Chapter 2 – Lev
The crisp Milan air bites against my skin as I step off the jet bridge, but I barely notice it. What I notice is the aftertaste of victory, sharp and sweet. The layover is mine. The crew is mine. And soon enough, Sasha will be mine too.
I played my cards well. I always do. The captain beamed like he’d been handed a golden ticket; the attendants nearly skipped off the plane in excitement. Money has always been a tool, not a prize, and I know exactly how to wield it. But this time, it isn’t about Milan, or refunds, or reputation.
It’s about her.
Sasha.
I don’t know what it is about her, but she’s unraveling me in ways I don’t allow. I’ve had women throw themselves at me for less—for nothing, really. I never have to chase. I never waste this much energy.
And yet here I am, chasing. And I don’t even know her last name.
I was intrigued by her the moment I set eyes on her in the cabin. I’d looked up from my phone, and there she was—the most bewitching, exquisite woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Fucking hell. I knew then that I wanted her.
But the want turned into a burning need the moment she did something I didn’t expect. Something no one has done in years.
She rejected my dinner request. She said no. With a laugh, as if my request was ridiculous and funny.
Blatantly. Calmly. Like I was just another man in her aisle, like my name didn’t matter, my money didn’t matter, my world didn’t matter.
I should have been insulted. Instead, I’m intrigued. Addicted.
For the first time in forever, a woman I want has slipped through my fingers, and the thought of letting her go tastes bitter. Impossible.
So, I won’t.
She thinks she can brush me off, hide behind that perfect smile and professional mask. She has no idea what she’s started.
I’ll give her Milan. I’ll give her the whole damn world if it buys me her time. But at the end of this, she will say yes.
Not because I force her.
Because she’ll want to.
And when she does, it’ll be the sweetest victory I’ve ever tasted.
Two sleek black town cars idle at the curb, gleaming under the gray Milan sky.
My driver stands by the first, posture sharp, while two men from the Milan Rusnak security team flank the second.
They arrived the moment my jet touched ground—because I called them the moment the captain agreed to my request.
No delays. No loose ends.
That’s how I work.
The crew files behind me, their chatter a blur of excitement as the crisp air bites against their cheeks. Milan, to them, is a surprise layover, a gift dropped into their laps. To me, it’s a stage I’ve set, carefully arranged, and every piece is moving exactly where I want it.
I glance at Sasha.
She’s trying to pretend she isn’t impressed.
The others gawk at the town cars, but she keeps her eyes forward, her smile polite, her stride brisk. She thinks distance will keep me from noticing her, from wanting her. She’s wrong. The more she resists, the more the fire builds in me.
She doesn’t realize yet—she’s not walking away.
Not today. Not until I’m done.
As her fellow attendants try to engage her in a chat, I don’t look away from her.
I let myself drink her in, every detail burning sharp into my mind like I’ll starve if I blink.
That uniform wasn’t made to seduce, but on her it becomes a weapon.
The neat press of the fabric against her curves, the modest cut that only makes me imagine what it hides.
Her hair, swept up in perfect order, like she’s dared the world not to touch her.
Her mouth—the polished, professional smile that isn’t for me, but I want it anyway.
Christ.
I’ve had women. More than I can count, more than I care to remember.
And not one of them has ever made me feel this—this sharp, dragging thirst that claws at the back of my throat.
She’s not even trying, yet I feel desperate, like I’d tear the city apart with my bare hands just to see her let go of that rigid control for a second.
It’s not just beauty. Plenty of women are beautiful. But Sasha…she’s untouchable. At least she wants me to believe that. And that makes me ache in ways I haven’t felt in years.
Every flick of her lashes, every little movement, she doesn’t know it—but she’s unraveling me.
But her control isn’t perfect.
Because I catch it—the quick flick of her eyes toward me. The way her gaze lingers a second too long before she jerks it away, pretending she never looked.
It makes me smile.
She thinks I don’t notice. She thinks she’s immune. But I know attraction when I see it, especially the kind a woman fights to the death. She’s charmed. And she hates herself for it.
The crew gathers around me as they reach the cars.
Smiles, chatter, gratitude—half of them can barely disguise the glimmer in their eyes.
Some of the women let their gazes linger a little too long, lips curving with suggestion.
I’ve seen it all before. Normally, I’d let one of them hang on my arm, entertain myself for the afternoon.
