Chapter Five
Riccardo
T he Russians are trying to sneak a goddamned human trafficking shipment through my airspace. It’s a direct slap in the face and I can’t believe Adrik Tsepov is that fucking stupid. And yet, I can barely focus on my next step because I can’t get the image of Anya Tspeov’s stubborn expression out of my mind.
I knew what she looked like before. My security team has files on anyone close to Adrik Tsepov and they make sure I know the relevant faces just in case, but the pictures don’t do the woman justice.
Sure, I knew she was hot before. But I rarely lack the presence of hot women in my life when I want it. Anya Tsepov is a whole lot more than just hot, though. She’s got the kind of steel spine that allowed her to walk into my office as if she had a right to, something plenty of well-established businessmen don’t dare.
If she’d wanted to address some of her obvious daddy issues, I would have sent Toni packing and have fucked her over my desk right then and there. But that’s not what she wants. No. Of course, it couldn’t be that simple.
Marriage.
Oddly enough, I don’t recoil at the idea. But I don’t have time to deal with that unexpected revelation just now.
Instead, I need to deal with Dmitri fucking Solntsev.
I glance out of my office window, but all I see are the city lights mocking me with their blinking party atmosphere. I can even hear the distant drone of an incoming plane. Not that it’s the cargo plane that left Vnukovo five hours ago and is supposed to land at the big private airstrip nearby in nine hours. What I’m hearing is just one of the many commercial airplanes that land nearby at Pearson International Airport. Going through my goddamned airspace.
A knock at the door interrupts my fuming.
“Come in.”
“I’ve got news from our guy.” Toni makes his way into the room, and without waiting for me to say something, hands me a piece of paper. “They’ve got seventeen souls on board. Ten women and five of their men aboard that plane, plus the pilot and co-pilot. They’ve listed the cargo as mineral fertilizers.”
“I want at least twenty men present when they land. Keep only one of the men alive to question. Kill the rest.”
“What about the women and the pilots?”
“If the pilots are unarmed, they can live. Have a doctor at one of our houses and make sure the women are seen, then ask them if they want to go home or get paid and work for us.”
“Consider it done, boss.”
As Toni makes to leave, I grab my coat, heading for the door ahead of him.
“You’re not going to join, are you?” The question is tentative. Toni knows I don’t take to being questioned kindly, but he still asks. A sign that he takes his security duties seriously. Especially since it’s obvious that he’s clearly hoping I’m not planning to be at that airstrip in person.
“No, I have something else I need to take care of. Alone.” Not bothering to check for Toni’s reaction, I cross through the lobby and leave him to assemble the team he needs to send Solntsev a ‘fuck you’ message.
Outside, the night air is cold. I climb into my car, the engine roaring to life. As I tear through the streets, I can feel the tension building in the air. Not anger at the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood or even Adrik Tsepov, but something else, something that’s driven by curiosity.
When I reach the apartment building, I don’t stop at the reception to check in the way other guests are required to do. I may not live here, but I own the building, so all I get is a polite nod. I head up to the tenth floor, which isn’t the penthouse, but high enough up that Tracy never complained.
Letting myself in with my key-card, I enter the pink nightmare that defies all decent taste. It didn’t use to bother me, but lately walking in here has triggered a flight instinct. Fortunately, it’s easily overruled by my dick’s needs and the fact that I refuse to allow the overdone pink decorations to threaten my masculinity. Plus, it’s not the color of the walls or the tacky furniture that matters right now—it’s the distraction I’m here for.
Tracy, my current mistress, has draped herself across the couch in the living room, wearing the kind of sheer robe that leaves nothing to the imagination. Her lips curl into a welcoming smile, her eyes flicking over me in a way that makes it clear she’s been waiting for this. Undoubtedly, she’s instructed the desk downstairs to inform her when I enter the building, and I’m admittedly impressed by how fast she was able to get ready for me.
“Riccardo,” she purrs, rising from the couch in one fluid movement, her hips swaying with deliberate seduction. “It’s been a while. Didn’t you miss me?”
Despite the slight note of reproachfulness in her tone, she walks toward me, her fingers already reaching for the buttons of my coat. I catch her wrist before she can start undressing me.
“I’m not here to talk,” I say flatly, my voice harder than I intend. I don’t like what she’s insinuating, but more so I’m irritated by the lingering thoughts of Anya. Being here should wipe her off my mind. That’s Tracy’s entire purpose and the reason she gets to live in this apartment. So far, she always did a good enough job of distracting me.
But now?
I still picture Anya. Her face, her eyes, the way she stood in front of me with that steel in her spine. Tracy is all intentional sex appeal, while Anya was sexy as fuck without even trying. Probably without even meaning to be. Because she never said sex was on the table. A pure marriage of convenience. A business deal.
It shouldn’t bother me this much, but it does.
Tracy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. She knows me well enough not to. Instead, she takes a step back and turns toward the bedroom, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor, which thus far has escaped the threat of yet another pink carpet. I follow her, shrugging off my coat and tossing it onto a chair. The entire time, Anya’s face keeps swimming back to the forefront of my mind, no matter how much I try to shove it away.
This is supposed to be simple. Get my needs taken care of, clear my head, and deal with the actual problems at hand— the shipment, the Brotherhood, Adrik’s stupidity, and Anya’s proposal.
