Igor
The coffee in my mug is as cold, black, and bitter as my mood.
I stare down at the map spread across the desk in my office at the shipping yard.
I’d rather be in bed with my wife, but she’s pretending to freeze me out, and I’m pretending to let her.
It’s been forty-eight hours of our personal cold war, and my cock says I’m losing.
I focus on the red marker slashes across the Southern District.
The Southern District is supposed to be neutral ground, a buffer zone, but the latest reports show Lepin is moving product through the scenic routes.
He’s testing the fences. He’s trying to expand into our territory of the city.
Like a rat looking for a hole in the wall, and I’m going to have to burn the rat out.
I rub a hand over my face, the stubble scratching against my palm. This should be a slice of cake. My mind is supposed to be a steel trap of logistics and counter-moves. But today, the trap is rusted shut. My mind keeps drifting back to the master suite. To Aria.
I hated leaving her on bad terms. Walking out while she looked at me with that mixture of hurt and defiance felt like swallowing glass. But like any other man, I have to go to work. The empire doesn’t pause for marital disputes, even if my chest feels like a hollowed-out cavity.
The office door bangs open.
I don’t look up. Only one person enters my office without knocking and expects to live.
"You look like shit," Illya says, dropping into the leather chair opposite me. He kicks his boots up onto the edge of my desk, right over a quarterly earnings report.
"Get your feet off my desk, Illya. I’m not in the mood."
"You’re never in the mood," he draws out, ignoring my command. He pulls a folder from his jacket and tosses it onto the map."But I’m surprised you’re in a surly mood today. Trouble in paradise? The little nurse give you a hard time about your evil ways?"
"Watch your mouth."
"I’m just saying. You stormed out of the house this morning like your ass was on fire." Illya leans forward, his expression sharpening. The joker mask slips, revealing the predator underneath. "I’ve been doing a deeper check on Aria."
My spine stiffens. "I didn't ask you to investigate Aria."
"No. You didn't. But things have changed."
"She is my wife. I trust her. And besides," I growl, picking up the folder, "we looked into her background when we hired her. Clean record. Nursing school. Deadbeat dad. What is this?"
"We looked at her," Illya corrects. "We didn't look hard enough at who she spends her time with. Specifically, this 'friend' she was so desperate to see this morning. Daniel Nichols."
I open the folder. A photo stares back at me. It’s grainy, taken from a surveillance camera, but it’s him. The man at the gate. Blonde. unassuming. "She told me about him. He’s a friend. Why are you wasting resources on a nurse's friend?"
"Because," Illya says, his voice dropping low, "Daniel Nichols doesn't exist. The ID he showed at the gate was a high-quality fake."
My grip on the folder tightens, crinkling the photo. Jealousy, hot and acidic, floods my veins. It pisses me off. What the hell kind of friend does my wife have that needs a fake ID? What kind of secrets is she keeping with another man?
"Who is he?" I demand.
"Danyeal Nicholai," Illya says. "He’s a mid-level earner. For the Lepin family."
The air leaves the room.
"Most likely," Illya continues, watching my face, "they’ve been using her to get whatever details they could about you. Or about Galina. A nurse sees everything, hears everything."
"She didn't know," I say instantly. The defense is automatic. "I barely said a word to her before yesterday, and I definitely haven't exchanged any secrets."
"Yes, but that's all changed now that she's your wife," Illya counters. "She’s inside the inner circle now, Igor. She’s a vulnerability."
"She is not a spy." I slam the folder shut. "She’s innocent."
"And you’re blinded by pussy," Illya snaps. "I’m your fucking enforcer, Igor. Which means I watch your back even when you’re too busy staring at her ass to see the knife. That's what you pay me for. And I would do it for free, for blood. So suck it up."
I glare at him, my hand itching for my gun.
"Don't give me that look," Illya warns, pointing a finger at me. "Before I stick Babushka on you and tell her you've been mean to her favorite grandson."
"You mean her baby," I sneer.
"Exactly." Illya grins, the tension breaking just enough. "Look, think about it. If you were Lepin, and you found out your enemy had a sick matriarch who needed 24/7 care... wouldn't you try to plant someone close to the help?"
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. I hate it. I hate that he’s right. It’s a smart move. It’s exactly what I would have done.
"It’s a classic setup," I mutter. "Ivan is the money man. I’m the strategist. You’re the muscle. If I were strategizing against us... I’d go for the weak link. The staff."
"So," Illya stands up, smoothing his jacket. "What’s the play? Do we clip the guy?"
"No," I say, standing up. I grab my coat. "Not yet. First, I deal with my wife."
