Chapter 3
DIMA
“ H ere? In my office?” I demand.
“Yes, sir,” my secretary says patiently.
“I thought Sergei Kozlov was an invalid. It’s in my calendar as a call, not a meeting.”
“Apologies, sir. That was my understanding as well, but he’s here with two security agents and an escort I can only assume is a health aide. Should I send him in?”
I shake my head, equal parts amused and surprised.
The old man has crawled out of hiding to see me.
When he requested a meeting, I assumed it was about his failing health.
He probably wants me to take over the Kozlov organization now that his only son is gone.
A man like him would never pass the reins to a lieutenant; for his kind, it’s family or nothing.
“Sure, send him in. Not the entourage, just the man himself,” I say.
Within moments, a raw-boned old man, who can’t be much past seventy but he looks about a hundred and twelve, is wheeled in. He wears a suit twenty years out of style, but his dark eyes are sharp and miss nothing.
“Sergei Kozlov,” I say by way of greeting.
“Young Mitya,” he replies, using my father’s diminutive for me. I bristle at the familiarity. “Did your papa never teach you how to address your elders?”
“Perhaps I was called Mitya when you met me, but it has been decades since anyone dared use that name. If we can dispense with the formalities, maybe you can explain why you showed up here today.”
“We have an appointment.”
“For a call. I didn’t imagine you’d leave that penthouse for anything short of a natural disaster.”
“You might say that is what brings me here, young man.”
“I’m hardly young any longer. There’s gray in my hair.”
“Ach, at least you have some hair,” he says, gesturing to his own balding head. I chuckle.
“What is the catastrophe that brings you to my doorstep?”
“The natural disaster is my Karinka,” he sighs, the name falling like a millstone around his neck. “She is headstrong, like her mother was.”
“If you want advice on raising children, I’m hardly an authority,” I assure him.
“Children? Bah, she’s twenty-four, as she reminds me daily.
She is forever nagging me for a place in the business.
She’s a woman, and women have no role in the bratva!
” He smacks his hand on the arm of his wheelchair for emphasis.
I wait until he continues. “She has too much free time. She needs a husband.”
“I’m no svakha ,” I tell him. “If you want a matchmaker, hire one. My legitimate business is tech, and the rest involves gambling, arms deals, things of that nature.” Sarcasm coats every word; the old man is wasting my time.
“A matchmaker? That’s the last thing I’d try with my daughter.
She needs to marry, have babies, things to keep her busy so she stays out of the business.
This is what happens when you let a girl go to university.
I thought it would get her out from underfoot and maybe she’d meet a nice boy from a proper family, but no.
She earned a master’s degree and built some computer program.
” He says it as if she’s shamed the family, and I have to stifle a laugh at how antiquated he sounds.
“You must be proud of her accomplishments. I know a little about her company in the tech arena. Cutting edge cybersecurity, I think.”
“Look at this.” He holds out a photo.
It isn’t a phone with a digital image but a glossy, slightly dog-eared print.
I take it, studying the girl staring back at me.
She’s pretty, small, dark-haired, sharp-eyed, and wearing a fierce scowl.
The moment I register her, heat slams through me.
I’m rattled, thrown off balance by nothing more than a photograph.
Why? I’ve seen hundreds of beautiful women.
She’s attractive enough to get any man in her bed but she’s no Helen of Troy.
Nothing in that picture explains the punch of desire it lands. I hand the photo back.
“What is it to me?”
“You know I’m not a young man,” he says. I think that’s an understatement. “I have no heir, and the time is coming when I have to step aside. We could bring together the organizations under your control. You would have the Kozlov bratva and all its network, and my daughter for a bride.”
Startled, I pause before I answer. “I’m not a man of many words, Sergei.
You honor me with the offer of your daughter.
” I incline my head; he nods. “I’ll take the bratva, merge your business with mine, and keep as many of your men on the payroll as possible.
But marrying a woman you compare to a natural disaster, how does that benefit me? ”
“It is the perfect solution. You have gray in your hair and no son, while I have a beautiful daughter who is troublesome but might be useful to you when it comes to getting an heir. I know you have no need of my business, your tech company with the apps, I hear it is very successful on its own, and your organization keeps expanding every year. I have a good business to offer you, and Katarina is a beauty. You could not find a prettier or more clever wife anywhere.”
“Did you marry for cleverness?” I challenge him. He shakes his head.
“I should have avoided it if I’d had my head on straight,” he muses. “Her mother was feisty and gorgeous, and I never had a chance. We had twenty years together. Karina was ten when her mother died on that boat.”
I clear my throat. His wife died when the boat she shared with her lover exploded, most likely on Sergei’s orders, just a year after his son’s death.
What did that do to a ten-year-old girl, losing both brother and mother overnight?
I shake off the thought. Dr.Lin keeps urging me to find a wife and secure an heir.
Sergei’s proposal could solve that problem, if Katarina Kozlova is even tolerable.
Plenty of beautiful women never inspire their fathers to compare them to an earthquake.
Yet the memory of her photo, with the scowl and those dark eyes, flares in my chest. What would it feel like to tame a woman like that?
“I want to meet her,” I say.
“We’re moving to my house in the country this week. Come for the weekend and visit us. You can meet my daughter without distractions there.”
“Very well,” I say, “I’ll consider your offer and meet your daughter. I make no promises.”
“Oh, you will. One look at her, and you’ll be as lost as I was for her mother.” I notice he doesn’t cross himself when he speaks of his wife. I shake his hand, but it feels ominous as if I’ve just sealed a deal with the devil himself.
I’m restless all afternoon and unable to sit still or focus on work.
I pace the office and stare out the window.
Her face won’t leave my head. Finally I open an incognito tab and search her social media.
Only one Instagram account shows up and has been dormant for two years, but I still scroll.
A tagged video pops up: a wedding reception.
There she is, left side of the frame, dancing with a pack of friends.
Light shimmers off her black sequin dress as the skirt rides high on her thigh.
I replay the clip, mesmerized by the quick snap of her hips, the smooth strength of her legs, the lift of bare arms, the tumble of hair.
She moves with pure abandon, wild and free, enough to make my cock thicken and ache.
By the time I get home, I’ve been hard for hours.
What began as distraction has turned into a full-blown problem.
I head straight to the bedroom. Normally I’d hit the gym and take care of business in the shower, executing maximum efficiency that way, but there’s no chance I can work out with a hard-on like this. It feels like a weapon.
I loosen my tie, unbutton my collar, and roll up my sleeves.
Discipline has always ruled me, yet no amount of willpower could blunt my reaction to her picture and that video.
Besides, it has been a rather long week.
I slip into in my California King sized bed, potentially hopeful I’d be ravishing Karina on this very mattress very soon.
I unzip, wrapping a punishing fist around my throbbing, disobedient cock, kick off my shoes, and stretch out on the bed.
If I was going to unspeakable things, I might as well indulge and get comfortable.
My mind wanders to the few images of her that my brain has burned into memory, and I’m stroking hard and fast quickly.
She’s dancing with her friends in a loud group, drinking champagne and having a better time than anyone else at the party.
I hear her throaty laugh and it goes right through me.
I don’t usually dance, but I’m drawn to her.
I set down my drink and move to join her group on the dance floor.
The song changes and it’s some slow jam that has people hooting and clapping.
The groom is removing the garter, so all eyes are on the newlyweds.
I take advantage of the distraction to move up behind her.
She’s swaying back and forth to the music, but she stops when she feels me close behind her. She turns to look at me.
“Don’t,” I tell her in a low voice. “Come with me now.”