but not this. “Then we understand each other.”
“Do we?” She steps close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her.
“Two days ago, you had me bent over your conference room table. Yesterday, you gave me an overview of your organization like you were a bored tutor, and now you’re talking about business partnerships.
I’m not sure which version of you is real. ”
She’s right, of course. I’m compartmentalizing, trying to separate the man who lost control with her from the leader who needs to maintain authority, but maybe that separation is the real lie.
“Both versions are real. There’s the man who wants you and the leader who needs you.
Can you handle both?” I ask with a hint of challenge.
“I can handle all parts of you.” There’s heat in her voice, and she glances at my crotch before looking at me again with her own air of challenge. “The real question is if you can handle me.”
She’s doing it again, refusing to back down and pushing boundaries even when wisdom would suggest retreat.
It should irritate me. Instead, it makes me want to pull her against me and kiss her until neither of us can think straight.
“Careful, Zita.” My voice comes out harshly.
“We have work to do, and if you keep looking at me like that, we’re not going to get any of it done. ”
“Maybe work can wait.” She reaches up to straighten my tie, brushing her fingers against my chest in a touch that’s ostensibly innocent but loaded with intent. “Maybe we have more important things to figure out first.”
“Such as?”
“Such as this.” She leans down to kiss me almost on the mouth. “Or this.” This time, her lips brush against mine before she pulls away.
“Viktor is waiting for me,” I say, though I make no move to push her away.
“Viktor can wait fifteen more minutes.” She moves closer, eliminating the last few inches between us. “Can’t he?”
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with invitation and challenge in equal measure as she straddles my lap. I should say no and focus on business. Instead, I lower my head and capture her mouth with mine.
This kiss is slow and deliberate, more of a conscious choice than an instinctive reaction. She tastes like coffee, and when she makes a soft sound against my lips, my chest aches with emotions that are as intense as the physical reaction that makes my cock hard.
When we break apart, she’s breathing hard, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are bright. “Fifteen minutes,” she says against my mouth. “That’s all I need, but I’ll let you get back to Viktor if you promise to give me much more time tonight.”
I nod, mouth too dry to speak for a moment as I imagine how tonight will unfold. “I promise.” The words are raspy, which makes her smile.
She looks pleased by how she’s made me respond. She moves toward the door, then pauses to look back at me. “Next time you have a meeting about territorial disputes or shipping rights or whatever crisis requires your attention, I want to be there.”
“Zita—”
“As your partner,” she continues, cutting off my objection. “As someone who might have insights you haven’t considered, and as your wife, who has every right to understand the business that could get her killed.”
The logic is sound, even if the idea of having her in those meetings makes my protective instincts howl in protest. She does have the right to understand the threats we’re facing, and if I’m being honest, her perspective in the earlier meeting wasn’t entirely without merit.
I’ve already agreed to keep her informed, so what’s another step toward disaster by letting her be included, not just told about it all later? “All right, but you follow my lead. If I tell you to leave, you leave. If I tell you to stay quiet, you stay quiet. Can you do that?”
“I can do that.” She pauses with her hand on the door handle. “Can you trust me enough to actually mean it?”
The question cuts straight to the heart of the matter.
Trust doesn’t come easily to men in my position.
It’s a luxury that can get you killed if extended to the wrong person, but looking at Zita, seeing the determination in her posture and the intelligence in her eyes, I realize I’m already farther down that road than I thought.
“I’m learning to,” I say honestly. “Ask me again in a month.”
“I will.” She smiles. “Try not to miss me too much while you’re dealing with Viktor.”
Then she’s gone, leaving only the lingering scent of her perfume and the memory of her lips on mine. I stare at the closed door for a long moment, trying to process what just happened between us.
This is dangerous territory I’m entering with her.
My father’s warnings echo in my mind, reminders that emotional attachments have been the downfall of more than one powerful man, but as I wait for Viktor to arrive, I think not about the risks of caring for Zita, but about the possibilities of having a partner who thinks for herself, refuses to be intimidated, and might actually be strong enough to stand beside me in this world instead of being crushed by it.
I think my father was wrong about love being a weakness. Maybe the right woman can be the greatest strength a man like me could have.
Or maybe she’ll be the death of me. Either way, it’s too late to turn back now.