23. The Price of Disrespect
The Price of Disrespect
Roman
Anton Rizzi does not return to the ballroom.
He also does not leave with dignity.
I allow the music to continue for another ten minutes before I make my move.
Power works best when it waits just long enough to become inevitable.
When I step onto the small stage beside the charity host, conversation softens almost immediately. Not because I demand attention.
Because I rarely take it.
“Before the evening continues,” I say evenly, “there is a small clarification to make.”
The room grows quieter.
Crystal glasses still.
Eyes shift.
Anton stands near the rear exit now, escorted back into view by Viktor. Not harmed. Not bleeding.
Just… present.
Humiliated.
“This evening celebrates generosity,” I continue. “And cooperation between houses that once considered each other rivals.”
A ripple of interest moves through the room.
“Some guests,” I say calmly, “seem to believe my wife is a subject for crude speculation.”
Every eye in the ballroom turns toward Vera.
She stands beside the donation table, posture straight, expression composed.
Good.
Anton shifts uncomfortably.
“Let me be clear,” I say.
No anger.
No raised voice.
Just clarity.
“My wife’s dignity is not a topic for entertainment.”
Silence falls heavy as marble.
Anton opens his mouth slightly.
I lift a hand.
Not to threaten.
To end the conversation.
“Captain Rizzi has apologized,” I say smoothly. “And made a generous donation to the Bellini-Koval Clinic Initiative.”
Anton’s face pales.
The room murmurs as the screen behind me updates.
DONATION: $2,000,000
The humiliation lands perfectly.
He pays.
He bows.
And he walks out alive.
Which means everyone watching understands something important:
Disrespect has a price.
And I collect it politely.
The room slowly breathes again.
Music resumes.
But the attention has shifted.
From Anton.
To Vera.
The new queen.
The penthouse is quiet when we return.
The city glows beneath the glass like a map of restless lights.
Vera slips off her heels near the door, rubbing the back of her neck.
“That was cruel,” she says.
“It was effective.”
“You made him fund the clinic.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Thank you.”
“You weaponized the room first.”
“That was different.”
“No,” I reply. “It was strategy.”
She turns toward me slowly.
The gala composure has faded now.
What remains is something more honest.
Something raw.
“I don’t want to feel powerless anymore,” she says quietly.
“You’re not powerless.”
“I was tonight,” she says. “Until you stepped in.”
“That’s partnership.”
“No.”
She steps closer.
“That’s you controlling the battlefield.”
Her eyes search mine.
“I want control too,” she says.
“Over what.”
She hesitates.
Then answers honestly.
“My body.”
The words settle between us.
“Just once,” she adds softly. “I want something to belong to me. Not the war. Not the strategy.”
I study her carefully.
“You’re certain.”
“Yes.”
“You’re asking for something dangerous.”
“I know.”
My voice lowers.
“You remember the rule.”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
Her breath catches slightly.
“I choose.”
The words unlock something in me.
I step closer slowly.
Giving her time to retreat.
She doesn’t.
"Control doesn't mean surrender," I say quietly.
Her chin tilts up. Those eyes—guarded, searching, still carrying echoes of whatever war she's been fighting out there in the streets I own—meet mine without flinching.
"I know."
"It means trust."
A flicker crosses her face. Not fear. Something rawer. Hunger, maybe. Or recognition. Her lip's part, but she doesn't speak. The seconds stretch between us, thick and taut.
"Then teach me."
The words land in my chest like a blow. Not because they're unexpected. Because she means them.
I don't rush. I learned a long time ago that power isn't about speed—it's about precision. My thumb traces a slow arc along her hip bone, and I watch her eyelids flutter, just slightly, before she steadies herself.
The kiss is slower this time.
Deliberate.
Not desperation.
Discovery.
My mouth finds hers, and there's no collision, no clash of teeth and tongue. Just pressure. Warmth. The soft give of her lower lip caught between mine. She leans into it without hesitation, fingers sliding into my shirt as if grounding herself, knuckles pressing against the hard plane of my chest.
I keep my movements measured.
Guiding.
Never taking more than she offers.
My other hand comes up to cup the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair. It's silk against my skin, and I hold her there—not forcing, just present. An anchor. She makes a sound against my mouth, something between a sigh and a moan, and I swallow it, drinking her in.
Her breath softens as tension melts from her shoulders. The war outside the penthouse fades for a moment.
Not gone.
Just distant.
She breaks the kiss first, forehead resting lightly against my chest. I feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat, the unsteady rise and fall of her ribs. My shirt is damp where her breath catches.
"That didn't feel like losing control," she murmurs.
"No."
"It felt like choosing."
"Yes."
Her hands slide down my arms slowly, curiosity replacing fear. Fingertips trace the contours of my biceps, the defined lines of my forearms. Mapping me. Learning the shape of the man she's decided to trust.
"I didn't disappear," she says softly.
"You won't."
My hand tightens on her waist, pulling her closer. The motion is subtle, but her breath hitches—I hear it, feel the small catch in her body against mine.
"Choosing is power," I whisper, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.
She shivers. A full-body tremor that starts in her shoulders and rolls down through her spine. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, anchoring herself to me, and the bite of her nails through my shirt sends a pulse of heat straight to my groin.
