18
It’s the peak of summer, and everything I wear seems to stick. But I don’t like cranking up the AC, so I just sleep with a loose t-shirt.
I miss the rink.
It’s been a few days too long since I’ve been, I miss the speed, the cold bite on my cheeks, the rush of adrenalin that comes with gliding through the ice.
Last night, I spent some time mulling over my father’s proposal of moving to Russia with the older Volkov brother, and I came to the slow realization that it wouldn’t be so bad.
I wanted to move out, anyway, right? And maybe Russia could give me what I want.
I’d have the freedom to join a real skate team and get trained by the world’s best.
I entertain myself with the idea as I drag myself out of bed. Honestly, I’m not in the mood to go anywhere. I just want to sleep in, but my to be (or not to be?) husband’s important criminal meeting is today, and I promised him I’d attend and be on my best behavior.
Ugh.
I hate being told what to do. It’s a different kind of annoying, like when you were going to wash the dishes anyway but then your mother tells you to do them. Suddenly, you don’t want to do them anymore.
Barefoot, I make my way out the room and up the stairs. I could just use my own bathroom, since I have little incentive to purposely try to piss Torren off now that I have an actual plan, but…I’m used to using his bathroom. And my toothbrush is in there. Along with my bath washes and shampoo.
Besides, he’s never in his room anyway. He’s always gone by the time I get there.
I enter his room, and freeze.
Because I assumed wrong.
He’s here. There’s no mistaking the faint sound of the shower running in the ensuite.
Technically, it is his room, but why is it that all those other times when I wanted him to be here and get annoyed by my presence, he was missing, but the one time I don’t want him to be here, he is?
Why do I suddenly care so much about being in his room, anyway? Gritting my teeth, I stay rooted to the spot, no matter how strong the instincts urging me to sprint in the other direction are.
The shower draws to a stop, and my stomach drops.
There’s a ruffling sound from inside the bathroom, and I steel my spine, gathering my frayed ends. It’s like I can taste the change in the air as he gets closer. Like he’s a vacuum, sucking in the energy of everything within his radius.
And then he walks out, steam billowing around his figure.
My heart floats to my throat.
Just like that first morning, I get the view of his body.
I almost weep from the unfairness of it all. He looks like a Michelangelo painting. Like a dark angel. He’s annoyingly tall. Lean, but thick and muscled where it counts, his dark hair wet and heavy with water as it falls over his forehead.
A chain with a small cross hangs around his neck, and droplets of water glisten on the smooth caramel skin covering his abs, a V line descending into the white towel hanging dangerously low his waist.
There’s a new addition to the faded white scars on his skin, though—a deep gash at his side. It’s red and angry, freshly healed over. From where the bullet grazed him when I fired at him, I quickly realize. I shift uncomfortably.
Torren notices me a beat too late, his gaze falling over me, deep displeasure swirling in it.
Silently, he takes two steps closer to me, towering over me as that towel hangs low on his hips. A pulse sets off between my legs. I swallow, breaking eye contact as I instead stare at a spot on the floor.
He breathes. In and out.
It’s a silent intake of breath, and the only hint of it is the movement of his chest in my periphery.
And then, he drops the towel.
He drops the fucking towel.
It crumples on the floor, and it’s like hot, molten lava is poured over me. A fever breaks out on my skin, and I resist the urge to look. I turn, instead, averting my eyes as I practically run to the shower.
I could swear I hear a low sound of amusement from behind me. Or maybe my brain is just making things up.
In the bathroom, I lean in front of the sink, my palms flat on the granite counter. The coolness of its surface is calming as I try to control my breathing. It’s like something has switched. I was supposed to be the one taunting him with my body. Not the other way around.
I glance up at the mirror. It’s semi-fogged, but there’s no mistaking the furious flush to my cheeks. It feels like I’m in heat. I must be getting my period. It’s the hormones. It has to be. Because there’s no way I’m physically attracted to … that.
Taking a deep breath, I brush my teeth for a few extra minutes and take my time peeling off my shirt before I stand under the high-pressure water. Again, for longer than necessary. Because I might or might not stalling, so that I don’t have to see him on the other side.
I step under the spray of water, letting the water run a little cooler. But no matter what I do, I can’t flush the image of him fresh out the shower out of my mind. The bathroom is strong with the masculine scent of his body wash, and it’s a sensory overload.
My breathing grows quicker, and the pulse grows, becoming too hard to ignore. Growling under my breath, I allow my hand to travel to the vee between my legs, and I almost whimper from how sensitized it is.
