Chapter Sixteen
The glass door clicks shut, sealing the warmth inside and leaving me on the terrace with the wind and the whiskey.
I stare at the empty space where she stood. The ghost of her scent—jasmine and vanilla and the sharp, salty tang of sex—lingers in the air, mixing with the cold metal of the city.
My hands are still shaking. I look down at my palms. They’re red and chapped from gripping the railing. From gripping her.
“Damn it.”
I rest my forehead against the cool glass, closing my eyes. The replay is instant. The way her legs felt wrapped around my waist. The taste of her mouth—desperate and sweet. The sound she made when I pushed inside her, a broken sob that went straight to my gut.
I’ve fucked women before. I’ve fucked wives of enemies, mistresses of allies, strangers in hotel rooms. It’s always been a transaction. A physical release. A way to burn off energy.
This was different. It felt like a breach.
I wanted it. I wanted it more than I’ve wanted anything in years.
Turning away from the window, I finish the whiskey in one burning swallow. The liquid sits heavy in my stomach, but it doesn’t dull the edge. It doesn’t scrub the memory of her skin from my fingertips.
I need to get a grip.
This changes nothing. The objective remains the same. Keep her close. Secure the Bratva’s future.
Except the parameters have shifted.
I walk back into the penthouse. The silence is loud now, charged with the weight of what just happened. I can hear her in the bedroom. The rustle of sheets. The running of water in the en suite bath.
She’s washing me off her.
The thought sends a spike of possessiveness through my chest that I can’t quite swallow. She shouldn’t want to wash me off. She should want to keep the marks.
I stride to the bar and pour another drink. I just hold the glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
Tomorrow, we have a meeting. A high-level summit with the Colombos. It’s a delicate dance—a show of force masked as a negotiation. Lorenzo is testing boundaries, probing for weakness. I need to project absolute unity.
I need her there.
The realization is unwelcome but unavoidable. She’s not just a prop anymore. She’s a distraction, yes, but she’s also a signal.
A man who brings his wife to a negotiation is a man with something to lose. A man with something to lose is a man who will fight harder to keep it.
It’s a risk, but looking at the bedroom door, I know it’s one I’m willing to take.
I stay up for another hour, reviewing the security protocols for the event. Yuri has outdone himself. The venue is swept. The exit routes are mapped. The snipers are positioned on the rooftops.
It’s a fortress, but the biggest vulnerability is currently sleeping in my bed.
Eventually, I force myself to move. I strip off my clothes, the leather heavy and stiff with cold. I shower quickly, scrubbing the city from my skin, trying to wash away the lingering scent of her, but it’s no use. It’s imprinted.
I walk into the bedroom in sweatpants.
She’s asleep, curled up on her side of the bed, her back to me. The sheets are kicked down to her waist, exposing the smooth curve of her shoulder. Her hair is a spill of gold across the white pillow.
I pause. I shouldn’t sleep here, but my feet move on their own.
The mattress dips under my weight. She shifts, making a soft, sleepy sound, but she doesn’t wake. She burrows deeper into the blankets, her breathing evening out.
I lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling.
It’s going to be a long night.
***
Morning comes too soon.
The light filters through the drapes in gray, watery streaks. I’m already awake. I’ve been awake for hours, listening to the rhythm of her breathing.
She shifts, her eyes fluttering open. For a second, she looks disoriented. Then, memory floods back. Her gaze lands on me, and she stiffens.
“Morning.” My voice is raspy. Rough.
She sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her hair is a mess, and her eyes are puffy. She looks beautiful.
“Morning.”
“We have an event tonight,” I say, skipping the pleasantries. “A gala at the Guggenheim. The Colombos will be there.”
She blinks. “The Colombos?”
“Lorenzo. Don Colombo himself.”
She freezes. “The man who… the man who had Ayaan?”
“The same.”
Her expression hardens. The softness of sleep vanishes, replaced by the familiar sharp lines of anger.
“You want me to go?”
“I want you there.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my wife.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s the only one that matters.”
I get out of bed, walking to the closet. I can feel her eyes on me. Watching my movements, assessing.
“You don’t have a choice, Freya,” I say, grabbing a shirt from a hanger. “You’re part of this now.”
