Chapter 4
IVAN
I curse at the shock in the girl’s eyes—Melani—as she glances down at the shattered mess at her feet.
“We’ll continue this conversation later.” I dismiss Salvatore, who looks seconds away from strangling her, and beckon my little spy forward with the gun still warm in my hand. Her skin goes ashen, and my chest tightens in a way it hasn't since I was a boy. Strange. I ignore it.
“What are you doing?” James demands, sounding surprised I haven’t killed her yet. Frankly, I don’t understand it either. Anyone else would already be bleeding out next to the other two bodies. “You can’t let a witness live. Kill her!”
The look I give him could strip paint. He doesn’t get to give orders here. I’m in charge.
“Leave.” My voice leaves no room for argument, and after a brief hesitation that has me tempted to blow out his kneecaps, he backs off and makes his exit. Lucky for him, we need him for the election, or he’d be learning about consequences the hard way.
The bodies of James' old partners don’t earn a second glance as I approach the woman hunching into herself in the corner. James shut the door on his way out, but I walk past her to lock it properly. Her sharp inhale tells me she knows what that means.
I should have locked it from the start, but it simply didn’t occur to me to—no one dares open my office door uninvited unless they have a death wish.
“Now, what am I going to do with you, my little spy?” I turn to face her, rubbing my chin with the warm barrel.
She flinches, and I discover I hate the sight of it, which is absurd.
She's right to be scared; anyone with half a brain would be, but watching that fear bloom across her face makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
Get your head on straight. The thought fractures the moment she looks up. Those honey eyes are so luminous, my throat locks.
“I–I–didn’t see anything.”
I tilt my head, studying her. What’s happening here?
I’m cold and methodical by nature, that’s why I’m the enforcer instead of hotheaded Dimitri.
The only time I let emotions in is with family.
So how the fuck is this woman making me feel things without my permission?
I take a single step forward, and she shuffles back.
“I’m not a spy, I swear. This was an accident—an accident. I saw nothing!”
Fascinating. Her perfect English slips, and a trace of an accent I hadn’t noticed before peeks through. Italian. In my club? "If you're not a spy, what are you doing up here?"
"I-I was just bringing your favorite drink." Her hands flutter towards the shattered bottle and the mess by the door. “Th–The Ararat. The expensive one.”
Ararat 20 Years Nairi Brandy. She did her homework. "I didn't order a drink."
I take another step forward, and she shuffles back again. The predictability of it sends a dark thrill through me, and my lips curl up. This is unexpectedly entertaining. I guide her trajectory with each advance, and she goes willingly, too busy tripping over her excuses to realize what I’m doing.
“I—I know, I’m just nuova—new, and I thought…
bene, I thought maybe I'd take the initiative, set myself apart…” She scrambles backwards even faster, her eyes going wide when her spine hits the wall next to my desk.
Exactly where I want her. And fuck, if those little slips into Italian aren’t sexy as hell.
Definitely not American-raised like I first assumed. That changes things.
"Oh,” I crowd her space, “you certainly set yourself apart, myshka.” Little mouse.
The gun stays in my right hand, held close to her side, while my left comes up beside her head, boxing her in. She shrinks back like she could melt into the plaster, eyes huge and startled, but I catch it—that flicker of lust that softens her face for half a heartbeat before fear rushes back in.
Arousal hits low and sudden, my balls drawing tight as my cock swells against my zipper.
I ignore it, leaning closer to breathe her in.
Her scent isn’t what I expected—not sweet or girlish.
It's darker. More complex. A breath of jasmine and smoke, threaded with something warm and rich, like the coffee Dima obsesses over.
It curls into my chest like a slow burn, filling my lungs, making my head spin until I almost forget what this is supposed to be.
Fuck. I hate how much it distracts me. She's going to be a fucking thorn in my flesh. I should just get rid of her now and call it a night. But I fucking can't.
The decision happens before the thought finishes.
I toss the gun onto my desk and replace it with my hand, my grip sliding to her throat.
Lightly at first, like an anchor, then tighter—tight enough to cut off her air supply.
Her soft gasp shoots straight through my chest, and the way her lashes flutter before her eyes fall shut?
Christ. Is she even aware she’s leaning into my touch now? The fear all but drained from her face.
This wasn’t my plan, but I can work with it. Take advantage of her obvious innocence. Use her. Then dispose of her. Yes, that could work. I’ve wanted to fuck her since I bumped into her earlier tonight. So why shouldn’t I?