Need overtakes shame, and I lift my leg to settle on a fixture low on the wall.
I circle the spot with the tips of my fingers until my breaths grow labored, hoping that the sound of the water masks any that I make.
I picture all that caramel skin under me, the hard ridges of his body moulding into mine.
Him behind me in the shower, at the sink, on the bed.
Fucking me. Using me. A soft moan leaves my lips as I get closer. Closer. Closer.
I reach a blinding white crescendo, and my body shudders from the sudden orgasm.
My leg lowers by itself, my body weak and pliant as I stand under the water, numbly soaping myself off. My mind clears of its momentary haze, and the guilt hits hard and fast. I pool some shampoo into the palm of my hand and lather it through my hair mindlessly.
There’s no denying it — I just came to the thought of him. But you can hate someone and still be attracted to their body, right?
I hang on to the thought as my only consolation. There’s no way I’ll consider the alternative.
When my fingers start to prune, I dry down and step out the shower, wrapping a towel around my torso. He should be gone by now. I stay silent, waiting for any sound from the room, but there’s nothing.
Exhaling, I walk out.
And then, for what seems like the hundredth time today, I freeze.
Because he’s still here.
In the room.
At the edge of his bed, looking down at something on his phone. My stomach lurches, but he’s not fully naked. He’s still shirtless, but thankfully for my sanity, he has pants on. It doesn’t make his presence any less disconcerting.
Torren senses my presence, lifting his gaze up to me. And it turns molten. It goes from my face to my wet hair, to my breasts, barely covered by the towel. And then down, down, down, to the bare length of my legs. I swallow.
I burn under his scrutiny. He hasn’t seen me like this. Ever. Even though I’ve been in and out of his shower, he’s never been around long enough to see me come out.
“Want a picture?” I mutter, “Or a video?”
His stare is lazy, and his voice is smooth as sin when he says, “You gave me one already, remember?”
The security camera footage.
“Oh.” I feign nonchalance. “Was I another addition to your sad little spank bank?”
I’m expecting him to retaliate. To say something about how he doesn’t need a spank bank. How he can fuck anyone he wants. But he doesn’t do anything of the sort. He does something far, far worse than that.
He smiles.
Not mocking or filled with malice. A real smile.
I’ve never seen it before. His teeth are straight and white, his incisors sharp. His tongue pokes into the inside of his cheek a little and my chest bottoms out —
He has a dimple.
In his left cheek.
Something flips then simmers in my stomach, like butter on a pancake. But just as quickly as it came, the smile is gone.
“Tell me, little Morozov,” he says, levelling his gaze with mine. “When you play with that pussy, who do you think about?”
My entire face heat up, though I try to maintain my expression. Did he hear me in the shower?
Deny, deny, deny. Concealing my shame, I scoff. “Anyone but you.”
A hint of that smile returns, “You think I didn’t hear you moaning in my shower like a little slut?”
My heart drops to my stomach, and my skin flames. “I think you want me moaning so bad you’re starting to hallucinate.”
Torren tilts his head, faint amusement in his eyes. “I don’t make you wet?”
Slowly, my face starts to cool. “Think less Niagara Falls, more Sahara Desert.”
“So if I bend you over and spread you open,” he says, “you won’t drip on the floor?”
And the heat creeps back into my cheeks.
“If I touch you,” he says, “you won’t make a mess on my hand?”
I’m opening my mouth to deny it, but he’s not done with his torturous little interrogation.
His eyes are liquid black. “If I fuck you with my fingers, you won’t scream my name and beg for more?”
I press my thighs together, holding the towel tighter against me as I steel my expression and steady my voice. “In your dreams, maybe.”
It’s a pathetic response, but it’s all I can muster without combusting on the spot. I avert my gaze and turn.
“I should punish you for lying,” he calls, behind me. “But I won’t. Want to know why?”
I stay silent.
“Because it means I’m in your mind. Right where I belong.”
My molars grind, and the urge to punch something takes over. Subduing it, I walk out his room. Once I’m out of his line of sight, I sprint down the stairs.
I want to scream.
I thought my climax in the shower would have released my pent-up frustration, but it’s back all over again. My body is feverish and shaky. How the hell did he even hear me in the shower, anyway? I’d been quiet, and the water loud. I scoff. Not loud enough, apparently.
I enter my room, where a chaste nude dress is laid out for me on the bed, along with a matching pair of kitten heels at the foot of the bed. Sounds from the kitchen tells me that Giulia is here, and that she picked out this outfit for me at my fiancé’s behest.