“How comforting.”
I turn to face her. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the sheet slipping to reveal the smooth skin of her thigh. I remember how that skin felt under my hands last night. How she trembled when I touched her.
My body reacts instantly, a traitorous surge of heat.
I force myself to look away.
“Anna is bringing up breakfast,” I say, pulling on the shirt. “Get dressed. Wear something appropriate.”
“What is appropriate for meeting the man who ruined my life?” she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Something expensive,” I reply. “Something that makes you look untouchable.”
“Untouchable.”
“That’s the illusion we’re selling.”
I button the shirt, my fingers moving on autopilot. I need to get out of here before I do something stupid—like walk back over there and pull her into my arms.
“I’ll be in the office.”
I leave the room before she can respond.
***
The day passes in a blur of preparation.
I spend the morning in the secondary office, reviewing the guest list. It’s a who’s who of the underworld—arms dealers, smugglers, corrupt politicians. Lorenzo is bringing his inner circle. I need to be sharp.
Freya appears around noon. She’s wearing a sundress, yellow and floral, looking like a breath of fresh air in the gloom of the penthouse. She’s holding a tablet, her brow furrowed in concentration.
She’s researching. I can tell by the way she’s scrolling. I don’t stop her.
Let her dig. Let her find the crumbs I’ve left. It keeps her busy. It keeps her focused on the puzzle instead of the solution.
I watch her from across the room. She bites her lip when she’s thinking. She tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. She has a habit of tapping her foot when she hits a dead end.
She’s vibrant. Alive. Everything this house isn’t.
I feel that pull again. That magnetic draw that makes me want to cross the room and sink into her.
Last night wasn’t enough. It was just the tip of the iceberg. I want more. I want to peel back the layers of anger and defiance and find what’s underneath. I want to know what makes her tick. I want to know what she looks like when she’s not fighting.
I crave her.
It’s a hunger that sits in the pit of my stomach, gnawing at me. It’s distracting. Dangerous.
I watch the curve of her waist as she leans over the table. The swell of her hips. She’s soft in all the right places, lush and feminine. A stark contrast to the hard edges of my world.
I remember the way she felt in my hands. Heavy, soft, yielding. Her body is a masterpiece, built for pleasure.
My fingers itch to touch her again. I force the thought down. I have work to do.
By evening, the penthouse is buzzing with activity. The stylists arrive, followed by the security detail. The air is thick with hairspray and anticipation.
I’m already dressed in a suit and silver cuff links. It’s the uniform of the Bratva.
I walk into the bedroom to find Freya standing in front of the mirror.
She’s wearing red. She’s clad in a floor-length gown of silk velvet that hugs her curves like a second skin. The neckline plunges, exposing the soft swell of her breasts. Her back is bare, a smooth expanse of pale skin that makes my mouth go dry.
She looks like a queen. A warrior.
She turns around, and the skirt flares out, swirling around her ankles.
It’s perfect.
“You look—” I stop, searching for the right word. “Dangerous.”
She smiles, a sharp, red-lipped smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I thought that was the point.”
“It is.”
I walk over to her, reaching out to adjust the strap of her dress. My fingers brush against her skin. She tenses slightly, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Tonight,” I say, my voice low, “you stay by my side. You don’t speak to Lorenzo unless I say so. You don’t accept drinks from anyone but me.”
“I’m not a child, Nikita.”
“No,” I agree, letting my hand linger on her shoulder. “You’re a target.”
The reality of the situation hangs between us.
“I can handle myself,” she says.
“I know.” I step back, my eyes raking over her. “But let me handle the threats.”
She looks at me for a long moment. Then, she nods.
“Okay.”
“Good.”
I offer her my arm, and she takes it. Her hand is warm, her grip firm.
We walk out of the bedroom together.
***
The Guggenheim is a spiral of glass and steel, illuminated against the night sky. The gala is in full swing, the rotunda filled with the elite of New York.
We make our entrance.
I feel the shift in the room immediately. The whispers start as soon as we step onto the curving walkway. The cameras flash.
Freya is tense beside me. I can feel it in the set of her shoulders, the way she holds her breath.
