Chapter Nineteen
Anya
T he house is unusually quiet tonight. Mrs. Batton has the evening off to babysit for her son and daughter-in-law and Riccardo must still be at the office. Grabbing a glass of wine, I walk over to Riccardo’s office, which feels oddly forbidden without him here.
Not that I let that stop me.
I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the deep red liquid catch the dim light from the desk lamp. The men I met today might have heard me out and are seemingly willing to give me a shot, but it’s obvious I’ll have to prove myself before I can truly count on their loyalty.
Sergei backed me up, but he isn’t going to hand me the leadership on a golden platter. If I want it, I need to earn it.
And if I want to solidify my leadership, Dmitri has to go.
I recline in Riccardo’s leather chair, the scent of his cologne lingering in the room. My fingers trace the rim of the wineglass as my head falls back against the backrest and take a few deep breaths. The scent relaxes me.
Dmitri isn’t just an obstacle, he’s a threat. And he will remain one unless he dies or returns to Russia. If the fact that he had me grabbed off the streets isn’t enough of a reminder, knowing he has the backing of the Solntsevskaya Brotherhood, one of the most powerful criminal organizations in Russia, is.
It’d be great if he tucked tail and headed home to his family, but I don’t see that happening. Not if the information Riccardo was able to get so far is true. Coming to Canada and marrying me was an ultimatum from Dmitri’s father, who was fed up with his fuck-up of a son partying and ruining their merchandise. Apparently fucking unwilling women is his thing. The fact that my father passed so soon after his arrival wasn’t what his father had expected, but it looks like Dmitri is using it as his opportunity to either prove himself to his daddy, or at least to set up shop away from his family’s judging eyes. Or both. Which means he won’t leave willingly, leaving me with option B.
Killing him won’t just be about taking him out of the equation, it’ll send a message. I just have to make sure that the message is sent to my people, convincing them I’m the right person to take over the organization, and not to his people, potentially causing a massive retaliation.
Which means it can’t be messy. Dmitri’s family is the kind that doesn’t forgive or forget, and if they connect his death to me, I’m fucked.
I need a plan to get myself and Dmitri face-to-face without too many people knowing it’s happening.
The wine goes down easier than it should, as I consider my options. Dmitri surrounds himself with guards, making it hard to get to him. Especially since I’ll have to organize this by myself if I want to take all the credit.
I’ll also need to be the one who pulls the trigger, but that’s a problem for future me.
What I need first and foremost is information.
I have one possible ace up my sleeve. It’s anything but a safe one to play, but it’s the best one I can come up with at the moment.
Dmitri is bound to keep an eye on any of the men who haven’t joined his ranks and even those who have done so recently, which makes relying on any of my men risky when trying to get information.
But we Russians aren’t the only ones in this city.
Given that Riccardo pissed Dmitri off and they had that airstrip debacle that Dmitri doesn’t know I’m actually responsible for, Riccardo’s men are bound to draw attention, too.
Lucky for me, Gianna has kept the Bruno syndicate out of the entire situation for now. Mikhail’s absence hasn’t drawn much interest yet either, and, most importantly, Eric Merlino owes me. Big time.
I got his girlfriend out of a situation my father put her in, and if I read him right, Gianna Bruno’s cousin and primary enforcer isn’t the type to forget a favor. If I play this right, I could get what I need from him, as long as it doesn’t cross Gianna. He wouldn’t mess with his family or the Bruno syndicate, no matter what he owes me, but that’s fine. The question is, how far can I push this?
Having him take out Solntsev isn’t an option. The risk for Eric and the Bruno syndicate would be too high. Merlino would never go for it. Plus, my own men might not see it as the show of strength they are looking for. But information? That’s something Eric can’t object to. Information for information. I gave him the info he needed when he was looking for Mia. Now it’s his turn.
I tap my nails against my glass, mulling it over. If I actually approach him, it has to stay quiet. No one can know he helped me since it would open up questions about why he’s doing it. I didn’t exactly stick up for the family when I leaked that info about Mia. It was impulsive and happened on a day when one of our girls overdosed. I’ve always disliked the way things are run in the clubs, but there wasn’t much I could do about that. But kidnapping a woman, one who was pregnant no less, and dosing her didn’t sit right with me at all. So I helped Eric, and now that decision might just pay off.
I push back in Riccardo’s chair, setting the wineglass down on his desk with a soft clink.
If Riccardo were here, he’d probably call this reckless. But he’s not here.
And Dmitri isn’t going to kill himself.
I stand, grabbing my phone off the desk and pulling up the number Eric used to contact me, hoping he kept the burner and checks it regularly. I don’t call him. This has to be done face-to-face, not leaving any records, just in case. Somewhere quiet. Neutral.
I send off a message.
