Chapter 7
MARI
It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m untangling a complicated reconciliation when my phone buzzes with a text:
We need to talk.
I don’t have the number saved, but I know it’s Lev.
Fine, I text back.
I’ll send a car, he replies.
My anger flares under my skin, masking the fear that’s been eating at me since I confronted him in his office.
I close the Excel file and pack up my things.
He’s not a man who likes to be kept waiting.
As much as I’d like to be the kind of woman who ignores a summons, this feels too dangerous to worry about what it says about my feminism.
Outside the building, a black SUV idles at the curb with the rear door open. The driver calls my name in a steady voice. I swallow hard and get in.
In the back of my mind, I hear the advice about never letting an attacker take you to a second location. Does that still apply when your boss also happens to be a Bratva pakhan? Does it apply if I’m willingly putting myself in danger? The answer to both questions is probably no.
We cut west and slide up Tenth Avenue, then the driver merges onto the West Side Highway. The Hudson opens on my left, gray and wide. I wait for the turn onto Seventy-Second, the familiar swing toward his Upper West Side penthouse. But we don’t exit. We keep going north.
The skyline thins as we pass the Intrepid and the parkway opens, clean and fast. The Cloisters lift out of the trees.
The Henry Hudson Bridge rises ahead like a steel rib.
We cross into the Bronx, and the city shifts under the tires.
He stays on the Saw Mill. Trees crowd the median. Stone cuts the hills in sharp lines.
Neighborhoods fall away. Green replaces brick.
The road narrows and smooths. When we exit, the lanes become a quiet two-lane road shaded by old oaks.
Stone pillars rise out of clipped lawn. A small guardhouse sits beyond them with glass that doesn’t glare.
The first gate slides open without a sound.
Twenty yards later, we encounter a second gate and wait to be buzzed in.
The mansion comes into view in pieces. The roof rises above the trees, and I’m sure I see snipers on top. The brick facade starts to reveal itself, and it’s so much bigger than I could have imagined. It isn’t a mansion so much as a fortress.
The SUV stops under a porte cochère. The driver opens my door without looking at me. I step down and smooth my jacket to give my hands something to do.
Then the front door opens and a man I’ve seen once before but can’t place steps out to collect me.
“Ms. Gonzales,” he greets me without smiling.
He leads me inside the grand entryway, and the place looks more like a museum than a home. It’s sterile, spotless, and reveals nothing about the man who owns it. I have the distinct feeling I’m being watched and wonder if there are hidden cameras somewhere.
“Is this Mr. Borikov’s home?” I ask, feeling the need to fill the silence. “I thought he lived on the Upper West Side.”
That’s what all his magazine interviews say, anyway. I’ve been obsessively researching him since Agent Cole showed up at my house. Nothing in any of his Forbes interviews reveals who he really is. This place is probably a closely guarded secret, and I’ve just stumbled into the belly of the beast.
“This is a family home,” the man says, his tone detached.
I follow him through the massive house until we stop at a set of double doors. He knocks twice, sharp, then turns to me, his stance defensive. I understand now that this man is some kind of guard. A quick glance reveals a bulge at his side that I’m sure is a gun.
My pulse hammers under my skin, but I take a breath and pretend this is all completely normal. The door opens. I square my shoulders and walk through.
It takes me a moment to realize that I’m standing in a kitchen. Bright lights gleam off spotless stainless-steel surfaces.
“Mari,” Lev says kindly, his demeanor a complete one-eighty from the last time I saw him in his office. “I thought we could have this talk somewhere more private.”
A laugh tears out of me, almost hysterical.
“Are you sure you didn’t want to have this conversation on the moon?” I quip. “It might have taken less effort to get there.”
He smirks and holds up a bottle of wine for my approval. “Is white okay? If not, I can send someone down to the cellar and pick out something else. I also have liquor if you’d prefer.”
I’m not sure if he’s goading me or just genuinely trying to be a good host. It’s all very unsettling.
“White is fine.” I shrug and approach a huge prep table to accept the glass from him.
He leads me out of the kitchen and into a huge dining room. It’s set only for two, with lit candles on the table. Salmon, roasted potatoes, and a fresh caprese salad greet me when I sit down.
“You cook?” I ask, caught off guard.
“I burn water.” He chuckles. “I have an excellent chef who lets me choose the menu.”
I nod, because that’s the first thing that’s made sense in the last hour. He likes to be in control. That’s no surprise.
“Do you actually live here, or do you just bring people here to intimidate them?”
“I grew up here,” he says. “And sometimes I spend a weekend or two when I need to get out of the city. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Private.”
His eyes drop to my mouth before meeting mine. A shiver runs down my spine because I remember exactly how his lips felt on mine, and despite my apprehension about this entire situation, I suddenly want nothing more than to feel them again.
I shake my head to clear it and pick up my fork, but I don’t take a bite until he does. I think I’m being subtle, but he smiles again. It’s such an odd look for him.
“You would do well in the Bratva,” he says quietly. “You’re naturally distrustful. But you don’t have to worry, Mari, I didn’t bring you here to poison you.”
“Then why did you bring me?” I ask bluntly.
