Chapter Twelve
Anya
W ith Riccardo gone to the office, I decide to go for a little exploration. God knows I’ve gotten myself into this situation with the bare minimum of information, so it can’t hurt to find out a bit more about Riccardo, and the only rooms I’ve been in besides the bedroom is the office where Riccardo and Toni made the necessary arrangements for the wedding this morning. I didn’t even eat breakfast this morning, my stomach roiling at even the thought of a bagel, though Toni had brought me a coffee. Black, like a fucking savage.
Decision made, I head towards where I expect to find some food. I turn a corner into the kitchen and almost bump into an older woman bustling about, wiping counters. She looks up, startled, then her face breaks into a wide smile.
“You must be Mrs. Angelo,” she says, her voice warm, eyes twinkling. “Well, Riccardo told me he was bringing you home today, though not much else. And here I thought I’d get a proper introduction before the wedding!”
The way she says it—so familiar with him—catches me off guard. What is Riccardo like at home when he’s not in his office or staring down rivals in fucked-up hotel stand offs?
“Just Anya,” I say, managing a smile. “And you are...?”
“Mrs. Batton. I’ve been running this place for years, since Riccardo’s parents lived here.” She waves a hand, as if dismissing the formality of it all. “And don’t you worry, I’ll keep calling you ‘Mrs. Angelo,’ even if the boss didn’t bother with introductions himself. Honestly, I should give him an earful for that.”
There’s something weirdly comforting about her, the way she speaks like she’s known Riccardo forever.
“So he didn’t get this place for himself? His parents live here, too?” I ask, curious. I got my own apartment as soon as my father agreed to it, admittedly with some well-coached prodding from Mikhail and Sergei. I wanted my independence too much to stay living with my father when I was an adult.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Batton confirms, nodding as she pours a cup of coffee and gestures for me to sit at the kitchen table. “This house belonged to his parents. His father was a... well, you know, a man of business. And his mother, bless her soul, she was a lovely woman. Always kind to me, even when things got tough.”
“Tough?” I take the seat, add milk and sugar to my drink, and try to act casual, even though Mrs. Batton’s face tells me there is more to the story and I really want to find out what it is.
Mrs. Batton’s face tightens for a moment, and she looks out the window as if deciding how much to say. “His father, he wasn’t an easy man to live with. He demanded a lot from Riccardo and his mother. It’s a wonder Riccardo turned out to be such a kind man, considering. But his mother... she had a hard time.”
I stay quiet, letting her fill in the gaps. I’m certainly not about to tell her that the kind man she is talking about regularly orders people killed. Most recently, based on intel I gave him.
“Depression. She got worse as the years went on. And eventually, well...” She lowers her voice, “She took her own life. Riccardo found her. Broke his heart, poor boy.”
Well, damn. That’s messed up. “Was he close to her?” I ask, my voice quiet.
Mrs. Batton nods, her expression softening. “Oh yes. And she loved him so much. But after a while, I think she just couldn’t handle the life anymore—the pressure, the loneliness. Riccardo’s father, he was always off doing business, and when he was home, well... he wasn’t the kind of man who celebrated with his family, if you catch my meaning. He ranted, he ordered people around, but that’s not how you treat your wife. And Riccardo... he had to grow up fast.”
I look down at my cup of coffee and wrap my hands around it.
“He never brings women home,” Mrs. Batton continues, shaking her head and clearly happy to carry the conversation without much input from me. “In all the years I’ve worked for him, not once has he brought someone here. And now all of a sudden he got married.”
I look up at her, trying to see if she’s fishing for information, but immediately her expression shifts. She’s definitely embarrassed. “Oh, please excuse my rambling. I’m happy you are here now, of course, Mrs. Angelo. It’s good to see him do something for his private life, not just work all the time. I truly hope you make each other happy.” That last sentence is accompanied by a more intense look, though not unkind. As if she wants to make sure I know she’s expecting me to be a good wife to him and is willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, even though she doesn’t know me yet.
“I didn’t know about his mother,” I say, unsure of what else to add.
“Of course you didn’t,” she replies, giving me a kind smile. “Riccardo doesn’t like to talk about it. But I’m glad you’re here. He needs someone. And it’s about time he married, too. His father was always parading him around, trying to find him a wife, but none of those girls ever stuck. Too scared, I think.”
I can’t help but smile at that. Scared? Of Riccardo? The visual of him standing over me as he pushed his cock into my pussy last night has me rubbing my thighs together.