I find her in the library curled up on the sofa with a book, but she’s not reading. She’s staring into the fire, her expression tight. She looks up when I enter, her hazel eyes cooling instantly. She’s still angry about this morning. Good. So am I.
"Igor," she says, her voice clipped. "I didn't expect you back so soon."
"We need to talk." I cross the room, looming over her. I don't sit. I don't want to be on her level right now. "About Daniel."
She sighs, closing her book. "I already told you, he’s just a friend. You were rude to him, and you were controlling with me."
"He’s not a friend, Aria. He’s a soldier."
She blinks, confusion wrinkling her forehead. "What?"
"His real name is Danyeal Nicholai. He works for the Lepin family. Our enemies." I watch her face closely, looking for the lie, for the flicker of recognition. "He’s been pumping you for information."
"That’s impossible," she says, shaking her head. She stands up, facing me. "Danny is a sweet man. He works in IT. We met after work at a coffee shop near my agency. About seven months ago."
"Seven months," I repeat. "Right when Galina got sick. Right when we hired you."
"It’s just a coincidence," she insists, her voice rising. "He helped me when I dropped my latte. He’s kind. He listens to me. He is not some... mafia soldier."
"He is using you."
"You’re paranoid!" She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. "I’ll call him. I’ll put him on speaker right now, and we can straighten this all out. He’ll explain everything."
I snatch the phone from her hand before she can unlock it.
"Hey!" she shouts, reaching for it.
"You will not call him," I snarl, tossing the phone onto the armchair out of her reach. "I forbid you to ever contact that man again. If he comes near the gate, my guards will put a bullet in his head."
"You forbid me?" Her face flushes red. " You can't just order me around and ban me from speaking to people. I am not a child, Igor."
"And yet," I say, stepping into her space, backing her up until her legs hit the sofa. "I still know what's best for you."
Aria stares at me, her chest heaving with indignation. She looks like she wants to slap me, scream, or cry. Instead, she turns on her heel.
"I’m done listening to this," she snaps, starting to storm toward the door.
I move faster. I grab her arm, spinning her back around. Her body collides with mine, soft curves against hard muscle.
"We already discussed your storming off," I say, my voice a low rumble. "And you said you would never do it."
She struggles against my grip for a second, then goes still, her eyes blazing up at me. "I agree," she hisses. "And that was a smart clause. But I guess we forgot to discuss what I should do when you are being a possessive idiot."
"Not sure," I snarl, tightening my grip on her arm, pulling her flush against me. "But I guess you’ll have to learn."
I don't give her a chance to retort. I slam my mouth down on hers.
It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a takeover.
I kiss her with all the frustration and jealousy burning in my gut.
I kiss her to taste the truth on her tongue, to prove that she belongs to me and not some low-level Bratva spy.
She fights for a second, her hands pushing against my chest, but then she caves.
She melts. Her mouth opens, and she kisses me back with a fire that matches my own.
I groan, lifting her up. She wraps her legs around my waist instinctively. I carry her not to the bedroom, but to the nearest heavy oak table in the hallway. I sweep a vase off of it—it shatters, I don’t care—and slam her down onto the wood.
"Mine," I grind out against her lips. "He doesn't get to look at you. He doesn't get to speak to you."
I spin her around, forcing her onto her hands and knees. Her jeans are tight, hindering me. I rip at the fabric, popping the button, shoving them and her panties down to her thighs. She’s already wet. My body reacts violently to the sight of her spread for me, vulnerable and waiting.
I free myself, hard as iron, and I don't wait. I grip her hips, my fingers digging into her soft flesh, and I thrust into her from behind.
It’s raw. It’s rough. There is no slow buildup, no gentle romance. This is primal. I drive into her, my hips slapping against her ass with a rhythmic, wet sound that echoes in the hall. She cries out, burying her face in her arms, but she pushes back against me, meeting my fury with her own need.
"Say it," I command, leaning over her, biting the sensitive cord of her neck. "Tell me whose wife you are."
"Yours," she gasps. "Igor... I’m yours."
I hammer into her, harder, faster, chasing the release that will burn away the image of her smiling at another man. I feel the tightening of her muscles, the way she unravels around me, and it pushes me over the edge.
I pull out at the last second, pressing the head of my cock against the small of her back. I come with a roar, my seed spilling hot and white over her skin.
She collapses onto her stomach, panting, trembling. I don’t move away. I lean down, running my hand over her back, spreading the evidence of my release into her skin and rubbing it in like a brand.
"Marked," I whisper against her ear, my voice rough with the aftershocks. "Mine inside and out. Don’t fucking forget it."