6. Dante
Dante
I wake with a hard-on that could pound nails.
I don't move. Don't breathe. Just lie here acutely aware of every point where her body touches mine—her cheek on my chest, her hand curled loosely in my shirt, one of her legs thrown over mine.
Not ideal, considering the woman currently tucked against my side has just experienced severe trauma.
I grit my teeth and force myself to think about spreadsheets. Quarterly reports. The structural deficiencies in our money-laundering operation.
It doesn't help.
My cock doesn't care about timing or appropriateness. But I do. All I want to do is nurture and comfort her.
Wait. What? Nurture?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I’m a ruthless businessman. A remorseless killer. I've ended lives without losing sleep. I've negotiated treaties over bodies that were still warm. I don't nurture.
I DON’T FUCKING NURTURE!
I don't hold trembling women in the dark and whisper promises I have no business making.
Except I did. All night long.
And the truly bewildering part? I wanted to.
I run through my mental catalogue, searching for precedent. When was the last time I comforted someone? Protected someone not because strategy demanded it, but because the thought of them suffering made my chest ache?
Never.
Not once.
I was raised by sociopaths. Literally. My mother was a junkie whore who overdosed when I was an infant. My father ran with Moretti's crew, and when the old man got himself killed in a turf dispute, Moretti took me under his wing. Not out of kindness—he was never kind—but because I was useful.
No one ever patted my head or tucked me in. No one ever checked if I was scared or hurt or hungry.
I learned early that comfort was weakness, weakness was fatal, and that the only person I could rely on was myself.
So where the hell does this come from? This desire to shelter her, to stand between her and every bad thing in the world?
I've never felt it before. Not for anyone.
Only her.
Which makes absolutely no fucking sense, because I've known her for less than twenty-four hours.
Polina shifts in her sleep, a small sound escaping her lips, and my hand moves automatically to stroke her hair. Soothing. Gentle.
Jesus Christ.
I ease myself out of bed slowly, careful not to wake her, and retreat to the hallway like a man fleeing a crime scene.
Sliding my phone from my pocket, I pull up the number and place a call I'm not looking forward to.
"Corsini," Volkov answers in his gruff voice. "My man is eager to have his daughter back."
I keep my voice level. "There's been a complication."
His tone takes on an icy chill. "A complication. You said the doctor cleared her."
"She wasn't kidnapped. She was sold. Her father handed her off and took payment."
A beat. "That's impossible."
"She told me herself."
Another pause, longer this time. "Lebedev is one of my most trusted men. You're telling me he sold his own daughter to traffickers?"
"I'm telling you what she told me. And I believe her."
Volkov's exhale is sharp. "If that's true—if it's true—he'll be dealt with. But Polina comes home."
If? If it's fucking true?
This motherfucker won’t take her word for it?
"No. She's not going back to him. Not until you've handled it."
I can practically hear the steam shooting from his ears. "She's Bratva."
"She's under my roof and my protection at the moment."
The silence stretches taut as a wire. When Volkov speaks again, his voice is sharp and cutting. "You have two days. Get her healthy enough to move. After that, I'm coming for her myself."
The line goes dead.
Two days.
I pace the length of the hallway, trying to think.
The smart play is obvious. Return her to Volkov. Smooth over the diplomatic nightmare. Maintain the peace I've worked so hard to build.
The Bratva will handle Lebedev however they see fit. Polina goes back to her world, I stay in mine, and everyone walks away.
Except.
Except I can't fucking do it.
The thought of putting her in a car, driving her back to that world, handing her over to people who failed to protect her—it makes my vision go red around the edges.
She's not going back.
Not to her father. Not to anyone who might hurt her. Not ever.
Which leaves me with a problem, because Volkov is not a man who takes "no" for an answer. And refusing to return his officer's daughter is tantamount to declaring war.
Unless.
The idea arrives fully formed, audacious, and slightly insane.
It's manipulative as hell. She'll probably hate me for it. But it might be the only way to both keep her safe and avoid starting a bloodbath in the process.
What I'm about to do is risky. Possibly reckless. And it’s definitely going to piss off a lot of people.
But I think it’ll work.