Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Vittoria
Warmth surrounds me.
Something solid and alive pressed against my back.
Dmitri.
His arm wraps around my waist. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm. His breath ghosts across the back of my neck, warm and even.
I don't move.
Not yet.
I let myself exist in this moment. In the quiet. In the safety of his arms. My body aches in places I didn't know could ache. A pleasant soreness that reminds me of everything we did last night.
Everything he did to me.
His mouth. His hands. His—
I shift slightly.
His arm tightens around me.
His eyes snap open.
Grey-blue irises lock onto mine. Alert. Aware. Like he wasn't sleeping at all. Like he was just waiting for me to wake up.
"Good morning," I whisper.
He doesn't respond with words.
Instead, he rolls me onto my back. Looms over me. His body cages mine against the mattress, his forearms braced on either side of my head.
Then he kisses me.
Slow. Deep. Thorough.
His tongue slides against mine. His hand cups my jaw, tilting my head to give him better access.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are soft. Softer than I've ever seen them.
"Good morning, solnyshko."
His voice is rough. Gravelly from sleep. It does things to my insides that should be illegal.
I laugh. The sound bubbles up from my chest, light and free.
"Good morning, sweetie pie."
His expression shifts.
The softness vanishes. His jaw tightens. His eyes narrow.
"I told you not to call me that."
"I know." I grin up at him. "That's why I did it."
A growl rumbles in his chest.
He dips his head. His teeth graze my earlobe. Sharp. Warning.
"Keep testing me," he murmurs against my skin. "See what happens."
Shivers race down my spine.
I push against his chest. Not hard enough to move him—we both know I couldn't if I tried—but enough to signal I need space.
He pulls back.
"What time is it?" I ask.
He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. The screen illuminates his face.
"Nine forty-seven."
I groan.
"I need to get up." I sit up, letting the sheet pool around my waist. "I'm meeting my mother at the shopping center in two hours. We're searching the boutiques for my dress."
"For the gala tomorrow."
"Yes."
He sits up beside me. The sheet falls to his hips, revealing the hard planes of his chest. The scars that map his skin. The tattoos that tell stories I'm only beginning to understand.
"I would go with you." His hand finds my thigh under the sheet. Squeezes. "But I have business today that cannot wait."
"It's fine." I cover his hand with mine. "Shopping with my mother is torture enough without adding you to the mix."
His lips twitch.
Almost a smile.
"Before you go." He reaches for something on the nightstand. A black card appears between his fingers. "Take this."
I stare at it.
"What is that?"
"My credit card." He presses it into my palm. "You will use it to pay for whatever you need. The dress. Shoes. Jewelry. Everything."
I laugh.
The sound echoes through the room. Bright. Incredulous.
"I'm not taking your credit card."
"You are."
"Dmitri." I try to hand it back to him. "I have my own money. I don't need—"
His hand wraps around my wrist.
His grip is firm. Not painful. But unyielding.
"I am not joking."
His voice has changed.
The playful edge is gone.
"From this moment forward," he continues, his eyes boring into mine, "you do not buy anything with your money. Not a dress. Not a coffee. Not a bottle of water."
My mouth opens.
Closes.
Opens again.
"That's ridiculous."
"That's how it will be."
"I'm not some kept woman who needs a man to pay for her things. I have accounts. Investments. Money I earned myself through—"
"I know exactly how much money you have." His thumb strokes across my pulse point. "I know about every account. Every investment. Every stock you've purchased in the last five years."
"That doesn't mean you get to control how I spend it," I snap.
"I'm not controlling how you spend it." His grip loosens. His hand slides up my arm. Cups my face. "I'm telling you that you won't need to spend it. Because everything you need, everything you want, I will provide."
"This is ridiculous."
I pull my face from his grip. Slide back on the mattress until my spine hits the headboard.
"Vittoria—"
"No." I cross my arms over my chest. The sheet slips lower, but I don't care. "What am I supposed to do with all the money I already have? Just let it sit there collecting dust while you play sugar daddy?"
His jaw tightens.
"You're not listening."
"I'm listening just fine." I gesture between us. "You're telling me I can't spend my own money. Money I worked for. Money I earned through years of building security systems and consulting for—"
"I said that I know how you earned it."
"Then you know I didn't earn it so some man could swoop in and tell me I'm not allowed to use it."
He moves.
Fast.
One second he's sitting beside me. The next he's caging me against the headboard. His hands bracket my shoulders. His face hovers inches from mine.
