Chapter Twenty-One
Anya
I meet Eric at an old auto shop just outside of the city. It’s one of those places that doesn’t ask questions and specializes in ‘no paper trail’ deals. The perfect spot for someone like Eric to meet with someone like me without raising suspicion. People who work here know better than to gossip.
Eric is leaning against a car hood, arms crossed, his sharp, angular features illuminated by a single flickering fluorescent light. His eyes flick to me as I enter.
“Mrs. Angelo,” he drawls, the name carrying a judgment that doesn’t sit well with me.
“Cut the crap, Merlino,” I snap, stepping closer. “You owe me.”
His smile fades, replaced by something colder. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good. Because I need information.”
Eric shifts, his gaze narrowing. “What kind of information?”
“The kind that won’t get you in trouble with Gianna,” I say, watching his reaction closely. “I’m not asking you to cross her. Just to get me some info on Dmitri Solntsev.”
Eric’s jaw tightens. “Sure, we’re already watching him, same as you, I suspect. Not sure we have much to share that you don’t already know.”
“Maybe, but you’re not doing anything about him, so you can probably get more information without making him suspicious,” I counter. “And I don’t have the luxury of waiting, so I need this quick. I need to know where his weak points are. Especially how I can get to him alone so his family doesn’t learn about it. That’s the information I want from you.”
Eric looks away, running a hand through his dark hair. For a moment, I think he’s going to refuse, but then he looks back at me, his expression unreadable.
“It might not be crossing her directly, but if this gets back to Gianna or Mikhail, for that matter...”
“It won’t,” I cut him off. I hate that he is closer to Mikhail now than I am. The fucking enforcer for the Bruno’s is worried about upsetting my brother while I barely talk to him anymore. I shake the thought off. “This is between us. And don’t forget, Eric... I saved her life. And your baby’s.”
For a long moment, he says nothing, then finally nods. “Fine. I’ll give you what I can. But don’t expect miracles. The guy might not be anyone’s first choice, but Solntsev isn’t a complete idiot either. It may take me a few days.”
I nod. I don’t like having to wait, but I can’t really argue Eric’s point.
Two days later, I find an envelope sitting on the kitchen counter. It catches my attention immediately, since Riccardo’s mail usually goes straight to his office. I know I didn’t leave it there, and Mrs. Batton is meticulous about tidying up.
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I step closer, stopping short when I see my name scrawled across the front in neat, feminine handwriting.
My nails snag on the edge of the flap as I tear it open, my eyes darting toward the staircase. Riccardo’s been working from home these past couple of days, though I can’t decide if it’s to keep an eye on me or because it makes it easier for us to screw whenever the mood strikes.
Probably both.
The thought makes me uneasy, despite the constant orgasms, but I shove it aside, pulling the note out of the envelope.
Since my period ended and I’ve now been on birth control for a week, I don’t need to stress about Riccardo’s fucked up ideas about knocking me up anymore. Feeling every inch of him, bare, without the barrier of latex or worry, is a new kind of addiction.
Still, I can’t ignore that I felt a flicker of disappointment when my period started.
Messed up. That’s what it is.
The logical part of me is relieved. There’s no room in my life for a child, especially not now. But there’s another part, buried somewhere I’d rather not acknowledge, that feels a pang at the idea of not having a family anymore. Not really, anyway.
A baby could give me that.
Shaking the thought from my head, I focus on the letter, unfolding the paper.
The faint hum of Riccardo’s voice on a call reassures me I have a moment alone.
The note is written in an entirely different handwriting, making me think that Eric had his wife Mia write the address to avoid any suspicions.
There are only a few lines of text.
Solntsev visits the club on Drewry Ave. every 2-3 nights. Arrives around 10 PM. Prefers Katja and always uses room #7. Two guards stationed outside. Armed. See photo.
Also in the envelope, there is a photo that I missed before, showing a grainy image of Dmitri stepping into the club, flanked by two hulking figures.
My grip tightens on the note. I should have figured Dmitri has to pay to get his dick wet, but his arrogance is infuriating. Using one of our own clubs as his personal playground? The club on Drewry Avenue is one of our smaller ones, but it is still our club and he’s already using it as if he’s got a right to.
Hell, it’s not just one of the Bratva’s clubs. With my father gone, Mikhail and I have officially inherited ownership, which means he’s going to my own goddamned club to get laid.
Lost in thought, I nearly jump when Riccardo’s voice cuts through the silence.
“What’s that?”
I whirl around, clutching the note to my chest like a fucking amateur. He’s leaning against the kitchen door frame, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp.
“Nothing,” I say, too quickly.
For fuck’s sake. What is wrong with me? Way to be obvious.
His brow arches, and in two strides, he’s in front of me, plucking the envelope from my hand before I can stop him.
“Riccardo!”
He ignores me, unfolding the paper with deliberate slowness. His eyes scan the contents, his jaw tightening with each line. By the time he’s finished, his expression is thunderous.
“Are you planning to go after him?” he asks, his voice dangerously quiet. It’s the same tone he uses when he’s about to go into possessive mode. Which he really has no right to anyway, but reminding him of that hasn’t done me any good so far.
“I’ll handle it,” I confirm, lifting my chin.
He gives me a hard look. “If you go after him and fail, you’re dead. If you go after him and succeed, his family will hunt you down.”