He sets his fork down and wipes his mouth before meeting my gaze with his sharp, ice-blue eyes. I feel glued to the spot.
“Because I’m going to tell you the truth,” he says evenly. “You have carte blanche to ask whatever you want, and I will answer honestly.”
“And then you’ll kill me?” I say, only half-joking.
“No, Mari,” he answers with a condescending smile. “I’m not going to kill you. No one in my organization is going to lay a finger on you. But I do need you to understand that if you share any of this information with anyone, including Agent Cole, I can’t guarantee your safety.”
“You wouldn’t be able to guarantee my safety anyway,” I say thoughtfully.
“Precisely.” He nods. “So, ask away.”
“You’re really a mob boss?” I cut to the chase.
He takes a sip of wine, watching me carefully. “A pakhan,” he finally answers. “That’s what we call it in the Bratva. And Bratva is the Russian version of the mob.”
“So yes?” I ask petulantly.
“So, yes,” he agrees.
He takes a bite of his salmon, and now I’m the one staring at his lips. At his hands. Thinking about licking his Adam’s apple.
“Do you…” I falter, so distracted by my lustful thoughts. “Do you kill people?”
“Only when I have to,” he answers simply, and damn it if it isn’t sexy as hell.
I bite my lip, and I know he sees it. His eyes linger on my mouth, and even though there’s a decent distance between us, I have a feeling it would take nothing to close it.
“Would you like a glass of water?” he asks, and I can only nod.
He gets up swiftly and heads back into the kitchen. When he comes back, he offers me a glass, and our fingers brush as I take it from him. My hands shake so hard I almost drop it, but he’s quicker, catching it and setting it safely on the table.
“Tell me to send you home,” he says gruffly, his voice thick with an emotion I can’t quite name.
“Do you want to?” I ask.
“No,” he answers honestly.
“Then don’t,” I say. My voice is steady. My heartbeat is not.
He pulls me up against him, his arms immediately wrapping around my waist to steady me.
“How far away is your bedroom?” I ask presumptuously.
“Too far,” he says before his lips crash into mine.
Heat rolls up my spine. I reach for his shirt. He meets me halfway. His hand slides to my jaw and holds me still. I open my mouth for him because I need to taste him, to pull him in even closer. He tastes like wine and cedar.
He backs me into the table. The wood meets my ass and I stumble back onto it. He hovers over me, his lips never leaving mine. He only deepens the kiss. I hook my fingers in his waistband and feel him harden against my stomach.
“This isn’t why I asked you here,” he murmurs against my lips. “Tell me to stop if you don’t want this.”
I don’t. Instead, I fall back onto the table and pull him down with me. He kisses down my body, pushing up my shirt to get to more skin. Then, he pulls down my work slacks and hisses.
“Fuck, you’re already so wet,” he chokes out.
“Pants,” I groan. “Take your pants off.”
He does, quickly, but he never once lets his guard down or wavers in his restraint. He watches me carefully as he undoes his belt and frees himself.
Last time it was so fast, I didn’t even have time to appreciate what he was working with.
I felt it, sure, but actually looking at his huge cock makes my mouth water.
I ache for it. I sit up and reach for him.
When he’s close enough, I grab his hips and pull him closer, kissing every inch of his chest I can reach as I gently stroke him with my hand.
He roughly tears open my blouse and pushes me back down on the table, taking one bra-clad breast into his mouth.
“Fuck,” I whimper, arching my back to get as close to him as possible. “I need more.”
“Look at me,” he commands.
I do. He keeps my gaze as his mouth trails a hot path down my stomach until he’s hovering just above where I need him. He slips my panties down my legs before taking one experimental lick of my slit. My whole body vibrates with pleasure.
“You’re so ready for me,” he groans as he slips two fingers inside me.
“Yes,” I agree, unable to form any other coherent words.
He works me with patient intent, eliciting sounds from me that I didn’t know I was capable of making. When I lift my hips for more friction, he pins them down with a hand and slows just enough to tease. When I curse, he smiles against me.
“So impatient,” he teases. “Be a good girl and don’t come until I tell you to.”
“I’ll try,” I breathe, and he shakes his head once.
“Do more than try,” he says and slides his fingers deeper into me while his tongue dances over my clit. The world goes thin and bright. I’m right on the edge when he stops. I cry out at the loss of him.
“You’re not being fair,” I complain.
He moves back up my body and kisses me chastely.
“You’ll thank me in five minutes,” he says, barely touching me.
Just when I feel like my body is returning to normal, he slides into me with one long, sure push.
My body opens and takes him readily. He holds still while I adjust, jaw tight, breath rough.
Then he moves, setting a pace that builds and holds, deep and maddening.
His hand catches my wrist and pins it over my head.
The other cups the back of my thigh and angles me so the next stroke hits a place that makes me scream his name.
“Not until I say,” he instructs, but I’m already so close to the edge again, I don’t see how I can possibly stop the tide.
I think of everything I possibly can to keep my pleasure at bay. I start counting the digits of pi, one by one, through the first hundred.
“Please,” I beg, almost in tears.
“Now.” He nods and slams into me with more power.
The whole world shatters around me as wave after wave of pleasure rolls over me. I’m so far gone, I don’t even notice the moment he comes inside me.