Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
M IKHAIL
The second we step through the warehouse's heavy iron doors, every head in the room turns.
I fucking hate it. Normally I wouldn't care, but she’s with me, and every lingering gaze makes me want to tear this place down.
They’ve styled the massive space like an exclusive London speakeasy: dark wood, leather armchairs, and the heavy scent of cigars and expensive whiskey. A dozen men linger—Brooklyn’s hungry, rising underbelly, not the rotting legacy families who only talk of tradition.
And they’re staring at my wife.
I tighten my grip on Irina’s waist, my palm hot against the bare skin of her back.
Her dark red silk slip dress clings like liquid, its low back exposing the pale skin I spent all morning marking with my mouth.
It’s dangerously short, showing off her legs, and the way the rich crimson catches the light makes my blood run hot.
I shouldn't have let her wear it.
"Mikhail," Vance says, stepping forward from the main poker table. He’s a block of a man, his thick arms covered in prison ink. His gaze drifts down to Irina, staying there a second too long. I’m going to fucking kill him. "I didn't think you’d bring company."
"She’s not company," I growl, my voice a low, warning rumble. "She’s my wife."
"Ah. The Petrov princess," Silas says, leaning back in his leather chair with a greasy smirk. He’s younger, sharp-featured, wearing a suit like he’s trying too hard. "I heard you found her in Mexico. Didn't realize she was allowed out of the house."
My hand drops to my side, fingers curling into a fist as I calculate how many teeth I can kick down his throat before his guards can even draw. Give me one wrong word, you bastard.
Konstantin steps into the light, hands in his pockets, his face a stone shield. "We're here to talk transit routes, Silas. Let's keep the focus where it belongs."
"Of course," Vance says, his eyes still tracking Irina’s hips. "Sit down, Mikhail. Fifty-grand buy-in. Let's see if the Morozovs still have the stomach for a real game after yesterday."
"My stomach is fine, Vance," I say, pulling out a chair for Irina near the table before taking my own seat. "Let's see if you're ready to lose."
She doesn’t sit. She stands behind my shoulder, her fingers resting lightly on the back of my chair. I can feel her heat, the scent of roses cutting through the heavy cigar smoke.
The game starts—a quiet war of attrition. Silas plays loud and aggressive, trying to bully the pot. Vance is steadier but greedy. Konstantin sits in the corner, sipping whiskey, watching the room like a hawk.
I’m holding a pair of jacks when the betting gets tight. Vance throws in ten grand. Silas raises ten more.
"He's baiting you, Vance," Irina says quietly. Her voice is a cool thread in the hot room. "He’s played the same check-raise pattern on the river since we sat down. He doesn't have the spade."
The table goes dead quiet.
Silas’s smirk vanishes. He sets his cards down slowly and glares at her. "Mikhail, while it’s nice to see you’re glued at the hip with your darling wife, I thought this was a game for men? Maybe the girl should find the bar and leave the business to people who actually understand the math..."
The temperature in the room drops fifty degrees. I slowly set my cards face down on the green felt.
"What did you say?" I ask, a dangerous smile spreading across my face.
Silas tries to maintain his posture, but his chest expands in a tight breath. "I-I said she should be quiet. This is a hundred-thousand-dollar pot, Mikhail. It’s not a parlor game for a pretty doll."
I look back at Irina. Her blue eyes are electric with fury. She’s biting her lip, her jaw set, ready to spit some venom that will probably start a shootout.
I grin and reach out, wrapping my hand around her wrist to pull her forward. ”Why not make this even more fun, men? If you think she can't play, let her take my seat."
Silas lets out a dry, mocking laugh. "You're putting your wife in the game? Mikhail, you've lost your head."
“Try not to combust when my pretty doll wins, Silas," I say, leaning back. "She takes my seat. But we raise the stakes."
"How much?" Vance asks, eyes narrowing.
"If she loses, I double the current pot. I pay a hundred grand to each of you, cash, by tomorrow morning. But if she wins..." I pause, letting the silence stretch. "If she wins, each of you owes me a favor. A real favor. No questions asked."
They’re greedy, and they think this is a joke.