I scoff. He wants me, but he wants me in a way that’s palatable. If I were Ana, this dress would suit me perfectly. I would look like the good girl, every part the angel at his side that softens his image.
But it’s just not me.
I open my dresser, pulling out the dress I had in mind, instead.
It’s… something. Spaghetti straps, short enough to barely cover my ass, with a low-cut neckline that’ll showcase a generous amount of cleavage.
It sticks to my skin in a way that’s both flattering and hints at the natural shape of my body. My favorite little black dress.
No way I’m going to let him get the last word.
I towel dry my hair and then slip on the dress. Then I apply some concealer to even out my skin, and go heavier on the eyeliner and mascara, ending off with blush pink lipstick, a touch of innocence for balance.
I leave my heart locket and the Morozov emblem around my neck, both on full display. Whoever is that meeting will know that I’m a Morozov, so there’s no point hiding it. I grab my black YSL stilettos and head back upstairs, deciding to give my fiancé a little fashion show.
When I enter his room again, he’s fully clothed this time, but still on the edge of his bed, phone in hand. My heart kicks up its beat. He knows I’m here, but he doesn’t bother making an effort to acknowledge me.
“Did you really expect me to wear that?” I ask.
Still, he keeps his attention on his phone, completely unbothered.
I grit my teeth, pressing on. “Surprised you didn’t include a pearl necklace.”
Still nothing.
Annoyed, the statement bubbles out of me. “I love you.”
Torren’s gaze snaps up to me, and it dawns on him a beat too late. I can’t help but beam a close-lipped smile at the look on his face. His jaw tightens, and I ignore the way my heart quite literally skips a beat.
“I’m wearing this,” I say, “you like?”
His gaze finally drops to my dress, and it travels down my length, then back up, stopping at the emblem around my neck for a second before snapping up to my face. There’s something heated in his eyes, but that something is also deeply irritated.
“Wear what you want,” he mutters. “Anyone who touches you loses a hand.”
My mouth parts. Really? Wow. Well, so much for getting a rise out of him. I thought wearing the Morozov emblem would definitely piss him off. I turn to walk out of the room, heels in hand.
“Freya.”
Something about the way his deep voice wraps around my name sends a shiver down my spine. I pause, slowly turning back to him.
“Come here,” he says.
A frown carves into my lips, my heart hammering in my chest. There must be clear hesitation in my stance because his mouth lifts.
“Won’t bite,” he says, lowering his lids once. “Come here.”
Nerves clawing up my throat, I walk over to him, keeping a safe distance between us.
“Closer.”
He spreads out while still on the edge of the bed, his thighs straining against the seams of his pants. Wary, I edge closer until I’m between his legs, and heat pours from him into the sides of my knees. My heart floats to the top of my throat.
“Lift your leg,” he says.
I don’t know why I’m listening to him, maybe more out of curiosity, but I do as he says, lifting my leg.
My foot sinks into the sheets next to his thigh.
The action hitches my dress further up, if it was even possible, exposing the entire length of my leg and thigh.
I pull down the dress to cover the apex of my thighs and my underwear.
Torren glances down at my bare thigh, a discontented line forming between his brows. Something twitches in his jaw, and I realize that I’ve never looked down at him like this. He’s always taller than me, even when I wear heels.
He turns to his side, and it’s only then that I notice the small handgun and holster on the bed next to him. My eyes go wide, and I almost stumble back, but his hand circles my calf to keep me in place.
“Relax,” he hums, with the quiet gentleness of a predator stalking its prey. “Safety’s on.”
I bristle at the heat of his rough palm on my skin, but he lifts his hand away when he sees that I’m not moving away anymore.
I get a cool rush of relief, but it’s only temporary, because his gaze refocuses on the length of my leg, dark and alive.
He lifts the handgun, and I feel the cold metal surface on my ankle, twitching reflexively from the sudden icy sensation.
His pupils dilate, and he pauses, only for a second, before gliding the handgun up the length of my calf, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.
My breaths are hard and fast. The cold metal of the small gun presses gently into the soft flesh of my upper thigh, a hand’s length away from my hip bone.
I suck in a breath when I’m met with the rough touch of his hands as he straps the holster to my inner thigh. The pulse between my legs throbs wildly, bolstering like a fire given too much kindling.
I swallow to assuage the dry knot at my throat, but my voice still comes out cracked and flaky when I ask, “What are you doing?”
“No weapons allowed,” he murmurs, “They’ll check me.”
