Chapter 15
DIMA
S he is happy here, I noticed. She seems lighter and more carefree.
On the walk to dinner, I set my hand at the small of her back.
She leans in and loops an arm around my waist, letting me tuck her tight to my side.
The easy intimacy catches me off guard, and I am never off guard.
It feels so good to drape my arm over her, to hold her close and claim her in public, that I almost close my eyes.
My shoulders lock at the thought, and my jaw clenches.
Even at my own resort I must remain vigilant.
She studies me curiously, her face open and almost soft.
When we slide into the private booth, she settles against me again.
I’m determined to keep her at arm’s length, at least emotionally.
Karina, however, is utterly at ease, curling up like a cat beside me.
I open the menu and bite back a curse about the dim lighting.
I left my goddamn reading glasses upstairs, and I haven’t worn them in front of her yet.
She’d crack a joke about my age and call me an old man.
She’s teasing me now, acting as though we’re lovers.
We are not lovers. She is my wife, and that was a tactical decision, a move for territory and an heir.
Part of me is disappointed that the feisty, unconquerable woman I met proved so easy to fuck into submission.
It was the cave, I think, the primitive way I took her against the rocks.
I felt different afterward too, but for her it was narcotic.
When she strokes the back of my neck, my body goes iron-hard.
I struggle to wrestle it down. Just because she was seduced doesn’t mean I was.
I am in control, even if the lazy scrape of her nails along my collar feels like the most erotic thing anyone has ever done in the history of time.
Brusquely, I brush her hand from my neck.
I can’t endure her touching me this way.
It sobers me that she has this strong effect on me, like I’m five drinks in and the whiskey keeps coming.
She pulls away a little, chastened, and looks at the menu.
I wonder if I should use the flashlight on my phone or just hope she reads some of the damn thing out loud.
Otherwise I’ll have to guess what to order.
It’s a weakness I despise, but the risk of elective surgery to correct my vision is too great, a man with power such as myself, I would be too vulnerable in a surgery center where enemies could infiltrate while I was unconscious. So humiliation it is.
“What are you ordering?” I ask, hoping she’ll dither and list three or four dishes she’s considering.
“Oh, I think I’ll have this,” she says airily and taps an entry, blurry and too small for me. The tiny smile she hides behind a sip of water betrays her malice. She knows I can’t read it, and I’ll be damned if I ask for help.
“What about you?” she asks, all innocence. “Anything catch your eye?” Her gaze dares me. Only the petty bitch sitting beside me , I think wryly.
“I haven’t decided,” I say tightly.
“Really? That surprises me. I think of you as such a man of action, decisive and straightforward. Are you defeated by a dinner menu?” Her tone drips acid. This is what I get for thinking she’s a tame kitten. She’s still a tiger, toying with her prey.
“Hardly defeated,” I say with forced lightness, affecting unconcern.
The server arrives and waits, polite and silent, while I motion for Karina to order first. Good, she’ll have to say the dish aloud, I think. Instead she simply points, and he nods. Resigned, I switch to Croatian.
“What is the chef’s special?” I ask.
He compliments my command of the language, then waxes poetic, insisting every dish the chef sends out is heaven on a plate and that whatever I choose will be the greatest meal of my life.
I appreciate the enthusiasm, but his praise of the restaurant I own, and the chef I employ, helps me not at all.
I continue in Croatian and ask for their most inventive seafood dish. He shares lavish details of a fish tasting menu that I do not want. I select a dish from his long description and say that I want it for my entrée.
The courses arrive in quick succession, delicate asparagus, Karina’s mussel risotto, then my massive red snapper with turnips and wild berries.
Everything tastes incredible, bright and fresh.
The wines, however, disappoint, and I mentally note to push the sommelier to upgrade his sources.
Karina offers me a bite of risotto and spears a few of my berries with her fork, flashing a mischievous smile as she steals them.
“What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?” she demands.
“I wouldn’t have tried the risotto,” I say coolly.
“I mean about the menu. You couldn’t read it.”
“It’s not like you read it to me. I hope there aren’t any blind people counting on you for vital information in your volunteer work.” I say dryly.
“I don’t do volunteer work. I run a business. Apart from that, it’s very time consuming to maintain my appearance.”
“What do you mean? I’ve seen you after dark and you don’t turn into a troll.”
“It’s all an illusion.” She smirks. “It takes a team, personal trainer, dietitian, chef, spray tan, colorist, injectables, not to mention a fortune in clothes, shoes, and makeup.”
“So you’re saying you’re not a natural beauty?”
“I’m a beauty who relies on top-of-the-line technology to look this way.”
I can’t help a half-smile. She’s very self-aware for someone so gorgeous.
“What? You think I’m lying? If I quit the laser hair removal and Brazilians, you’d be repulsed inside a month.” Her brows rise in challenge.
“Somehow I doubt that. If you’re fishing for a compliment, it won’t work. You’ve clocked your own reflection and nothing I have to say would change that.”
“Most men go on about how beautiful I am.”
“Most men didn’t marry you for your father’s bratva,” I say, taking a drink. As soon as I say it, I realize how shitty it sounds. “That isn’t the only—” I begin.
“Stop,” she says, disgusted, “it’s fine. I love to be reminded that my only value to you is the criminal network and territory my dad built. Say more delightful things like that. Maybe mention the ibuprofen he gave you as a wedding gift. Or his engagement toast.”
