CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #2
"Reza," Kamran continued, his voice steadying as the malicious plan took root.
"He is only twelve years old. He does not understand the politics of this world.
He does not know the full scope of our betrayal.
Sherezine and Roxana are ruthless, yes, but their entire world revolves around keeping that boy alive.
He is the last male heir of the bloodline. "
"If we can get to him," Bogdan breathed, catching onto the thread of survival. "If we can somehow bypass Moretti’s security and take the boy..."
"Then we have the ultimate leverage," Kamran finished, a sickly, desperate smile touching his lips. "If we hold a gun to Reza’s head, Sherezine and her mother will have no choice but to grant us safe passage. It is the only card we have left to play."
***
High above the frantic plotting of desperate men, the penthouse suite of the Hotel d'Angleterre was a sanctuary of insulated quiet.
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, soft snow was falling over Lake Geneva, catching the moonlight in a glittering, silent dance.
Inside, the marble fireplace roared, casting a warm, golden glow across the plush rugs and velvet furnishings.
Alessandro Moretti stood near the edge of the sprawling, silk-sheeted bed, his tuxedo jacket discarded over a chair, his bow tie undone and hanging loosely around his neck.
Zina stood before him, the breathtaking emerald gown pooling at her feet. She was looking up at him, her dark eyes shining with an emotion so deep and overwhelming it stole the breath from his lungs.
Sandro reached out, his large, warm hands gently cupping her face.
His thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, his touch carrying a reverence that belonged more in a cathedral than a hotel room.
He had watched her navigate the ballroom tonight with the effortless, imperious grace of a queen.
He had watched her look Ruggero Vanzetti in the eye without a flinch of fear, wielding her presence like a perfectly forged blade.
But here, in the privacy of their suite, he only wanted to heal her.
"You were magnificent tonight," Sandro murmured, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure devotion. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. "You brought an entire room of wolves to heel just by standing there."
"I had the biggest, most terrifying wolf in Europe standing right beside me," Zina whispered, her hands sliding up the crisp white cotton of his shirt to rest against his broad chest. "It makes being brave much easier."
Sandro shook his head slowly, a faint, deeply affectionate smile touching his lips. "You do not need me to be brave, Sherezine. You survived the end of the world on your own. But you will never have to do it alone again."
He moved his hands down to the nape of her neck, his fingers deftly unfastening the diamond necklace she wore.
He set it aside on the nightstand, wanting nothing cold or sharp between them.
He turned his attention to the delicate clasp of her gown.
With a smooth, practiced motion, he unzipped the silk, letting the fabric slide down her shoulders to pool softly on the floor.
Zina shivered, not from the cold, but from the intense, burning heat in his green-grey eyes as he looked at her.
"I want to take it all away," Sandro whispered fiercely, his hands mapping the soft curve of her waist, pulling her flush against the hard, muscular plane of his body.
"Every ounce of grief, every shadow, every nightmare you have carried since the night you lost your father.
I want to burn it all down and replace it with joy.
I want you to know exactly how cherished you are. "
Tears pricked the corners of Zina’s eyes, a beautiful, breathless surrender overtaking her. She reached up, framing his strong jaw with her hands. "Show me, Sandro. Please."
He didn't hesitate. He crushed his mouth down onto hers, kissing her with a desperate hunger that consumed the air in the room.
Zina gasped, her lips parting as his tongue swept inside, tasting of champagne and pure, unadulterated need.
He lifted her effortlessly into his arms, carrying her to the mattress and following her down into the tangled silk sheets.
His hands were everywhere—strong, calloused, and unbelievably gentle.
He worshipped her body as if it were sacred, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the long column of her throat, over the swell of her breasts, drawing soft, fractured moans from her lips that echoed in the quiet suite.
Zina tangled her fingers in his dark hair, arching her back, giving herself over to the blinding, beautiful heat he was building inside her.
Sandro drove into her with a slow, agonizingly deep rhythm, his eyes locked onto hers, holding her gaze as he anchored her to the present. Every slide of their bodies was a physical vow. You are safe. You are mine. You will only know happiness.
Zina wrapped her long legs tightly around his hips, meeting his powerful thrusts with a frantic, desperate rhythm of her own. The physical pleasure was staggering, a blinding light that expanded behind her closed eyelids, pushing her toward the edge.
"Sandro," she cried out, her voice breaking as the climax tore through her, a violent, beautiful wave that made her entire body tremble.