Oh. So he wants to strap a gun to me? How resourceful.
I lift a brow. “Won’t they pat me down too?”
I don’t mean for it to come out with an insinuation, but it does.
His grip on my inner thigh tightens. “They won’t touch you.”
“But…”
“You’re my woman,” he growls, “they won’t fucking dare.”
I can’t help the way something inside me seems to preen at the rough possessiveness of his voice. Can’t ignore the sharp zing that travels from the point his rough palm meets my flesh to the bud of pressure at my core.
Torren fixes a hard stare on me. “Use the gun without my permission, and I will shoot you with it myself, do you understand?”
I frown. Granted, I’m not trained in firing a gun, but I figured if it’s me that it’s strapped to, I get some say in when it’s used.
He tightens the holster strapped around my thigh, cutting off circulation. “Do. You. Understand?”
Clamping down on my molars, I nod tightly.
“Use your words, Freya,” he says.
“Yes,” I grind out.
He waits. The holster digs into my thigh uncomfortably.
I grit my teeth. “Yes, I understand.”
He immediately loosens the holster, and my skin buzzes as blood rushes back to the skin of my thigh, the circulation returning. I let the hem of my dress fall to cover the gun.
I’m distracted when Torren reaches across me, tugging one of my YSL heels out of my grasp. The delicate designer shoe looks strange in his tattooed hand. Out of place. He gestures for me to lift my foot, the one that’s still perched on the bed next to him.
Semi-dazed, I do as he asks.
Instinctively, my hand goes to his shoulder to keep myself upright as I allow him to slip the heel on. When it’s done, I step down onto the floor, still using his shoulder for support. He reaches for the other heel, but I pull away, slipping it on myself.
His jaw tightens, clear disapproval in his eyes.
“Eat,” he says, “We leave in ten.”
I nod briefly, stepping out of his vicinity.
The heat of his body leaks away, albeit slowly.
I don’t miss the way his gaze drags over my length before I turn and walk out of his room.
If anything, the interaction only leaves me more frustrated and confused than the last. Yes, I got his attention, but somehow it doesn’t feel like victory.
It feels like submission.
Disturbed, I make my way downstairs, harder in heels, and I look for Giulia to say hi, but breakfast’s laid out on the table, and she’s nowhere to found. I grab a croissant, my favorite out of everything on the table.
Then I pour myself a glass of orange juice, trying to ignore the odd feeling of the holster strapped to my inner thigh. I down the glass of orange juice as I try to calm my nerves. And then another. I draw the line at the third glass.
A few minutes later, Torren walks down the stairs, talking to someone over the phone. He cuts the call as he nears me. “Done?”
I nod. “You aren’t going to eat?”
“I ate earlier,” he says, “Flattered by your concern, though.”
“I’m not concerned about you,” I snap, “I hate when food goes to waste. Can you at least tell Giulia not to make so much?”
He gives me an impassive look. “Did you tell her what you like?”
“No.”
“She’ll continue to make everything until you specify your tastes.”
I pass him a poisonous glare. “I could actually talk to her. If only someone hadn’t instructed her absence.”
A slight lift of his lips. “Let’s go.”
Sighing, I follow him out the apartment and into the elevator. Again, another scenario we’ve bizarrely never experienced, despite living in the same place for almost two weeks. He presses the button and I stand at the opposite end of the elevator, widening the distance between us.
It doesn’t help.
The air between us is charged, electric, almost, and the tension only grows with each floor we go down. Then there’s the acute feeling of the gun strapped to me. Just knowing it’s there sends adrenaline coursing through my veins. Finally, the doors open up on ground floor.
I exhale, following out into the underground garage.
And I suck in a breath.
Because there’s ten cars parked in a two rows, five on each side, and all of them are beautiful. A surprised gasp bubbles up my throat.
“Someone has an Aston Martin?” I flit my gaze to the next and resist the urge to scream. “And a GTO?”
Holy fucking shit.
Torren frowns— surprised that I know the models, no doubt— but then his mouth lifts. “Someone.”
I pause. “What?”
He tucks his hands in his pockets. “These are all mine.”
My mouth goes dry. I just assumed that other people in the building owned the cars.
I knew he had money, but this is insane.
Besides, most rich people have horrible taste in assets.
Cars, in general, are never good investments.
But these cars… they’re collectibles. Most of them will only appreciate in value.
And then I catch sight of one right at the end, and I can’t help myself from practically running over to touch it. A 1965 Shelby Mustang.
Torren walks over leisurely. “It’s going for a trade in.”