Then again, maybe they are smarter than me...
Mrs. Batton leans in a little closer, lowering her voice again. “And my boys—well, they work for him too, you know. Not here in the house, obviously. They’re out doing what boys like them do. But they respect him, and they say he’s fair, and I trust I raised them right to tell that kind of thing, even if I rather not know all the details of the business.”
I nod, absorbing it all. Riccardo’s father was obviously as intimidating inside the family as in his business life. And his mother killed herself. Sure, growing up in the Bratva meant I wasn’t a stranger to violence, but my father mostly kept me away from it, especially when I was just a kid. Perhaps the only good thing about his sexism. Riccardo’s life is more complex than I thought. And I’m now a part of that life, whether I like it or not.
The question is how I’ll make sure I am the one deciding how things go from here.
After Mrs. Batton leaves me to explore the rest of the house, I find myself pacing in Riccardo’s study, my thoughts running at high speed. I have protection now, real protection, which is a much better operating base than I had before, even though that protection is contingent on Riccardo keeping up his end of the bargain. For now, though, Riccardo has made it clear that he’s committed to keeping me safe, and that changes everything. Although part of me wants to curl into a ball and keep crying, I’m finally in a position to act and I’m not going to waste that.
I stop pacing and grab my phone, hesitating for a moment before scrolling to Sergei’s number. My chest tightens. The last time I spoke to him was over my father’s dead body. Now, it’s about planning his funeral. I sit on the edge of the large leather chair, tapping the phone screen with fingers that feel too stiff.
I shake my hand out. I don’t have time to wallow in grief, not right now.
The phone rings, and I steel myself as Sergei picks up. His voice is gruff, tired.
“Anya.”
“We need to make arrangements for the funeral.” The words are heavier than I thought they’d be, like they’re being ripped from me piece by piece. “Has anything been decided yet?”
There’s a pause on the other end, and I can hear Sergei exhale slowly. “Nothing’s set. Some of the men have been handling basic logistics, but no one wanted to act without consulting you.” He hesitates. “Some even asked about Mikhail.”
I clench my teeth for a second.
“I’ll arrange something soon, but I’ll need your help.”
“Of course,” he says, his tone softening.
I push through the painful ache tightening in my chest and move on to the more pressing matter. “How are the men handling everything?” My voice firms. “With my father gone... are they leaning towards Dmitri?”
There’s a brief silence, and when Sergei finally speaks, there’s a note of surprise in his voice. “Not as much as Dmitri would like. He’s trying to assert himself, acting like he’s already in charge. But the men... most are hesitant. They don’t know him. And the idea of marrying you off to him? That didn’t sit well with everyone. They respected your father, and for a lot of them, the idea that Dmitri can just waltz in here and take over feels... well, it feels wrong.”
I lean back in the chair, letting Sergei’s words sink in. I hadn’t expected this. Dmitri had been so confident, so sure that the Bratva would fall in line simply because of the deal that had been in the works. But it sounds like my father’s men are less eager to accept him than I thought.
“The marriage deal isn’t enough for them?” I ask, curious.
“Apparently not,” Sergei replies. “It was your father’s plan, not theirs. They don’t trust Dmitri, not yet. He’s too much of an outsider. The Brotherhood doesn’t have the roots here that your father’s crew does. The way Dmitri’s been acting, some of the men are feeling pushed, like he’s trying to force them to choose him without earning it.”
“And what about you?” I ask, holding my breath. Sergei never showed any interest in taking over for my father, older than him by a few years, but it’s not an entirely absurd notion. But if he lent Dmitri his support, it would most certainly lead to most of the men following suit.
After another pause, Sergei’s deep voice eases my worry. “I’m here to help you.”
I let out a slow breath. That’s more support than I dared hope for and far more than I expected. It’s not like my father ever gave me the opportunity to prove myself. Unless... perhaps my work running the club hadn’t gone unnoticed. At least some of the men would have realized that I spent significantly more time in that office running the business than Mikhail ever did.
My mind races with the possibilities. Should I tell Sergei about Dmitri’s attempt to kidnap me? Or would that confirm my father’s assumption that women are weak and at-risk, and overall not well-suited to run things?
No. Especially since I’d also have to explain how I got rescued by Riccardo.
If the men are hesitant, that’s something I can work with. Dmitri’s whole strategy rests on securing control through me and this supposed marriage that was meant to unite our families. But if the men aren’t sold on him, if they’re still looking for a leader they can trust...
