2. Ares
Ares
“I’m late,” I say, getting into my Bentley.
“You’re never late, boss.” My driver peels away from the back alley outside Club Wicked, and we melt into downtown traffic.
My club runs on precision. Until it doesn’t. Until I’m forced to deal with someone who lays a hand on someone with my name. Usually, I delegate. But the situation with Lucia tonight required my attention.
Twenty minutes later, I’m marching up to Winterhall’s private entrance at a brisk pace, guards in tow. People part for me on the sidewalk, and in these moments, I know my legacy is secure.
A Bratva guard sees me approach and quickly stomps out his cigarette. Every syndicate operates here in New York. They all have one club, one warehouse, one hotel. It’s the one diplomatic neutral ground.
The Russian pulls open a steel door that leads to the posh offices above the Volkov gambling hall and says, “You’re late. See Drago.”
Jaw tight, I signal my guards to wait outside.
When I reach the private office for my monthly meeting with Pakhan Yuri Volkov, the enforcer says, “You’re late.”
If one more fucking person tells me I am late, they will do it through a breathing tube.
“Drago, tell your pakhan—”
“His son is here,” the enforcer interrupts.
“Kirill is in town?” I ask. That’s unusual for the Bratva heir.
“Flew in this morning.”
Yuri Volkov, the head of the Chicago brotherhood, had sent his son Kirill to New York last year to put a bullet in Anton Barinov after he refused to recognize House Volkov as the national leadership. Then the Volkovs took the Barinov brotherhood.
A trend to nationalize houses is on the rise.
The enforcer turns his head toward the office door. “Kirill will see you when he’s done.”
“Done with what?” I’m tempted to ask if he means Kirill has female company, though as I smooth my jacket, I hear a low, steady buzz behind the door.
It’s the unmistakable sound of a tattoo gun.
“Teaching someone a valuable lesson,” the enforcer responds.
“Five minutes. Then I leave,” I say, bristling at the update I’ll get from an arrogant heir rather than the strategic meeting I’ve had for months with his father.
Drago shrugs. “Wait on Pakhan’s private balcony.”
I hide the twitch, referring to Kirill as pakhan.
“How is Yuri?” I heard he turned seventy this past summer.
That’s one hundred and forty in mafia years. Have I overlooked that Yuri Volkov may no longer be running that brotherhood?
“Still breathing,” the enforcer says and points to the balcony. “Have a seat. I’ll send you a woman.”
“Don’t bother.” I turn around, furious that Kirill didn’t wait for me.
Had the tables been turned, though, I wouldn’t have waited for him.
The private balcony overlooks the gaming floor. Slot machines ding in an annoying chorus of bells below. They find my spine like an electric screwdriver.
“Whiskey, sir?” A smiling server in a tight blouse that shows off cleavage appears on my left with a drink resting on her tray. “And anything else you need while you wait?”
Her last offer comes with long batting eyelashes. Most women in these clubs make themselves available to me. Someone spread a rumor that I have an enormous cock, can fuck for hours, and make a woman come so hard she’ll pass out.
Despite this server’s beauty and willingness, I don’t feel anything. Haven’t felt that want or need for a woman in my bed in a long time.
“Thank you.” I take the glass of whiskey from her tray. “This is all I want.”
Yet, as those words leave my lips, I catch a head of champagne-blonde hair move through the crowd below. A spark fires through me. A zing, shocking me alert. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. Heat punches through my chest, sharp and sudden.
The woman stops near the edge of the gaming floor. She’s not gambling, not drinking, just leaning against one of the columns. Just existing. And doing it quietly.
But not to me. To me, her presence is ear-piercingly loud.
She’s tall, standing nearly eye level with most men around her. But in that short, tight pink dress, her long legs and cleavage on display, she is shockingly unnoticed by the men around her.
Yet the room bends and leaves me unsteady with an energy that draws me in.
What in fuck’s sake is this? Infatuation isn’t in my vocabulary.
My grip tightens on my drink. If I don’t ease up, I will shatter the glass. Every instinct I’ve spent decades mastering snaps like a rabid dog let off its leash.
I’ve seen beautiful women. Thousands of them.
I’ve taken my pick when I’ve wanted them.
All with contracts. All without consequence.
All meaningless. Desire has always been a controlled burn.
A switch I flipped on and off. A need I satisfy and soon forget.
I had a mafia house to steal back, a brother to bury, a sister to find, and a war to end.
I didn’t have time to fucking feel anything.
This, this wave of heat in my chest out of nowhere is burning me alive.
This bird’s-eye view of the gambling floor is not enough.
I sprint down the stairs to the main level for a better look.
Keeping my distance from across the hall, I see the blonde’s face isn’t perfect.
Not in the way men typically catalogue beauty.
Her nose is wide, her eyes aren’t big or piercing blue or green, and her jaw can’t cut glass.
But her face has character. Her eyes are almond-shaped and amber.
Her mouth is expressive. Her lips look soft and inviting.
Inviting my cock.
And fuck, if her look isn’t awakening me.
She isn’t smiling. There’s not the slightest lift to her lips. My heart stutters. It’s not a metaphor. This thing in my chest physically misfires like it forgot its rhythm.
The woman looks closed and guarded. As if she’s pulled herself tight and locked everything down. Her gaze moves over the crowd without interest, without warmth. But with…
Fear.
That’s to be expected. This is a Bratva club, and dangerous things happen here. Mostly to women.
Yet I’m the one who can’t breathe.
Leaning my forearms on the railing opposite the woman, I fix my gaze on her, mentally pulling her into me. The way I’m pulled into her.
Come to me, little storm.
What the fuck?
Nothing does this to me. I’m not a man who loses control over a glance, over a stranger in a room. Yet the fire in my veins crushes that truth in an unfiltered and violent launch under my skin.
I put down my half-empty glass of whiskey and consider crossing the hall to claim her.
Clear a path, push bodies to the floor, and step over them if I have to.
Take that woman by the wrist, or the miles of her champagne-blonde hair, drag her past velvet ropes and into my Bentley.
I’d keep her in my penthouse. Force her to sign my contract so she understands she is mine.
It’s been forever since I engaged in a temporary arrangement with a woman. One I own. One only I touch. Thirty days. Sixty, maybe. They fulfill their contracts. Fulfill me, and I let them go.
I don’t do relationships. I don’t do love.
Feeling this way will only lead to poor choices and my undoing.
A flash of rage rattles my bones, not knowing what to do. A rare conundrum. I’ve been blessed with remorseless clarity.
I straighten, forcing air into my lungs, jaw locking so hard my teeth ache. Control. I demand it of myself the same way I demand it of everyone else.
I search the woman’s hands. Both have rings on several fingers. A sad-looking gold band encircles the ring finger of her left hand. But I don’t see any kind of diamond.
She is the diamond.
My vision narrows, and the noise of the hall fades to a low roar. I stare at the woman who has just upended the architecture of my mind without even knowing her name. And I will not breathe easily again until I claim her.
She isn’t leaving with someone else. No one else is touching her tonight.
Whoever she belonged to this morning has just lost her. I don’t share. And I don’t walk away. I’ve killed men for less, without so much as a spike to my pulse.
The blonde glances around once more and heads toward the back corridor. I worry she plans to leave. But when she heads toward the restrooms, a ruthless strategic decision hits me.
Fast. Perfect.