"Show me," she breathes.
The kiss deepens.
Hungry yet deliberate.
As if we're claiming each other all over again.
My tongue sweeps past her lips, tasting her—wine and want and something sweeter underneath.
She meets me stroke for stroke, her own tongue sliding against mine, and the kiss turns molten.
My cock hardens against her belly, and I don't hide it.
Don't apologize. This is part of it too—the honesty of desire.
Her shirt falls away.
I don't remember unbuttoning it, but suddenly the fabric is gone, pooled on the floor, and my hands map her skin—slow and reverent. Her collarbones. The graceful curve of her shoulders. The valley between her breasts, still covered by black lace that makes my mouth water.
I trace the edge of that lace with one finger. A question.
"Please," she whispers.
The word unravels something in me.
I guide her backward, one step, then another, until her shoulders meet the cool glass of the window. The city glitters behind her—millions of lives playing out in the darkness—but she's all I see. All I want to see.
My palms slide up her ribcage, lifting her breasts, feeling their weight. My thumbs find her nipples through the lace, and they harden instantly, pressing against the fabric like twin peaks. She gasps, her back arching off the glass, pushing herself into my touch.
"More," she pants.
I smile against her throat. "Patience."
"You're a bastard."
"I am." I drag my teeth along the tendon of her neck, then soothe the spot with my tongue. "And you're still here."
Her hands roam lower, urgent yet yielding. She finds the buckle of my belt, fumbles with it, and I let her. This is her choice—her claiming as much as mine. The leather slides free, clattering to the hardwood floor.
"Teach me more," she says, and her voice cracks on the last word.
I press her against the wall, the world outside forgotten. My knee slides between her thighs, parting them, and I feel the heat radiating from her core even through the barrier of her skirt. She rocks against me—instinct, not thought—and a low moan spill from her throat.
"Feel that?" I murmur against her jaw. "That's not me taking. That's you giving."
Her fingers tighten on my shoulders, nails biting crescents into the fabric.
"I want—" She stops. Swallows. Tries again. "I want to give everything."
"You will." My hand slides beneath her skirt, finding the damp silk of her underwear. She jerks at the contact, a sharp intake of breath, but doesn't pull away. "When you're ready. Not before."
"I'm ready now."
I stroke her through the fabric—slow, maddening circles that make her thighs tremble against mine. Her slick seeps through the silk, coating my fingertips, and the scent of her arousal rises between us, heady and intoxicating.
"Are you?" I ask. "Or do you just want to be?"
Her eyes snap open, blazing. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't make me think. Just—"
"This is thinking." I press harder, and her words dissolve into a whimper. "This is feeling. The two aren't enemies."
She laughs, breathless and ragged. "You're impossible."
"And yet here you are."
Her hands find my face, pulling me down for another kiss—fierce and demanding this time, all teeth and desperation. I meet her intensity with my own, tasting the surrender on her tongue. My fingers hook around her underwear, pulling it aside, and finally—finally—I touch her skin.
She's soaked.
Silken and swollen, her pussy parts beneath my fingers like a flower. I trace her folds, learning her geography, finding the bundle of nerves at her apex that makes her cry out when I circle it.
"Oh god—"
"Not god." I bite her lower lip gently. "Just me."
My middle finger slides inside her.
She clenches around me—tight, hot, desperate—and I groan against her neck. She feels like velvet and sin, and I'm so hard it hurts, my cock straining against my trousers, demanding its own turn.
"More," she begs.
I add a second finger.
The stretch makes her gasp, her head falling back against the glass, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath. I curve my fingers, searching for that spot inside her—the one that will make her fall apart—and when I find it, her whole body goes rigid.
"There," she chokes out. "Oh fuck—right there—"
I stroke it relentlessly, my thumb circling her clit, my mouth swallowing her cries. She's close—I can feel it in the trembling of her thighs, the flutter of her walls around my fingers, the way her nails rake down my back like she's trying to climb inside me.
"Let go," I whisper against her ear. "I've got you."
And she does.
Her orgasm crashes through her like a wave, her pussy clamping down on my fingers, her spine arching off the glass.
I hold her through it, my free arm wrapped around her waist, keeping her upright when her knees buckle.
Her moans echo through the penthouse, mingling with the jazz, and I drink in every second of her unraveling.
Slowly, the tremors subside.
She sags against me, boneless and breathless, her forehead pressed to my chest once more. I withdraw my fingers gently, and she whimpers at the loss, clutching at my shirt.
"That was—" She stops, struggling for words.
"The beginning," I finish for her.
Her eyes lift to mine, still glazed but sharpening with something new. Determination. Hunger.
"Show me the rest."
I smile, slow and certain.
"I intend to."
For a moment, the room feels almost peaceful.
Then my phone vibrates on the table.
I ignore it.
It vibrates again.
Vera glances toward the sound.
“Probably Viktor.”
I reach for it reluctantly.
The screen lights up.
An image loads automatically.
A photograph from the gala.
Vera standing beside the donation display.
Elegant.
Visible.
Targeted.
A message beneath it.
We can take her anytime.