“Thank you, Sergei,” I say, my voice stronger now.
“I’ll stay in touch about the funeral,” he promises.
I end the call and sit there, phone still in my hand, staring at the table. Respect has to be earned, trust has to be built, and right now, that’s not happening for Dmitri. I stand, my pulse quickening as a plan forms. If Dmitri can’t secure the loyalty he needs, then there’s a vacuum waiting to be filled. A vacuum I could take advantage of.
I might not have been groomed for this life like my brother, but I understand it better than most. Certainly want it more than he ever did.
The problem is, I might have the safety I need at the moment, but I also have a husband who is going to make it very difficult to convince any Russian to let me take over operations. Fucking irony.
Once Sergei finds out about my marriage, will that ruin any chance of me winning him over as an ally, even if I find a good way to tell him?
I’m still pondering that dilemma a couple hours later when Riccardo walks into the living room, where I’m sitting with a tea and a plate filled with fruit and cookies that Mrs. Batton has brought me a little while ago.
“You’re home early.”
Riccardo’s eyebrows draw together as if something about what I just said is bothering him.
“It’s our wedding day.”
I raise my own eyebrow. “And?”
“Newlyweds don’t usually work on their wedding day. They have better things to do.”
I almost burst out laughing. “Are you telling me you came home because you’re horny?”
“And what about the notion that I want to tear off your clothes and fuck you is so damn funny?”
Riccardo takes a step closer, his sheer presence making the air feel heavier. My smirk falters, replaced by the tiniest catch in my breath as he narrows the space between us. Not because I’m intimidated, but because the man is fucking hot.
And he’s mine now.
“Go ahead,” I taunt, though my voice is softer now. “You’re so good at taking what you want, aren’t you?”
His jaw tightens, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You think I’m joking?”
I don’t get the chance to answer. His hands are on me, firm and possessive, gripping my hips as he pulls me against him. The heat of his body seeps into mine, and my pulse quickens.
“You’re my wife now,” he growls, his lips so close I can feel his breath on my cheek. “That means something.”
I tilt my head defiantly, though the quickening beat of my heart betrays me. “What does it mean, Riccardo? That you own me? That I’m supposed to drop everything and let you have your way?”
His fingers dig into my hips, and a dangerous smirk plays on his lips. “No,” he says, voice low and lethal. “It means you’re mine, Anya. And I protect what’s mine, whether it’s from someone else or from yourself. And right now, you better not stand in your own way of getting fucked nice and hard.”
His words are like a spark, igniting something deep inside me. I push at his chest, but it’s half-hearted at best. He doesn’t budge. Instead, he leans down, his lips brushing my ear as he speaks.
And why the fuck is that so damn hot?
“Laugh all you want,” he murmurs, the gravel in his voice making my knees weak. “But you’re the only thing I’ve thought about all day. So, go ahead, fight me, argue with me—hell, hate me if you need to. But we’re not done until I have you screaming my name.”
My breath catches, and for a moment, I consider slapping him. It might actually turn the bastard on. Instead, I let my hands slide up to his shoulders, gripping him as if I could steady myself. His dark, smoldering eyes search mine, and I see it—possession, yes, but something else, too. Something I can’t quite name, but that feels dangerous in a completely different way.
I don’t respond. Instead, I lean in and let my lips brush his, soft at first, testing, before biting down hard enough to make him hiss in surprise.
“Then what the hell are you waiting for?” I whisper against his mouth, and in an instant, the tension between us snaps like a thread pulled too tight. “And I ordered condoms to the house. Use one for fuck’s sake and we’re both getting tested.”
Riccardo freezes for half a second, his forehead pressing against mine as his breath comes in rough, heated waves. Then a sharp laugh rumbles out of him. It’s low and dark, the kind that sends shivers down my spine.
“You think I give a damn about condoms right now, Tesoro ?” he growls, his hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck. “But yeah, we’ll get tested. I’m clean though.”
I narrow my eyes, refusing to let him get away with aversion. “And you’ll use a condom. It’s not negotiable. I’ll visit the clinic this week and get on birth control.”
His lips curve into a wicked smirk, and before I can react, he grabs my waist and hoists me up and against him, his strength making it seem effortless. “You like being bossy in the bedroom, huh?” he teases, but there’s a heat in his gaze that strips away the sarcasm. “Lucky for you, I find that damn hot. Don’t bother about the clinic. I’ll have my doc see you tomorrow.”