But as Tracy’s hands roam over my bare chest a few minutes later, my dick doesn’t cooperate the way it usually does. I’m stiff from mere instinctual reaction, but barely hard enough to fuck, and I doubt it’s because of the fluffy pink throw pillows, however much I want to believe it.
I don’t want Tracy tonight. Not really. It’s not enough, not satisfying the way it usually is.
I pinch her nipples harder than I would usually. Using the sensation of her struggle to pull away and her moan of discomfort to focus, I try to force myself into the moment, but it’s like there’s a barrier between me and what I’m supposed to feel.
“You need more tonight. What do you want me to do?” As much as she pretends otherwise, Tracy is an intelligent woman. There was no way she wouldn’t recognize something isn’t going to plan here and, more importantly, that there is a reason for it.
My frustration builds, and I grit my teeth, my movements becoming rougher, more desperate to drown out the thoughts of Anya.
Anya fucking Tsepov.
I push Tracy down and roll her over, tearing down the barely there string she was wearing. Then I spank her. Not the nice warm up kind of spanking, but the rough kind that turns her ass a satisfying shade of pink within a few blows.
Which makes me wonder if Anya likes it rough.
It’s infuriating how much space she’s taking up in my head. The fact that she’s come to me with a proposal like that, cool as ice, without a hint of submission or fear. No one does that. No one walks into my office and looks me in the eye like they’re my equal.
But Anya did. And worse, she made me wonder if maybe—just maybe—there’s something to her proposal.
Tracy’s ass is red now and I stop, allowing her to turn onto her back. She pulls me closer, but it feels needy, not seductive, and it’s just another turnoff to make my day more difficult. The heat that should be rising in my chest fizzles out before it even sparks. With a grunt of frustration, I push off of her, running a hand through my hair. She looks up at me, confused, maybe even a little hurt, but she doesn’t say anything. She knows better.
“I have to go,” I mutter, grabbing my coat from where I tossed it.
“Riccardo, is everything alright?” Tracy’s voice is soft, almost hesitant.
“Fine.” My voice is clipped, not giving her room to pry. I don’t owe her an explanation.
As I head back to my car, the chilly night air does nothing to cool the frustration inside me. Driving away from the pink nightmare of Tracy’s apartment, my mind spins faster. I’ve probably been seeing her for too long, anyway. And I hate the pink. It’s time to let her know she needs to move on and find a new place to live.
Checking the time, I realize it’s about time to eat dinner. I contemplate going back to the office, but I’m not in the mood. Nor do I want to go home, which is why I head toward one of my favorite restaurants. Mariana’s Cuisine on Lake Shore Boulevard.
The drive takes me a good thirty minutes in rush-hour traffic. Enough time to re-ignite my annoyance over the fact that this wasn’t supposed to happen. Women like Anya aren’t supposed to get under my skin. Gianna might have annoyed me a few times, but never has she gotten me worked up like Anya did with just one simple visit. Freaking Gianna married Mikhail Tspov. How in the ever loving shit did Anya top that with just one visit to my office?
I deal with people, make calculated moves, and never let emotions dictate my decisions. But Anya? She didn’t flinch when she laid out her plan. Marriage. To me.
And the worst part? I don’t hate the idea.
She has a point about it being a strategic move that I could use to my advantage. Not just regarding the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood, but to re-negotiate with Gianna too, an angle that Anya didn’t bring up. Marrying Mikhail’s sister has a certain appeal when it comes to stirring up some tensions between the newlyweds that I might exploit to my advantage.
Plus, she has already delivered some valuable intel.
I also don’t hate the idea of Anya at my side. Not just because of her looks. No, I reviewed her file today. She is obviously intelligent and has some fire to her. Enough that she’s finished a business degree and has attracted some pretty impressive funding money for her studies. There is also an open acceptance for her to the U of T Ph.D. program, though that hasn’t been mailed out to her yet. She’s definitely more than a pretty face. She could be a strategic asset. At least temporarily. If I trusted her.
Parking my car on Lake Shore Boulevard, I adjust myself before getting out of the car.
This isn’t about lust, though I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a part of it. Not when I’m sporting more of an erection, thinking about her than I did with Tracy’s bare ass in front of me. Anya is dangerous in more ways than one, and I can’t forget that. It’s also part of the appeal, which makes Gianna’s decision to marry Mikhail appear in a different light.
When I enter the restaurant, the hostess’s eyes widen, before she gives me a warm smile. “Mr. Angelo. Welcome. Would you like to eat in the backroom today?”
The private dining room in the back is a place I like to take business partners to. It gives us enough privacy and comes equipped with recording devices.
“Not today, thank you. Unless you don’t have space in the main room.”
“No, of course we have a table for you, Mr. Angelo.” She quickly grabs the menu. “If you would follow me, please?”
By the time I slide into the corner table, Milo, the owner of the place, arrives with a glass of scotch for me and shoos the hostess away.
“Macallan 30, a 30-year-old double-cast.” He informs me, and I nod my permission for him to put the glass down.
I don’t bother looking at the menu. I know the options and if there was something new on the menu, Milo would bring it up.
“I’ll take the Spigola Selvaggia today.”
“Of course.” Milo bows slightly and heads to the kitchen to make sure my dish takes priority. It’s a good reminder of what it takes to get the expected results without unnecessary delays. Decisiveness. And that means, like it or not, I need to make a decision about Anya’s proposal.
She has given me some useful information, but Anya Tsepov isn’t done with me, and I’m sure as hell not done with her.