Chapter 7 #2
For long moments we stayed like that, my cock still twitching inside her. The veil clung damply to her sweat-slicked skin.
The air in the dressing room still felt thick and sticky from what we'd just done.
I leaned against the door, lighting a cigarette. Through the dim glow, I watched her across the room.
Vivienne had her back to me, fumbling to pull that emerald dress back into place. The flush from her orgasm hadn't faded yet. Even her hands shook slightly as she reached for her lipstick.
But here's what surprised me—when she finally turned around, there was no regret on her face. No shame. None of that desperate please-like-me look women usually wore around "important men."
Her eyes darted everywhere—ceiling, floor, anywhere but me. Her lips pressed tight, shoulders stiff. The emotion radiating off her was crystal clear.
Embarrassment.
She was embarrassed?
Interesting. I'd seen countless women try tears for sympathy after sex, or play coy for a check. But this—her looking like she was plotting an escape from a crime scene? First time.
I exhaled a smoke ring. "Relax. I don't bite. Unless you beg."
She jumped, shoulders jerking, finally forced to look at my face.
"Shut up," she snapped.
I smirked. There was my little firecracker.
"So," she crossed her arms—which only pushed her breasts up more—"who the hell are you, really?"
"Thought you already figured that out."
"No. It's different." She frowned, blue eyes sharpening.
"Derek's an asshole, but he just reeks of spoiled rich kid.
You, though..." Her gaze swept over my collar again, voice dropping.
"The way you carry yourself. The way you looked at Derek—like he was an insect you could squash anytime.
And if I'm right, that double-headed eagle on your lapel isn't just some fancy accessory. It's a symbol. Right?"
I studied her, that smart, self-satisfied expression. The secret thrill inside me kept growing.
If she was this sharp, no point keeping up the businessman act. In my world, people who learned my real identity were either my men or floating in the Potomac. But with her? I felt this rare, reckless urge to be honest.
"Your observation skills are impressive, Vivienne." I pushed off the door, closing the distance with slow, deliberate steps. Each one carried weight. "You're right. It's not just a symbol. It's absolute power."
I stopped one step away, looking down at her.
"I'm Nikolai Volkov. The Volkov. On paper, the family you've heard of. Behind closed doors? The kind of Bratva you write about in your books. And me? I'm the current boss. What they call the Pakhan." I watched her closely, curious how she'd react.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
"Bratva? Pakhan," she repeated. Then—against all expectations—her eyes lit up with almost manic excitement. "You mean actual Bratva? Like illegal, murder, drug-dealing mob? Real mob?"
I raised an eyebrow. I'd expected screaming. Crying. Begging me not to kill her. After all, "Bratva" to normal people meant blood, death, and inescapable nightmares. Instead, she looked like she'd discovered Atlantis.
"That's right," I said, watching her. "Exactly that."
She pointed at the raven crest on my chest. "This is your family crest? The Volkov emblem?"
"You're very perceptive." I narrowed my eyes. I'd never told her that.
"I knew it," she rolled her eyes, that arrogance back in full force. "Derek has this ugly-ass raven tattooed on his back. Said it was some important family symbol. He never shut up about the 'family business.' I thought he was full of shit. Guess for once he wasn't lying."
She wasn't scared. She thought this was cool.
I reassessed her.
Fascinating.
I'd been watching her all night from the shadows. I'd expected tears, cowering, maybe a dramatic scene with Derek.
But no. She moved through those fake guests like a lone wolf in a pack. She remembered every name, instantly assessed who had power and who could be used. She was smart, quick, and most importantly—she hated Derek with a passion.
The file Sasha gave me flashed clear in my mind. Vivienne Cole. Dead father. Mother in some rural psychiatric facility. Clean background.
Then Sasha's words from a few days ago echoed back.
"You might actually need a 'wife.' Someone with a clean record, easy to control, no threat to the family. Someone to help you ride out this turbulent period."
I'd told him to get the hell out. Because I'd never let my power depend on uncontrollable emotions.
But now, looking at this woman—eyes shining over "mob boss," completely unpredictable—a crazy idea took root.
What if it was just a transaction? What if that so-called "wife" was her?
A bold, reckless plan formed.
I crushed out my cigarette, straightened, and moved toward her. As her eyes widened slowly, I planted both hands on the vanity behind her, caging her in. "Dear Vivienne, since you're so interested in who I am, let's talk business."
"Business?" She seemed thrown by my sudden shift, excitement dimming slightly.
"You should've received the card Sasha sent." I cut straight to it, giving her no breathing room. "But that's just pocket change. I did you a small favor. So I'd like you to do me one in return."
"What?" She stepped back half a step, wary.
"I need a wife. A woman who can attend every public event with me for the next year."