I snap my head up. “What? Why?”
“Maintenance costs more than the potential profit on sale.”
Taking care of a classic car isn’t the same as looking after a new one. Because the components are generally old, they need regular maintenance to avoid the corrosion of their original parts. But maintaining the car is all part of the joy of owning one.
“Let me fix it,” I say.
His eyes narrow as the edges, and it’s a while before he says, “Was that what you were doing? The day I was meant to be engaged to your sister. Playing with a car?”
My expression sours. “I wasn’t playing.”
He tilts his head, endlessly amused, and I’m about to grace him with a barbed response, when the elevator doors slide open, revealing the swaggering silhouette of Luca.
Dressed in a full black suit, he’s more cleaned up than usual, his dark brown hair falling over his forehead carelessly. With a lean build, chocolate brown eyes and eternally boyish charm, Luca Costa is undeniably pretty.
His face screws up when he sees me. “Baby Morozov? What are you doing here?”
“She’s coming to the meeting,” Torren fills in.
“You’re bringing her to the den?” Luca stares at Torren in disbelief. “Torren, think about it for a second, man. They’ll eat her alive.”
My brows knit. “What are you talking about?”
Luca’s expression is pained as he steps up to me. “Listen, Freya, at the meeting, just stand next to me and don’t talk to anyone, alright? You—”
“She—” Torren snarls, stepping in front of me and effectively pushing his cousin two steps back. “Will sit. At the table. Next to me.”
He throws keys at Luca, forcing him to catch them. “Now move, or we’ll be late.”
Luca nods tightly, walking to the other end of the garage before unlocking the Audi and sliding into the driver’s seat.
I turn to Torren. “What is he talking about?”
He doesn’t answer me, walking over to the black Lamborghini Miura. I don’t follow him. Instead, I stay rooted to the spot, wanting answers. His hand curls into a fist at his side as he pauses outside the vehicle.
“Freya,” he says, “Get in the car.”
“I want to go with Luca,” I say, “Maybe he’ll actually tell me what’s going on.”
His eyes blaze. “Car. Now.”
I don’t move.
He exhales. “Get in, and you can play with the Mustang.”
Fuck. I really want to work on that car. Biting down, I walk over, opening the front door before sliding into the front seat. I almost moan at the interior. It’s custom, the tan leather so buttery smooth that my body melts into it.
Torren gets into the driver’s seat after me, and the space in the car seems to shrink.
“I thought you had drivers,” I mutter sullenly.
He slots the key in the ignition. “No one drives this car but me.”
Luca pulls out of the garage before us, followed by one SUV. We follow, and when I glance in the side view mirror, there’s another SUV following behind us.
I sit back in my seat. I don’t want to talk to the asshole of the century, and I can’t use my phone in the car for more than a few minutes. Staring at the screen gets me carsick. But I’m bored. And I get the feeling that the trip isn’t going to be short.
I manage to sit still for a good ten minutes before I snap, reaching for the radio dial. It’s way too quiet. When I turn the dial, Torren’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t make any move to stop me. Soft music fills the air, cutting through the silence. Wicked Game by Chris Isaak.
I release a breath, feeling a bit better. We drive for a while, and I realize we’re close to the Hampton’s coast. I turn in my seat, rolling down my window to marvel at the sight. “The beach.”
I turn to him as a cool breeze rushes into the car. “Can we go?”
A frown appears on his lips.
“After the meeting, obviously,” I say.
Still nothing.
I sigh, dropping it. He already has me in the car, anyway. It’s not like I can jump out on the highway. There’s little I can do except for hold up my end of the bargain. I go to the meeting, he gives me something I want.
And I don’t want to use it for a short trip to the beach. I know what I want. It’s the same thing I was going to ask for before I found out about my father’s plan.
It’s little to hang on to, since he himself admitted to not being a man of his word, but it’s the only thing I have to assume some sense of autonomy. Along with the comfort of my father’s plan.
We drive for a few more minutes before the car slows, finally coming to a stop. I glance out the window. It’s a huge, chateau style estate. Cream painted walls, gravel in parterres, water terraces, and a sunken garden in clipped greens which seems to go on forever.
Salvatore Costa steps out of the SUV that was riding ahead of us, throwing his cigarette to the ground before stepping on it. His gaze pulls up to his son and I as we step out of the car, landing on me specifically.
“What is the girl doing here?”
Torren comes up behind me. “She’s here in place of her father.”
Salvatore scowls. “Why?”
“She’s prettier to look at.”
A mixture of confusion and annoyance blooms in my chest.