Karina downs the rest of her wine and won’t look at me. It’s impossible that I’ve hurt her feelings. She doesn’t have feelings for me. I am an obligation, the husband she has to provide with a child to inherit all this wealth and power. No more her preference than she was mine.
The waiter brings a sorbet decorated with bright flower petals for us to share.
I taste it, delighted at the citrus taste and am convinced it is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
When I reach for another bite with my spoon, Karina grabs the dish and pulls it in front of her.
I shrug. Let her have it, drown her injured pride in fancy sorbet.
It’s petty and childish and reminds me why she’s so annoying.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t find her distracting, especially when she licks the spoon, though.
The three days of our honeymoon, all I can spare from work, are bright and packed.
We laugh, bicker, and fuck until we’re spent.
Each morning I reach for her before my eyes even open, already used to sharing a bed with the woman I never meant to marry.
When it’s time to leave, she pouts. She wants another spa day or one more run at that cave.
I won’t budge, so she sulks on the flight, scrolling through her phone.
When I remark that it was a great vacation, she pulls out a sleep mask with theatrical flair, covers her eyes, and turns her back. Fine by me, she can’t see me roll mine.
At my home, I find that movers have brought and arranged a lot of things that belong to my new bride.
A painted Japanese screen is bright and out of place in the somber décor of my traditional dining room.
Modern office furniture has displaced a guest bedroom, with two desks, three large monitors for her computer and a massive abstract canvas propped against one wall.
I grimace when it catches my eye. I might have known she’d have a bold, intrusive style that clashes with everything I own.
I keep my reserve like armor and ignore the incursions to my private rooms. Admittedly, they’re not mine alone any longer.
The master bedroom, my own, remains untouched, masculine and neutral.
I linger in the doorway of her new office, wondering if I have any sunglasses nearby that would shield my eyes from the audacious magenta office chair.
I drop off my bags, change clothes and head to a meeting.
Piotr briefs me on business matters during my absence.
In my high-rise office space, I feel more like myself.
The leather chair, the dark wood, the framed landscape on the wall, it fits my sensibilities and feels reassuring.
The tension and unease of the return flight melt away as I catch up with my oldest friend.
“Is she pregnant yet?” he inquires after our business concludes. He pours us each a drink from the bar cart and I accept it gratefully.
“Not that I know of. It would be too soon to tell for a few weeks yet.” I say. Beneath my casual answer I bristle at the crassness of his question. I don’t want to examine that reaction, an impulse to tell him to stand down, to be careful how he speaks of my wife.
Piotr and I speak freely on the most familiar terms. He’s the nearest thing to a brother, so his informality is natural, I remind myself.
He’s asking how my goal is progressing just as he would in any important bratva matter.
I tell myself this a few times before my racing pulse starts to slow and my fists unclench.
I’m frustrated with Karina, not with my best friend.
She’s a disruption in every way, and I won’t allow her presence to derail the success of this merger, the triumphant expansion of my territory.
We visit a newly renovated warehouse space I acquired and have drinks with the other brigadiers.
I’m welcomed back with gratifying enthusiasm even though my trip was brief.
These men are family and I value their esteem and loyalty.
Being back in the fold with them, throwing back vodka and shit talking after business is done feels like home.
If I look at my watch too many times, or if I have to tug at my trousers to relieve the tightness once or twice because I’ve been too long from my bride, I try to play it off as jet lag.
The fact is, I may be glad to be back with my men, but my body screams for Karina, to join with her again.
After midnight I arrive home. I have no thought of letting her sleep undisturbed.
I’ve waited long enough. I open her bedroom door softly, not wanting to startle her.
It occurs to me as I turn the knob that she could have locked the door against me.
She hasn’t. In fact she is stretched out on top of the covers, a book open beside her, sleeping as though exhaustion overtook her while she waited up for me.
I nearly growl with approval at her silky pale green lingerie, a demure chemise with cream lace and thin straps, the demureness offset by the way her breasts strain at the lace and her right leg is bent so the silk rides up her smooth thigh.
That is all the invitation I need as I remove my tie, jacket and shirt efficiently while I cross the room to her bed.
I bury my face between her legs, my mouth trailing up that thigh.
At the touch of my hot mouth on her flesh, she jolts, half sits up, and then drags her fingers through my hair, tugging me closer until my mouth is on her bare sex, her long legs over my shoulders.
I lick and suck as she grips the bedding, pulls my hair, and writhes in my grip as she climaxes fast and fierce.
I sit back, wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and, breathless, say, “God, I missed you today.”
She pants, propped on her elbows but her head tipped back.
The harsh rise and fall of her breasts hypnotize me.
“I was on a call—” she gasps out, “and all of a sudden, I needed you so much. I literally thought about messaging to ask when you’d be home.
It was a little too honey-will-you-be-home-for-dinner so I didn’t actually do it. ”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” I say and when she frowns, I explain, “Because it wouldn’t do for my brigadiers to see me bolt out of a meeting on my first day back, so I could come home and fuck my wife.
” I chuckle but my blood is roaring, my need urgent.
She grins at my admission that I would have run back to her, sated myself in her tight body.
“That makes me feel a little better. I’m not used to getting distracted during work by anything,” she confesses.
“Same,” I tell her, still breathing hard. “I should say I’m sorry I woke you, but I’m not.”
“I like my sleep, but anytime you want to wake me up by eating me out, I’m here for it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell her archly, “now turn over, wife. I want you on your knees.”