“I’m aware. Do you think I’m stupid?” I snap, taking a step closer to him. Something about having these arguments with him is both infuriating and a fucking turn on.
Maybe that’s why we keep having them.
“I don’t think you’re stupid, but definitely reckless. You’re too damn brave for your own good.” He looks completely exasperated. “I always thought marrying a weak woman would be the worst thing I could possibly do. A woman who’d crack in this kind of life. Instead, I end up married to you and apparently you’re intent on demonstrating how wrong I was. You wanted to marry me so you’d be safe from Dmitri. Now you want me to let you go after that lunatic without even coming to me with your plan first? No, you get secret letters with intel to the house. Who even sent that?”
The way he’s ranting himself into a rage isn’t conducive to me getting out of this conversation, but I can’t help but focus on one particular thing he said.
“Since when do I need your permission?” It really is time I put him in his place and remind him that he is the one who agreed we’d end this marriage once things in the city have settled. He has no further responsibility to me other than what we initially agreed on. Marriage in exchange for information and a better position for him when the Russian area of town either goes into a power struggle or falls into my hands.
I might have come to him for protection, but what he’s doing now is going overboard. I should have been setting some better boundaries a while ago, but some fucked up part of me likes the reminder that there is someone trying to keep me safe. Only, the way he’s acting is starting to feel too similar to what my father did. Let me play at having control and power, but never actually trusting me to truly wield it.
Fuck that.
Riccardo’s hands grip my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “You need my permission since you married me to stay safe from Solntsev. I’m only doing what we agreed on. Keeping you safe from him, but apparently that includes keeping you safe from your own stupid plans, too. If you don’t fucking share what you’re up to, I can’t protect you. And if that asshole kills or rapes the woman I married, what do you think I have to do then? Huh? How does that make me look?”
“I’m not playing games with my life here,” I yell, shoving at his chest. He doesn’t budge, his grip firm but not painful. “I know exactly what I’m doing. And don’t worry, I won’t hurt your stupid reputation.” Because that’s what this is really about. Not some misguided emotion he feels toward me.
I have to keep remembering that.
“No, you won’t hurt my reputation.” His voice softens, but the anger lingers beneath it. “Because you’re too smart not to see that you’re better off working with me.”
I glare at him, my chest heaving. “What do you expect me to do, Riccardo? Sit back and wait for him to come for me? Take over the clubs that belong to me while I sit around in your house and watch it all happen? You’re the one who encouraged me to have a sit down with Sergei and the others who might support my claim. And now what? You make a 180 and disagree? Now you want to step in?”
“No. That’s not what I’m saying.” His hands drop from my shoulders, but his eyes never leave mine. “But you should focus on rallying people and concentrate on the business angle. Let me handle the dirty bits if it comes down to that.”
I blink, caught off guard by the raw emotion in his voice. “Handle it how?”
“By doing what’s necessary if he doesn’t back down,” he says, his voice hardening. “If anyone is going to put a bullet in Dmitri, it’s me.”
“You don’t get to make that decision for me,” I whisper, but the fight has drained from my voice.
“No,” he agrees, his gaze softening as he cups my face in his hands. “But I’ll make it, anyway. This isn’t about who is in control,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my cheek. “It’s about survival. And if that means making you hate me for a little while, so be it. But you are not going after Dmitri. Not directly anyway.”
I close my eyes, leaning into his touch despite myself. The vulnerability in his voice is disarming, cutting through my anger and leaving me raw. It promises something I won’t ever truly get from him, and that’s enough to tear something in me up.
He presses his forehead to mine, his hands still cradling my face as if I might vanish the moment he lets go. His breath fans warm against my skin, steadying something restless inside me.
I nod, the motion small, but enough to satisfy him. His shoulders relax slightly, the tension in his jaw easing as if he’s won some small victory.
“Good,” he says, his thumb brushing over my cheek before he steps back. “Now, come upstairs.”
I force a faint smile, letting him think I’ve conceded because that’s easier than to keep fighting him on this when I’m feeling so fucking vulnerable. “All right.”
He studies me for a moment longer, as though expecting resistance, but when I turn toward the stairs, he follows without another word.
But as I climb, my mind races ahead.
Riccardo doesn’t understand what this is doing to me. The way he acts as if he genuinely cares for me rubs salt on the raw wounds left by my father and Mikhail. They were supposed to love me. To believe in me. To stick by my side. And they didn’t. And here is Riccardo, who is clear about the fact that our marriage is temporary and yet he acts as if he is willing to do and feel all the things they didn’t. It’s bound to leave me even more broken.
And I’m done being broken.
So, yeah, Riccardo doesn’t understand what this is all about. I need to prove myself to my men or I’ll never have their respect. It’s about reclaiming something he can’t give me, no matter how much he thinks he can get anything he wants.
Riccardo might want to protect me now, but this isn’t his fight.
It’s mine.
As we reach the top of the stairs, Riccardo’s phone buzzes, pulling his attention away from me for a second. He pauses, glancing down at the screen with a frown.
“Go ahead,” he says, waving me toward the bedroom. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
I nod again, slipping inside. But instead of sitting on the bed, I move to the dresser to stash the note I had pushed into my pocket. My fingers brush over the paper as I quickly read the words again.
Riccardo thinks he’s bought time to do things his way. But Dmitri isn’t waiting, and neither am I.
Tomorrow, I’ll do what I have to and hopefully Dmitri won’t see it coming.