Salvatore’s gaze drops to my hand, and specifically the ring on my hand. His gaze flares, and he snaps it up to me in scathing disbelief. “Puttana del cazzo.”
I tuck my hand behind me on instinct, and Torren steps in front of me.
Salvatore pauses, disbelief still daubed on his face as he stares at his son. “Perché cazzo le hai dato quell’anello?!”
Torren turns to grab hold of my forearm, pulling me to his side. “Perché posso.”
I don’t get to see Salvatore’s reaction, because Torren drags me past his father and toward the building. We near the entrance, where Luca is waiting with his father, Vito, along with three other men, two old, one younger. As we close in, I recognize their faces from my father’s files.
One of the old men is Jon Morelli, cruel but powerful. Father of Nessa Morelli, the diamond of the underworld. She’s considered the most beautiful girl in the state, something her father uses as an excuse to keep her locked up in his mansion like a princess in a tower.
The other older man is Ciro Graziano, less evil but still a viper. And, younger than the rest, burly and handsome, with a roughly trimmed beard and dark, roguish hair, is Dominic Cavalli, thirty-year-old head of the Cavalli family.
Ciro glances at me, then at the Morozov emblem on my neck with vague amusement in his light eyes. “So this is what Yuri was hiding . . .”
Jon Morelli sneers. “The Morozov whore.”
Torren growls at my side. “I suggest you watch your fucking mouth.”
Jon shuts his mouth, but still directs a poisonous glare my way. I supress the urge to reach over and slap his ugly face. He’s historically an asshole, and a misogynist. I don’t understand how my father can stand doing business with him.
Dominic offers me a lukewarm glance before extending his hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Miss Morozov.”
His voice is warm and deep, like expensive honey. I’m about to accept when Torren wraps his hand around my wrist, threading his fingers through mine so that I feel every score of his rough palm on mine. Dominic withdraws his hand with a smirk, and I shoot my fiancé a glare he ignores.
I frown, turning my gaze to Torren. But he’s seemingly unbothered, his attention on Luca.
“Mancini?” Torren asks, threading his fingers through mine. I try to pull away, but his hold tightens, so that I feel every score of his rough palm on mine.
“He’s waiting inside with the rest,” Luca replies.
Torren inclines his head, telling Luca to lead the way. Annoyed, I try to brush off the fact that my hand is stuck in his as we walk past a huge ballroom. I can’t help but admire the stunning chandelier at its centre. Whoever picked this venue has refined taste.
We stop at the entrance of the boardroom, where two guards start patting down the men to check for weapons. When they get to me, they seem unsure about what to do.
“You don’t touch her,” Torren orders, “Not a single strand of hair.”
The guards nod quickly, silent dread in their eyes. Torren finally releases my hand, only to settle his palm at the small of my back, urging me forward and past the guards. My back burns from the brand of his hand, heat snaking up my spine and warming the base of my neck.
His touch disappears as he’s checked for weapons behind me. I use the time to take in the scene. In the boardroom, there are five more men seated at a large table. One in particular glares at us with murderous intent.
Soon, Torren returns to my side, and I follow him to the table. The seat at the center is left open, and there’s a man sitting in the seat to the right of it.
Torren gives him a pointed look, and the man scrambles to his feet, buttoning his coat as he walks to the empty seat at the end of the table. Torren pulls out the now empty chair and lifts his eyes to me. Pressing my lips shut, I slide into the chair.
“My fiancé,” Torren announces, “Will be attending the meeting on behalf of her father. If there are any objections, you have five seconds to voice them.”
There’s silence. I feel the burning weight of countless eyes on me.
“None?” Dark satisfaction fills Torren’s gaze, and he takes his seat next to me, adjusting his watch. “Good. Let’s begin.”
The men launch into discussion on the latest ventures in their territories—swapping information on drug busts, fairing on arms dealing, strip club discourse and territory disputes.
I’m transported to that spot in my father’s office again, watching through the slats in the furniture.
Except this time, I’m not hidden. This time, I’m seated at the table.
I know that it wasn’t Torren’s intention to embolden me — most likely to stake his claim and even scare me a little in the process, but it feels emboldening anyway.
And I’m not scared.
It’s clear these men are not used to a female presence at these meetings.
One man isn’t even looking at me. He’s just staring at my chest. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Men. They like to act like they’re so complex, but they’ll succumb to their basal instincts in a flash.
So simple and stupid, it’s almost funny.