As I head upstairs to change for the night, I check the time. Riccardo is well past due to be home. Maybe he’s pulling back after our fight. I don’t know if it’s anger or something else, but part of me wishes he was here now, offering his ideas. Or at least distracting me with sex.
Actually, yeah, sex would be the perfect distraction. Both from the situation and the fact that he annoyed the fuck out of me this morning. It’s fucking hypocritical anyway that he got upset that I went to that dinner by myself, when he suggested I organize it in the first place and said that he’d back me up while taking over the Bratva.
But Riccardo and I want different things. He’s trying to keep me safe for whatever reason, and I’m trying to take control of my life.
The realization is distracting. Why does he care if I’m safe? Is it an ego thing? Nobody should get to his wife, even if it’s a fake marriage? Is it because he really hates the idea of Dmitri taking over? Both make sense and the latter explains why he’s helping me beyond our initial agreement.
But there is another possibility. One that is so damn unlikely I dismiss it immediately.
Riccardo Angelo might not dislike me and he certainly likes to fuck me, but he doesn’t truly care about me as a person.
I head down the hallway where we share a bedroom. After we kept fucking, it never made sense for me to claim one of the guest bedrooms. Plus, it would have tipped Mrs. Batton off and Riccardo probably wouldn’t like any gossip. Still, being in the bedroom alone this late in the evening when Riccardo is usually around feels weird.
The ding of my phone interrupts me as I pull off my shirt. I look at the screen and take a deep breath.
Tomorrow, I will be meeting Eric Merlino.
Riccardo
The moment I pull into the garage and see Anya’s convertible already there, I feel the tension in my shoulders ease just a fraction.
She’s here.
When I enter the house, the sight of her hits me like a punch to the chest. She’s curled up on the couch, wearing a pajama set that’s cut so low it should be illegal to have a kid’s cartoon character on the front. A half-empty glass of wine sits on the table next to her, and one of her long legs is draped over the armrest. The light from the TV bathes her in a soft glow.
Relief wars with anger. She’s safe, alive, here. But the fact that she didn’t bother to call me, to let me know how the meeting went, makes my jaw ache from clenching my teeth so hard. I’ve spent hours in my office, pacing like a caged animal, imagining every worst-case scenario. Half pissed off at her, half pissed off at myself for caring.
“You’re back,” she says, her voice calm, almost nonchalant, like I didn’t just spend the entire evening wondering if she’d end up in a ditch somewhere because of her stubbornness.
I close the door behind me with more force than necessary, the sound echoing through the room. “You didn’t think to call?”
Anya raises an eyebrow, picking up her glass and taking a slow sip of her wine. “What for? I handled it.”
That casual dismissal snaps the last thread of my restraint, throwing me right back into the mood she put me in during our argument from this morning. “You walked into a room full of men who could’ve turned on you in a second, and you didn’t think I deserved to know how it went?”
I kept my voice impressively soft, but her expression hardens. “I didn’t think I was required to check-in with you.”
“No, but you could’ve spared me the damn heart attack,” I snap, closing the distance between us in a few strides. I plant my hands on the desk, leaning over her. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away.
Of course she doesn’t. She’s too damn proud for that.
She sets the wineglass down on the desk with deliberate slowness, her eyes locked on mine. “It went fine. I don’t need you hovering over me, Riccardo.”
My laugh is short and humorless. “Hovering? I’m not your damn mother, Anya. I am supposed to be your business partner and I fucking expect my business partners to keep me in the damn loop.”
“Give me a break. I don’t need you to micromanage me. And I’m most definitely not interested in letting you control me.”
“You think this is about me trying to control you?”
“Isn’t it?” she challenges, rising from the couch so I have to back-up. Her defiance is like a spark to dry tinder, igniting something hot and possessive in my chest.
I grab her wrist, pulling her flush against me. “No. But I can show you what it looks like when I control a woman if you need things cleared up.”
Her breath hitches, just barely, and I see the flicker of interest in her eyes.
When I smirk, Anya’s lips part, undoubtedly with some sharp retort on the tip of her tongue, but I don’t let her get it out. I crash my mouth against hers, claiming her in a way that makes it clear who she belongs to, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.
Even if I’m not prepared to keep her.
Right now, she’s mine.
Her hands come up to push me away, but the fight is half-hearted at best. Instead, her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer.
“You’re an asshole sometimes,” she murmurs against my lips, but the way her body melts into mine tells a different story.
“Definitely,” I growl, dragging her hips against me. “But you’re mine, Anya. And I take care of what’s mine.”
She pulls back just enough to glare at me, her eyes blazing with defiance. “Then stop talking and show me.”
A feral grin spreads across my face, and I push her back in one swift motion, knocking over the wineglass in the process.
I’ll let her think she’s in control tomorrow. But tonight? Tonight, I’m reminding her exactly of who it is she married. And I think I’ll pull out some of my toys to make sure that lesson sticks this time.