I squeeze her arm reassuringly. “Head up,” I murmur. “Smile.”
She lifts her chin and plasters on a smile that looks genuine enough to fool anyone who isn’t looking for cracks.
We descend into the pit of vipers.
It’s a sea of expensive suits and glittering gowns. Waiters float by with trays of champagne. An orchestra plays somewhere in the distance, drowning out the conversations.
I spot Lorenzo immediately.
He’s standing near the center of the room, a glass of wine in hand. He’s older than me, his face lined with age and cruelty. He’s flanked by two men who look like they’d snap a neck as soon as look at you.
Antonio is with him, the second-in-command. He’s rarely seen in public, preferring to work behind the scenes.
Freya sees them too. Her grip on my arm tightens.
“Easy,” I warn.
“I recognize him,” she whispers.
“Oh, really?”
We navigate the crowd, stopping to shake hands, to accept congratulations on the marriage. Freya plays her part perfectly. She laughs at the right jokes. She nods at the right times. She’s charming, poised, untouchable.
Except her eyes never leave Lorenzo, and I notice that Lorenzo’s eyes never leave her. There’s a hunger there. A calculation.
I feel a surge of protective instinct that I haven’t felt in years. Not for myself, but for her.
“You’re staring at my wife, Don Lorenzo,” I say as we finally come face-to-face.
Lorenzo smiles. It’s a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s hard not to look,” he says, his voice accented and thick. “She is… exquisite.”
“She’s mine.”
“So the rumors say.” He takes a sip of his wine. “A marriage of convenience, or love?”
“Does it matter?”
“To some.”
He glances at Freya. “I knew a Smith once. Ayaan. A spirited young man.”
Freya flinches. I feel it.
“He made mistakes,” Lorenzo continues. “Mistakes that cost him dearly.”
“He disappeared,” I say, keeping my voice flat.
“Disappeared,” Lorenzo agrees. “Or was… relocated.”
Freya steps forward slightly. “What do you know about it?” she asks, her voice steady despite the tension.
Lorenzo looks at her, amused.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“It concerns me if you know where he is.”
I squeeze her arm. A warning. Stop.
She ignores it. “Ayaan didn’t just vanish,” she says. “He was transferred for external handling.”
Lorenzo’s eyes narrow slightly. A flicker of something—surprise, perhaps—crosses his face. “You’ve been doing your homework,” he says.
“I have sources.”
“Yet, here you are playing house with the man who signed the order.”
“I’m playing the long game,” she counters.
Lorenzo laughs. A short, dry sound. “A dangerous game, little girl. Dangerous games get people killed.”
“I’m not afraid of death.”
“Then you’re stupid.”
“Nikita?” This comes from Antonio. He’s been watching the exchange with interest. “Is she always this forward?”
“Only when she’s passionate,” I reply.
“Passion is a liability,” Antonio says.
“Sometimes,” I say, looking at Freya, “it’s also a fuel.”
Freya glances up at me. For a second, the anger fades, replaced by something else. Gratitude? Recognition?
Then, the moment is gone.
“If you’ll excuse us,” I say, nodding to Lorenzo. “We have other guests to greet.”
“Of course.” Lorenzo raises his glass. “Enjoy the evening. Watch your back, Gromov. The walls have ears.”
“We always do.”
I steer Freya away, moving toward the edge of the rotunda. My heart is hammering against my ribs. That was too close. She almost tipped her hand.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, once we’re out of earshot.
“Getting answers.”
“You were provoking him!”
“I need to know.”
“Not tonight.” I grip her arms, turning her to face me. “Tonight, you survive.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I know that, but Lorenzo is a shark. If he smells blood, he’ll attack.”
“I’m not bleeding.”
“Not yet.”
I look at her. She’s flushed, her eyes bright with defiance. She looks magnificent.
I remember the feel of her skin last night. The taste of her mouth. I want to drag her out of here. I want to take her back to the penthouse and finish what we started on the balcony. I want to lose myself in her.
Duty calls.
“Stay close,” I say, releasing her. “Don’t leave my side.”
“I won’t,” she says.
“Good.”
We turn back to the crowd.
The night is just beginning, and the game is far from over.