It’s another reason I’ll never judge women for weaponizing or monetizing their bodies. Sometimes, a woman’s body is the only weapon she has against a man. And her mind, of course. Always her mind.
I tune into the conversation. It sounds like they’re talking about a contract. A money laundering contract, in particular, and one I’m familiar with, thanks to my father’s work.
“Ten percent,” the man who was staring burbles.
Ten percent? Idiots. No wonder they need my father. I scoff under my breath, thinking it’ll go unnoticed.
It doesn’t.
Jon Morelli bristles, turning his attention to me. “What? You got something to say, girl? You think you can do better?”
Torren ripples at my side. “Take this as your last warning, Morelli.”
Jon huffs an agitated breath, looking at me expectantly.
“The market is trading at twelve percent, actually,” I say.
“Twelve?” Someone mutters disbelievingly. “That works out to a couple hundred thousand more than expected.”
“Nine hundred and forty,” I mutter, and then for clarification, “Thousand.”
A man whispers in Ciro’s ear, and he nods. “She’s right.”
The table erupts in hushed murmurs. I feel Torren’s gaze on me for a second, before it’s gone again.
Of course I’m right. I don’t just listen in on my father’s meetings to forget what I hear. I’ve always managed to absorb the contents of the meetings like a sponge.
“It’s settled then,” Torren says, “Twelve percent.”
Anger and humiliation lines Jon’s expression, but he nods stiffly.
The meeting resumes, and I bask in my tiny victory. Then, after around fifteen minutes, I grow fidgety. All that orange juice I downed in the morning weighs heavy on my bladder.
What’s the protocol for when you need to go to the toilet at these things?
Screw it.
I’ll find a bathroom somewhere.
I stand discreetly, thinking I can slip away while they’re busy, but Torren pauses the meeting to stare up at me questioningly. Blood rushes to my cheeks at the harsh insistence of his gaze, and I shift as the attention of the entire room is on me, yet again.
Sighing, I lean down to whisper in his ear and get a whiff of his delicious cologne. “I need to pee.”
Torren’s jaw tightens. He takes longer than necessary to process four words, but eventually, he motions to Luca, who’s stationed at the wall of the boardroom. I push out my chair and walk away from the table towards Luca, and thankfully, the meeting resumes behind me.
“What’s wrong?” Luca murmurs.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask.
He nods, gesturing for me to follow him.
“You don’t need to come with me,” I say, once we’re out the boardroom. “Just tell me where it is.”
He’s about to argue, but sighs, deciding against it. “Down the hall, to the left. I’ll wait here.”
The bathroom is regal. Like someone a princess would use.
Travertine marble floor, elaborate moldings, stencilled ceiling.
. . Ana would love this place. I use the toilet and try to ignore the gun strapped to my thigh.
When I’m done, I wash my hands and click a picture in the mirror to show Ana later.
Then I walk out, coming face to face with the heated face of Salvatore Costa, my fiancé’s father. He wasn’t at the meeting, so I guess he was just smoking out here.
Salvatore’s dark eyes narrow on me. “This is no place for women.”
He says the word women like it’s an insult. I roll my eyes. “This is literally the women’s bathroom.”
He sneers. “Don’t act smart with me, girl. There is no place for you at this meeting.”
“Take it up with your son,” I mutter, “He brought me here.”
And created a space for me, technically.
The old man gnashes his teeth. “Get rid of whatever delusions of grandeur you’ve concocted in that small head of yours. You will not marry my son.”
“I don’t intend to,” I scoff. “Besides, you wanted the engagement to happen soon.”
“Because the faster this is over, the faster my son will get over his fascination with you.”
I frown. Clearly, this man is deeply delusional.
He knits his brows. “You think I don’t know about your blood, little girl?”
I’m itching to use the gun that’s burning a hole through my thigh, but I don?t want his son to maim me afterward with the same gun. I grit my teeth. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Maybe,” he counters, “But I know my son. He will use you all he wants, fuck you like a whore, and when the novelty wears off, and he’s bored, he’ll finally get rid of you, and put a baby in good Italian girl.”
I lift a brow. “What if I want to be fucked like a whore?”
Salvatore’s entire face ripens like a tomato, and I almost laugh. “Drop the attitude, girl,” he hisses, “Your father sold you to us. You are nothing but an expensive piece of pussy. Just like your mother.”
And then I stop breathing for a second.
I know that he’s talking shit— that he’s trying to belittle and hurt me, and I hate that this time, it works. Because this time, my first instinct wasn’t to retaliate. It was to ask him how he knows my mother.