But no.
“Thank you, Mr. Rusnak,” one of them gushes, practically batting her lashes.
“It’s no bother,” I say smoothly, my eyes already sliding past her, searching.
And there she is.
Sasha.
She’s not smiling like the others. Her arms fold lightly across her chest, chin tilted, mouth set in something between defiance and disbelief. When she speaks, it’s cool, clipped.
“You’re doing all of this for no reason.”
I lean in, close enough that my voice belongs only to her. I want her to feel the weight of it, want her pulse to trip the way mine does just looking at her.
“Don’t worry,” I murmur, my lips curving into a smile meant only for her. “You’ll like it.”
I pull back before she can fire back some sharp retort. No need to push—not yet. Timing is everything.
“Get into the cars,” I say, voice firm enough that they move without question. The drivers step forward, ushering the crew toward the sleek town cars waiting at the curb.
I walk ahead, not bothering to glance back, the crisp Milan air curling against my collar as I slide into the back of my own jeep. The door shuts with a satisfying thud.
The engine purrs to life.
In the rearview mirror, I catch sight of the town cars pulling out behind me, a neat little procession that belongs to me for as long as I want it. A slow smile curves across my face.
Sasha Marino can pretend all she likes. But I already know—by the end of tonight, she won’t be pretending anymore.
We drive into Milan’s historic center, the city unfurling like a jewel box under the late afternoon light. Cobblestone streets, marble facades, the soft hum of Vespas cutting through the air. I’ve been here countless times—business, pleasure, both—but today feels different.
I lean back, watching through the tinted glass as the town cars follow behind mine. When we pull up near the Piazza del Duomo, I step out first, letting the crew spill onto the square, wide-eyed and buzzing like tourists.
The Duomo rises above us, white stone spires piercing the sky.
“Four hundred years to build,” I tell them, slipping easily into the role of guide. “Every inch carved by hand. A monument to ambition, to obsession.”
Their murmurs ripple with awe, phones already out for pictures. I don’t need to look at them. I only need to look at her.
Sasha.
Even with her arms folded like she’s trying not to be impressed, her eyes betray her. Blue, shining, reflecting the cathedral’s brilliance. She doesn’t know she’s showing me more in that moment than she has all day.
I let my voice drop just enough when I say, “This is the heart of Milan. And tonight, it will belong to us.”
I’m not talking about the city. She knows it. I know it.
And for the first time since she stepped onto my radar, I think she knows she’s in trouble.
“Before we explore any further,” I say, lifting a hand to still the chatter of the crew, “let’s have coffee.”
A ripple of relief goes through them. I lead them off the square, away from the tourist-packed cafés with overpriced cappuccinos and waiters who sneer at Americans. Instead, I take a narrow street, shadowed and cool, until the noise of the piazza fades behind us.
There—tucked into the corner like a secret—is the café. No sign, no flashy facade. Just worn stone walls and a wooden door polished by centuries of hands.
The bell above the door chimes as I push it open. The air is thick with the smell of roasted beans and sugar, the kind of scent that seeps into your bones. Old men play cards in the back, their voices low and steady. A chandelier with missing crystals hangs overhead, catching slivers of light.
“This place has been here longer than most countries have existed,” I tell them, guiding the group in. “No tourists. Only those who know.”
They murmur appreciatively, already charmed.
Sasha takes it all in, her lips parting slightly, her blue eyes reflecting the warm glow of the café’s lamps.
God, she’s even more beautiful like this.
I motion the waiter over. “Caffè for everyone. And biscotti.” My voice drops just slightly as my gaze locks on hers. “For me—something stronger.”
Sasha’s gaze cuts to me for a moment before she turns to face her friend. I don’t push. Not yet.
After a round of coffee, I lead them back outside—through streets that unfurl like a postcard.
The narrow lanes, the sudden open courtyards, the statues that watch with cold stone eyes.
I point out the details: the fading fresco above a doorway, the hidden courtyard where an opera singer once lived, the scent of orange blossoms tucked into a side street.
I know exactly what I’m doing.
Sasha falls in step beside me, her expression carefully neutral. But when she finally speaks, her voice betrays curiosity. “How do you know the city so well?”
I glance at her, let the pause stretch just long enough to make it intimate. “I come here often. Business. Work.”
She arches a brow, skeptical. “Work that involves secret cafés and crew members?”