Chapter 2 #3
A knock at the door startles me, and I quickly adjust myself, tucking my softening cock back into my trousers and tossing the tissues into my wastebasket. I call out, “Come in. A moment later, closing out the windows filled with photos and information about the object of my obsession.
Kazimir enters, his bulk filling the doorway.
He's a big man, six-foot-six and built like he could break someone in half without much effort—which he can, and has.
He leans against the doorjamb, looking like an unwilling messenger.
"Svetlana called," he says without preamble.
"She wanted to remind you about tonight. I told her I’d pass along the message. "
Fuck. Svetlana.
The woman I’m supposed to be squiring around Boston with the intent of proposing marriage is the last person I want to think about right now.
Svetlana Morozova is a former ballerina and current model whose father, Mikhail Morozov, has a vested interest in my businesses and a further interest in taking us both to new heights of wealth.
Of course, in order to proceed with those discussions, he wants me to marry his daughter.
We both get something we want out of the arrangement.
He gets a son-in-law who is the pakhan of the most powerful Bratva on the East Coast, and I get a large bump to my wealth and distribution.
Those could make it so that I could expand my territory outside of the East Coast, even have more leverage the next time Ronan O’Malley wants to push back against me.
And Svetlana is not… objectionable. She’s beautiful, accomplished, and intelligent.
She hasn’t given in to my attempts to take her to bed yet—either because she’s smart enough to know better than to risk burning out what interest I have in her body or because her father has warned her to keep herself out of my bed until the deal is done.
Either way, she’s either very bright or capable of following instructions, both of which are desirable traits.
But right now, she’s not the woman I want to think about. The last thing I feel like doing right now is squiring her to… whatever we were supposed to be doing this evening.
"What time?" I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And what was it I was supposed to be doing with her tonight?”
“You’re meant to pick her up at seven to take her to a gala at the Boston Library. A fundraiser where your presence is expected at. It’s six now,” Kazimir adds, before I can look at the clock.
“Alright.” I turn off my computer, standing up slowly. “Have someone send her a message and tell her I’ll be there.”
Kazimir pauses, looking at me intently. "Everything okay, boss?"
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m fine. And I don’t pay you to ask personal questions.”
He shrugs. “Just making sure. I’ll see to it Sventlana is informed.”
He leaves, closing the door behind him. I stand there in the silence for a moment, cracking my neck to one side and then the other before I follow him out and head upstairs to get ready.
I take a cold shower, trying to drive the lingering arousal out of my body.
The temptation to track Mara down and watch her tonight is strong, but the last thing I need is to get caught lingering around Elio Cattaneo’s brownstone.
That would be hell on the current relations between mob families right now.
Instead, I shower as quickly as possible, dry off, and put on a fresh suit. I’m not going to be the best of company tonight, I know that. I’m irritable and on edge because this obsession with Mara Winslow feels like something that’s unraveling out of my control.
I don't like things I can't control.
I should make an effort to forget about her. Delete the files or consign them to some forgotten place in my computer, not seek her out, and let the obsession fade. Surely it would, with a little time—there’s never been any woman who could hold my attention for long.
If I’m going to focus on any woman, it should be the one I plan to marry. My life will be easier if I do.
The car is waiting downstairs at the curb at six-thirty, a sleek black town car with bulletproof glass. My driver opens the door for me without a word and then slips back into the driver’s seat, heading out into traffic without question. He’s already been briefed on where we’re going.
Svetlana keeps an apartment of her own, paid for by her father, a presumably lovely place from her descriptions with views of the harbor, though I haven’t seen it.
I text her a few minutes before we arrive, and she steps out from the glass doors of the lobby as the driver pulls up to the curb, as effortlessly stunning as always.
She’s in red tonight: a long evening dress that molds to her slender figure and has a slit up one leg, made of some silky material with a faint shimmer to it.
She has a white fur stole wrapped around her shoulders as a concession to the cold, and her golden-blonde hair is done in old-Hollywood style waves.
Her lips are painted a red that perfectly matches her dress, and I consider for a moment as I come around to open the door for her whether or not I should make a stronger effort tonight to get her on her knees.
I wouldn’t mind seeing the crimson of her lipstick staining my cock—I can imagine looping a finger through the diamond necklace around her throat and pulling her mouth down onto it.
Except… when the image flashes into my head, it’s not Svetlana I picture, as I expected to. It’s Mara, her mouth painted crimson, diamonds glimmering around her neck as I drag her mouth down onto my aching erection.
Fuck. One brief fantasy, and I’m hard again, my erection straining against the fly of my trousers.
I angle myself away as Svetlana leans in to kiss me on the cheek and slides into the car, and as I pass around behind it to rejoin her on the other side, I reach down to adjust myself.
The last thing I want right now is for her to notice and take it as something meant for her.
Yesterday, I would have enjoyed the opportunity to see if I could get her into bed. Tonight, all I want is a different woman than the one sitting next to me.
“Ilya.” Her voice is cultured and precise, her Russian accent still present, but not overpowering. “You look handsome.”
“And you’re stunning,” I answer, smiling tersely. It’s true, at least—she’s beyond beautiful tonight, as she is every night. But I have no interest this evening.
She settles against the leather seat, crossing her legs in a way that makes the dress slide up her thigh.
I have no doubt that it’s calculated. She’s an expert in manipulating desire, even mine, but it does nothing for me in this moment.
I’m already hard, but there’s no eager twitch at the sight of her pale, perfect leg revealed in a slow fall of silk.
Instead, my mind flashes back to Mara, to the smooth skin of her narrow thighs below the hem of her sundress.
"I'm glad you could make it tonight," she says, offering a smile in return. "I know you've been busy."
"I’m never not busy.”
"Of course." She touches my arm, her fingers light against my jacket sleeve. "But you have to make time for the important things, yes? Being seen. Making connections. This gala—there will be people there who matter. To you and to my father.”
She's right. The gala is important, a fundraiser for the library, which is really an opportunity for me to direct some of my money in a way that will scrub it clean, while providing the additional opportunity to network with others who might have an interest in business. And appearing with Svetlana again, another in a string of appearances that have rumors circulating about our relationship, will move us along the path to an engagement. It’s what her father wants, what she wants, and, technically, what I want.
Not her, specifically, but everything that comes with her.
And it could be far worse. It will be no hardship to marry her, take her to bed, and have her give me heirs.
In fact, before my sudden infatuation with Mara Winslow, I was eager to start the process and get Svetlana Morozova pregnant with my child sooner rather than later.
Not because I’m itching for heirs, but because the idea of filling such a gorgeous woman with my cum was enough to arouse me to the point of distraction.
It’s as if all that has vanished. As if any desire I had for Svetlana has been hollowed out and replaced with a burning, hungry need for the woman I saw this morning that defies all logic.
The Boston Library is lit up tonight, glowing against the city backdrop as we arrive.
There are lines of cars waiting, all filled with businessmen, billionaires, mafia and their associates, all looking to rub elbows and wash their money clean.
It’s a game, all of us pretending we’re something we’re not, that we’re legitimate when underneath we’re all monsters dripping blood.
Some of them like to pretend they're not. I’ve never desired to be anything other than what I am.
We pull up to the entrance where photographers are waiting, cameras flashing as couples emerge from cars and limousines.
Svetlana takes my arm, her smile bright and perfect, and we walk the gauntlet together.
I've done this a hundred times. I know how to stand, how to smile, how to look like I belong in this world of art and culture and old money.
The cameras flash, and I don't blink or flinch, just keep moving forward with Svetlana on my arm.