How fucked up is that? That my first thought isn’t to defend myself, but to ask about my mother. How desperate I must be, to beg for information about my mother from someone who just blatantly called us both whores in a single breath.
Like he’d be a credible source of information, anyway.
Silently, I walk past Salvatore, not giving him the satisfaction of watching me crumble.
Still, I can feel the satisfaction rolling from him in waves.
I ignore it. Or at least, I try my best to.
And as I walk back to the boardroom, I can’t help the knot at my throat, or the tears that line my eyes, threatening to spill over my cheeks.
I blink them back, but they’re heavy enough that my eyes burn when I try.
I bump into someone halfway, looking up to find Luca staring down at me. Right. He did say that he’d be waiting halfway.
He frowns. “Hey, baby Morozov. You good?”
“Mhm.” I nod, averting my gaze. “I’m going back.”
Luca looks like he wants to press the matter further, but he just sighs, letting it go.
I walk back into the boardroom. My bravado has worn down, and suddenly, I feel way too exposed in my dress. What was meant to be a power play becomes a band of humiliation around my neck.
A whore.
Nothing but an expensive piece of pussy.
A whore.
Just like your mother.
I lower my gaze and allow my hair to fall over my face to hide my expression as I blink back more tears. Salvatore returns as well, and Torren’s gaze goes from his me to his father, and then back to me.
I’m about to sit and make myself as invisible as possible, when suddenly, I’m pulled to the side and then down. Onto Torren. Onto his lap.
I’m straddling him in his seat.
My face is buried in his chest, and I don’t have to face anyone.
His presence is all consuming. I can’t move.
Can’t breathe anything except for his cologne—fresh soap, white musk, laundry detergent, vague aquatic notes, and intermittent flashes of citrus.
His body is a furnace, and it’s suddenly too hot, too hard for me to breathe.
I shudder against his chest.
Why? To comfort me? To humiliate me? Or to piss off his father?
Either way, I can’t bring myself to hate it as much as I should.
I don’t move from his lap. The meeting goes quiet.
“Continue,” Torren grunts.
I have to push aside my dejection for a while, to make space to process the heat of his body flush against mine. I’m enveloped in him, my dress exposing too much of my skin. My core is pressed against his thigh through the thin material of my underwear.
He must be gloating. Showing off how he has Yuri Morozov’s daughter in his lap like a kitten. I can’t even hold on to my sadness without him stealing it away. And now, I’m a frustrated mess of need.
Annoyed, I press my weight down on him. His body ripples under mine.
Something prods my thigh, and it’s not the gun.
He’s hard.
A gasp gets stuck in my throat, and I shift my hips a little, but it only makes things worse, because I’m not any more off of him, but the movement causes more friction between us. His body strains, his cock pulsing through his pants.
“Do you have nothing to say about my son?” I recognise Henry Mancini’s voice from the meeting.
Torren sneaks his hand up to my thigh where the gun is strapped, and I almost capsize from the rush of blood to my head. His voice comes out low and assured when he asks, “What about him?”
“He got shot,” Mancini replies, “Some fucker got him clean through the forehead.”
The room is quiet.
There’s a lavender haze over my brain, but it still dawns on me hard and fast. They’re talking about the guy who assaulted me at the club. The man Torren shot. That was Henry Mancini’s son?
Henry Mancini is a core ally to the Costa foundation. And Torren killed his son.
Oh my God…
He?s sitting in front of the father of someone he killed, and he?s still hard under me.
He?s insane.
“His body was delivered to my door,” Mancini continues, venomous.
“How unfortunate,” Torren says, his voice low and husky, and with about the same amount of pity a cardboard box possesses. “My condolences.”
If he’s trying to de-escalate the situation, he’s doing a horrible job. Somehow, Mancini keeps his cool. He knows Torren killed his son. He just doesn’t have enough proof to stand up to him. Or enough power.
“Nothing more?” Torren asks.
Silence.
“Good.” His hand draws away from my thigh. “Then we’re done here.”
There room fills with murmurs and movement and sounds of people standing from their seats.
Torren eases me off his lap and to my feet as we both stand. I take a deep breath as the heat of his body is slowly extricated from mine. He clenches his jaw, looking down at me with a punishing stare. And I know him well enough by now to know what that look means.
We are far from done here.
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author?s note:
one of my favorite chapters so far!7.5k words, baby!
spoiler for chapter 19 on my instagram @rhianovakauthor and more on my twitter @rhianovakauthor
you can search “torren and freya” on spotify for the book playlist.
see you next chapter 3