"We're in," Vance says with a greedy grin. "Sit down, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got."
I stand up, letting Irina take my chair. As she sits, her dress rides up her thighs, exposing a smooth stretch of skin that makes my jaw tighten.
I step behind her, my hands resting on her bare shoulders, my thumbs dragging across her collarbone.
"Don't lose my money, dorogaya ," I whisper against her ear.
"I never lose," she murmurs back, her voice carrying that sharp edge I love. “You of all people should know that.”
The game starts.
The first hand, she folds immediately. The second, she baits Roman into a forty-thousand-dollar raise on a pair of sixes, only to reveal a full house on the river.
She sits with a small, mocking smile, her hair falling over her shoulders, her fingers sliding the chips across the felt with sultry confidence.
I stand behind her, my blood absolutely boiling. God, she’s magnificent.
Silas is staring at her, eyes dark with frustration and lust. Every time his gaze lingers on her chest, I have to force my hands to stay on her shoulders instead of wrapping them around his neck.
She’s mine. They can look, but she’s fucking mine.
By the fifth hand, she’s got Silas cornered. He’s down to his last thirty thousand, his face flushed and his tie pulled loose. "You're bluffing," Silas spits. "You don't have the ace."
"Then call, Silas," Irina purrs. She leans forward, her low-cut dress exposing the soft swell of her breasts, and gives him a sweet smile. "Show me what the men around here are made of. Or are you afraid of me?"
Silas curses and shoves his remaining chips into the center. "Call."
Irina doesn't hesitate. She turns her cards over.
An ace of hearts. A king of hearts. A royal flush on the board.
The room goes dead silent. Vance lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. Silas just stares at the cards, his face pale, his hands trembling.
I look toward the corner. Konstantin is standing there, quiet amusement flickering in his dark eyes. He gives me a short, approving nod.
We have them. Two of the most ambitious players in Brooklyn are now in my debt. This is massive.
I reach down, wrap my arm around Irina’s waist, and pull her up. She stands close, her breathing fast from the rush of the win.
"We’re done here," I say to the table. "I hope you all remember our deal."
I don't wait for them to answer. I steer Irina out of the speakeasy, my arm locked around her waist like iron. The second we hit the cool night air, I press her against the Aston Martin, my body pinning her to the metal.
"You're a menace, Irina," I growl.
"I won your game, Mikhail," she pants, her eyes wide and dark in the moonlight. "You should be thanking me."
"Oh, I’ll thank you when we get home, dorogaya ," I say, my mouth slamming into hers in a hard, punishing kiss that makes my entire body go stiff with want.
I pull back, my chest heaving, and open the passenger door. She climbs in, her dress clinging to her thighs, and the sight of her makes my vision go dark.
I scramble into the driver’s seat, yanking the car into gear. The Aston Martin screams out of the lot, the engine a roar of pure, aggressive speed as we head back toward the estate.
The silence in the car is different now. I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s staring out the window, but her skin is flushed, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the red silk.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I blink, keeping my eyes on the dark road. "For what?"
"For letting me play," she says, her voice turning vulnerable for a split second. "My father... he never would have let me sit at that table. He would have used me to distract them, but he never would have trusted me with the seat. I was touched, Mikhail. Truly."
I let out a low huff, my grip on the wheel tightening. "I know you're capable. Why wouldn't I let you play?"
She looks at me, a flicker of actual warmth in her eyes.
"Besides," I growl, my voice dropping to a rough rasp. "It worked out perfectly. Now I have those bastards exactly where I want them. And they’ll never see you coming."
"You're a terrible businessman," she murmurs, a small, sassy grin touching her lips. "Always looking for the leverage."
"I'm a Morozov," I say, turning onto the long, winding drive of the estate.
I pull up to the front doors and kill the engine, plunging the interior of the Aston Martin into deep, intimate darkness. I don't move. I just turn and look at her.
She sits there in the red silk dress, her hair falling over her shoulders, her lips swollen from our kiss. She looks like a queen. My queen. The woman who just won my war with a pack of cards.
I want her so badly I can't think straight.
If I don't put my hands on her and bury myself inside her until neither of us can breathe, I’m going to combust.