"What do you gain?" His voice drops low. Dangerous. "Is that what you want to know?"
I lift my chin.
"Yes."
"You gain a husband who will give you everything." His breath fans across my lips. "A home. Protection. A life where you never have to worry about money again."
"I already don't worry about money."
"Then consider it a bonus."
I shove at his chest.
He doesn't budge.
"Move."
"No."
"Dmitri—"
"We're going to have children, Vittoria." His eyes burn into mine. "A lot of them. You can leave your money to them."
My heart stutters.
"Children?"
"At least six." The corner of his mouth curves. "To keep it traditional."
I stare at him.
Six.
Six children.
Six tiny humans.
"I'm not having six kids."
"We'll negotiate."
"There's nothing to negotiate." I plant my palms against his chest and push. Hard. "I don't even know if I want children at all."
"You don't want children?"
"I didn't say that." I finally manage to create some space between us. Enough to breathe. "I said I don't know. There's a difference."
He studies me.
His gaze tracks across my face like he's reading something written there. Something I can't see.
"Why don't you know?"
"Because I'm twenty-four years old." I throw my hands up. "Because my life has been chaos for the past two years. Because I just agreed to marry a man who stalked me for a month before we even had a real conversation."
"I prefer the term 'observed.'"
"I don't care what you prefer."
Silence stretches between us.
His jaw works.
"Your money," he says finally, "will go wherever the hell you want it to go. Charity. Investments. A foundation in your name. I don't care."
"Then why—"
"Until then." He leans closer. His voice drops to a growl. "You are going to get spoiled with my fucking money. Only my money. Understood?"
I open my mouth to argue.
His hand covers it.
"That wasn't a question, solnyshko." His eyes bore into mine. "That was a statement. You will take my card. You will use it today. And every day after."
I bite his palm.
He doesn't flinch.
"Understood?" he repeats.
I glare at him over his hand.
He waits.
Patient.
Infuriating.
I could fight him on this. I could dig my heels in and refuse. I could throw his card across the room and storm out.
But I'm naked.
And tired.
And his hand is still covering my mouth.
I nod.
Once.
His hand drops.
"Good girl."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He presses a kiss to my forehead. Soft. Gentle. Completely at odds with the conversation we just had. "Now get dressed."
Dmitri
The Mercedes pulls through the gates of the Baganov estate at half past one.
Yuri parks in the circular drive, but I wave him off before he can open my door. I need the walk. Need the air. Need something to clear the fog that's settled in my skull since leaving Vittoria this morning.
She took the card.
Eventually.
After arguing. After biting my hand. After glaring at me with those dark eyes that make me want to pin her down and fuck the defiance right out of her.
But she took it.
I loosen my tie as I walk toward the main entrance. The afternoon sun beats down on the manicured grounds, warming the back of my neck. Spring is finally winning its war against winter. The gardens are starting to bloom—tulips and daffodils pushing through soil that was frozen solid just weeks ago.
Movement catches my eye.
Near the rose bushes.
I stop.
A figure kneels in the dirt, hands buried in mulch. Dark skin. Lean frame. The same kid who sat zip-tied to a chair in my warehouse three weeks ago.
Drake.
He looks up as I approach. Scrambles to his feet. Wipes his palms on the knees of his jeans, leaving streaks of dirt across the denim.
"Mr. Baganov." He ducks his head. "I didn't hear you pull up."
"You were busy." I nod toward the rose bushes. "What are you doing?"
"Weeding." He gestures at the flower bed. "Mrs. Pavlov said the roses needed attention. Something about the roots getting choked out."
Mrs. Pavlov.
The housekeeper.
She's taken to the boy like he's a stray cat she found on the doorstep. Feeding him. Fussing over him. Putting him to work in the gardens because she claims idle hands make troubled minds.
I didn't argue.
"How is your mother?" I ask.
Drake's face transforms.
The wariness melts away. Replaced by something bright. Something hopeful.
"She's good." He nods rapidly. "Real good. The new medication is working. Doctor says her numbers are better than they've been in months."
"Good."
"And the apartment." He shifts his weight. Looks at the ground. Back at me. "She cried when she saw it. Said she never thought she'd live somewhere with a dishwasher."
"She's comfortable?"
"Yes, sir." Another nod. "More than comfortable. She keeps asking what she did to deserve it. I told her—" He stops. Swallows. "I told her God finally noticed us."
God.
The boy thinks God had something to do with this.
"Keep up the good work," I say.
I turn toward the house.
"Mr. Baganov?"
I stop.