I glare at him, but my body betrays me, responding to the rough grip of his hands, the way his body presses into mine. “Lucky for you, I’m in the mood and not to argue, so I’ll let you give that doc a call.”
Having his doctor come is convenient. I’m not registered with any clinics, since I always use Dr. Beskin, but using my father’s physician who’s Bratva associated probably isn’t the best idea when I want to get on birth control so I can fuck the head of the rival Italian syndicate.
Riccardo leans in, his teeth grazing my neck as his voice drops to a growl. “You don’t let me do anything, Anya.” He pulls away just long enough to pull his dress shirt over his head, exposing his finely sculpted chest.
His shirt hits the floor, and my gaze trails over the lines of his body. My fingers itch to touch him, but I keep them at my sides, refusing to give in completely.
He notices, of course. I hardly tried to be subtle about it.
“You’re staring, Tesoro ,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a smirk as he steps between my legs, his hands sliding down my waist. He’s about to get what he wants, and is obviously enjoying the hell out of it. “Now start touching me.”
I narrow my eyes, refusing to let him dictate the pace of this, even if his presence makes my pulse race and I can’t deny I really do want to touch him. Instead, I decide to not make it that easy for him.
“You’re awfully demanding.”
Riccardo tilts his head, his smirk growing sharper. “Demanding? Cara , I’m indulging you. If I were demanding, you’d already be bent over for me.”
Heat rushes to my face, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of lashing out at the insult. Instead, I reach for his belt, pulling it loose in one swift motion. His eyes darken, hinting at his barely restrained desire.
“Funny,” I say, my voice steady despite the way my hands tremble. “I don’t feel indulged.”
That does it. The last shred of his composure snaps, and he pulls me closer until there’s no space left between us. His lips crash against mine, and I meet him with equal force, wrapping the belt around his neck and keeping him in place as I push my tongue into his mouth, letting him taste the sweet flavors of the fruit I’ve been snacking on.
His hands trail down my body, and I rub myself against him. His fingers slip under my shirt and dig into my skin as he pushes me back and we fall down onto the couch.
Riccardo’s weight presses me into the cushions, and I gasp, the sudden shift knocking the breath from my lungs. His hands are relentless, sliding up my sides and landing on my breasts. He takes my nipples between his fingers and pinches hard. The pain jolts through me, making my back arch up, pressing me even harder against him.
My pants are loud now, but I don’t give a shit.
He’s right. We got married today. Let any of the staff walk in and see if I care.
I keep the belt wrapped loosely around his neck, tugging just enough to keep his attention. His dark eyes burn into mine, full of raw hunger.
“You think you’re in control now, don’t you?” he growls, his voice a low rumble against my lips as he tugs my shirt higher, exposing my skin to the cool air.
“I know I am,” I reply, a teasing edge in my voice. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him tighter against me, and I smirk when his breath hitches. I move my hips, tilting my pelvis to rub myself against him. His moan is the perfect sound of a tortured man.
Riccardo shakes his head, but the noise he makes tells me I’ve gotten under his skin. His hand slides down and his fingers dig into my hips as he grinds against me, the fabric of our clothes doing nothing to lessen the heat between us. “You’re dangerous, Tesoro.”
“Yes,” I whisper, leaning up to bite the curve of his jaw. “That’s the plan.”
His eyes search mine for a second, then he’s yanking my shirt over my head, tossing it aside like it offended him. His lips trail down my neck, teeth scraping against my pulse point, and I arch into him, no longer all that interested in staying in control when his lips feel so damn good sliding over my skin.
I let the belt fall when he pushes up. My pants come off, then his.
“You’re not fucking me without a condom again,” I remind him. That much control, I will assert.
He leans down and begins to suck and bite the inside of my thigh. I don’t bother closing my legs, not when it feels so damn good.
“I tucked one in my jeans pocket,” I tell him.
Riccardo doesn’t stop what he’s doing, but he reaches out with one hand and searches my jeans until he pulls out the square package.
“Happy now?” he says, holding it up, while he kneels back on the couch, positioning himself between my legs.
“Delighted,” I reply dryly, but my voice is breathier than I want it to be.
“Good,” he murmurs, his mouth lowering on my pussy, stealing my breath and my thoughts. “Because I’m about to ruin you, Tesoro .”