I ease my grip just enough for her to gulp in a handful of oxygen. Then I tongue the corner of her mouth, her lips part instantly. Fuck, she’s so responsive and tastes delicious. She’s… moya, made for my fucking pleasure.
“I should end your life,” I murmur against her lips, as those honeyed depths snap open — heat and wariness at war within them. “But that would be such a waste of potential.”
I smirk as I take in her body. She’s still wearing Zvezda’s modest uniform, which is designed to be professional and decent. But her breasts rise and fall with each heavy breath, the motion turning restraint into something downright indecent.
Moving to her ear, I catch the delicate shell between my teeth, drawing a needy moan from her throat that makes my cock leak.
“Perhaps I should put a new life into you instead.” My free hand slides from the wall to press firmly against her belly, low enough that there’s no mistaking my meaning. “Which would you prefer?”
“Comu?” she breathes out. “I—I don’t understand…”
“You don’t understand?” I release her throat so I can nibble and suck on the sweet flesh there, while the hand on her belly slips down under the band of her skirt, into the warm heat of her mound. When I cup her cunt through her underwear, a groan rips free. Fuccck. She’s soaked.
She moans into my ear, and instinct takes over. I buck against her, pressing my aching cock to her belly as the heel of my palm grinds slow circles over her clit.
“Here's my answer,” I growl. “You understand me perfectly, sladkaya moya.” My sweet.
It takes herculean effort to withdraw my hand from beneath her skirt.
Even more not to bring my fingers to my nose and inhale her scent, or taste her arousal.
I pull back, forcing space between us until no part of our bodies touch anymore.
She doesn’t even seem to notice. Still slumped against the wall, chest heaving with ragged pants, her eyes closed like she’s lost in sensation.
Fuck, she’s so ripe. So ready to be ruined.
With a sharp, frustrated curse, I turn towards my desk and yank open the top drawer. The handcuffs are right where I left them. I grab them and return to my little mouse.
Gripping her shoulders—careful not to touch more than necessary—I spin her to face the wall. Then I wrench her hands together behind her back and snap the cuffs around her wrists.
“What—what are you doing?” Her voice carries that smoky edge of lingering desire, but confusion is creeping in as she glances back at me with wide, uncertain eyes.
“You’re under arrest,” I say darkly, hating how easily she got under my skin and made me lose control.
She blinks at me. “Y-you not police… lascia-mi, let me go…”
Her slip back into Italian is endearing in a way that irritates the hell out of me, and before I can stop myself, I’m sinking my fingers into her luscious dark hair with a low chuckle.
"Call it a citizen's arrest. You've been a bad girl, and bad girls need to be punished appropriately. You're coming with me."
I eye her critically, wondering if she’ll be cooperative or if I’ll need to use more force.
She’s been pliant so far, but only because lust still has her in a haze.
That will wear off soon enough. And I can’t risk her screaming once we’re outside.
Not that anybody would come to her aid—this is Manhattan, after all—but I don’t need that kind of attention.
So I tug off my tie and stuff it into her mouth, my cock throbbing as I watch the material disappear past her lips.
I know exactly what I want to put there instead.
“Spit this out, and I’ll rip out your tongue,” I warn roughly as I push away from her. Damn her for making me this desperate.
Gripping her elbow, I guide her into my ensuite and through the secret door that leads outside.
The chilly night air hits us, along with the roar of traffic and the wail of distant sirens.
My men standing watch lower their eyes, pretending they don’t see us—even as my little captive burns holes into them with her stare, willing them to look, to help.
She’s delusional if she thinks that will work. My men know better than to interfere with my business.
I tighten my grip as I steer her towards my Aston Martin. But when I open the passenger door and try to shove her inside, she locks her knees stubbornly, finally showing real resistance.
“You have two choices, myshka,” I say with dangerous calm. “You either get into the passenger seat willingly, or I stuff you into my trunk like cargo. Either way, you’re coming with me.”
Her eyes narrow, and the fire there makes my cock ache. I push her harder than necessary, and with her resistance gone, she tumbles inside like a sack of potatoes, almost smacking her head on the dashboard because her hands are cuffed behind her.
She winces, and my own wrists sting in answer, phantom pain flaring where I know hers must burn. I fucking hate it.
With sharp, angry movements driven by frustration, I lean down to rearrange her in the seat and secure the seatbelt over her chest, even though it might aggravate her already strained wrists and shoulders.
When a tear slips down her cheek, I freeze for half a second before jerking away and slamming the door.
Damn her for making me feel.