2. Emil
EMIL
Isit in my living room and try not to let my irritation show on my face.
Three women perch on the couch across from me like birds preening for a mate, their faces caked with so much makeup I can barely tell what they actually look like underneath.
The blonde on the left has painted her lips a shade of red that reminds me of blood.
The brunette in the middle keeps batting her eyelashes so aggressively, I'm concerned she might take flight.
The third one, another blonde, hasn't stopped giggling since she sat down twenty minutes ago.
Twenty fucking minutes.
I toss a glare at Luca, who stands near the doorway with his arms crossed over his massive chest. He catches my look and shrugs, his expression apologetic.
It's not his fault they're here. He didn't invite them.
That honor belongs to my council, those meddling bastards who've decided that at forty-four, I need a wife immediately.
As if I'm some prize stallion who needs to be bred before I'm past my prime.
The council thinks I need stability. They think a wife will make me more predictable, easier to control.
What they really want is leverage, someone they can use to influence my decisions.
They've been pushing harder ever since Dmitri got married last year, as if one Pakhan settling down means we all need to follow suit like fucking lemmings.
The giggling blonde leans forward, giving me an eyeful of her cleavage that's practically spilling out of her dress. "So, Mr. Nikitin, my father says you control more territory than any other Pakhan in the country."
At least she's honest about what she knows. These aren't sheltered princesses. They're daughters of powerful Bratva men, raised in the life, taught from childhood what it means to be part of our world. They know exactly who I am and what I do.
"Your father talks too much," I say, keeping my voice neutral and polite. These are daughters of powerful men, allies I need to keep happy. Insulting them would create problems I don't need right now.
The brunette touches my arm, her fingers trailing along my sleeve. "I think it's admirable. The way you've built your organization, how loyal your men are. My father says they'd die for you."
They would. I've made sure of that. Loyalty is everything in this life, and I demand it absolutely. But I don't need this woman's admiration or her father's commentary on my leadership.
I resist the urge to pull away from her touch. Instead, I smile, though I'm sure it doesn't reach my eyes. "Your father is observant."
The blood-red lips blonde speaks up. "We understand the life, Mr. Nikitin. We're not naive girls who'll faint at the sight of blood or ask questions we shouldn't." She pauses, letting her gaze travel over me in a way that's supposed to be seductive. "We know what a Pakhan needs in a wife."
Christ. They're selling themselves like products, listing their qualifications. I wonder what they'd do if I told them the truth. If I explained that what I need is to be left the fuck alone, not paraded in front of eligible women like I'm shopping for a new car.
The giggling one finally says something of substance. "My uncle works in your southern territory. He says you're fair but ruthless. That's the kind of strength our world needs."
I glance at my watch, a deliberate gesture. "Ladies, I appreciate your coming by tonight, but I'm afraid I have business to attend to." It's not entirely a lie. My business right now is getting the hell away from this circus my council has created.
The giggling one pouts, actually pouts, like a child denied candy. "But we just got here."
"And I'm grateful for your time." I stand, forcing them to follow suit. "Luca will see you out."
Luca moves immediately, opening the door and gesturing toward it with practiced efficiency. The women gather their purses and coats, each one touching my arm or shoulder as they pass, as if physical contact might somehow change my mind. I maintain my polite mask until the door closes behind them.
The second it clicks shut, I let out a long breath. "I'm going out for a while."
Luca raises an eyebrow. "Want company?"
"Yeah. I need a fucking drink."
Twenty minutes later, we're walking into one of the clubs in the city. The bass thrums through the floor, vibrating up through my bones. Colored lights sweep across the dance floor where bodies press together, moving to the rhythm. The air smells like expensive perfume, sweat, and alcohol.
Luca heads straight for the bar, his personality transforming the moment we enter. He's laughing within seconds, clapping the bartender on the shoulder like they're old friends. Maybe they are. Luca knows everyone, remembers everyone. It's part of what makes him such a good Sovietnik.
I stay back, leaning against the wall near the bar.
The darkness here suits me better than the bright lights of my living room.
I'm not sure how long I'll stay. Maybe just long enough to clear my head, to wash away the memory of those three women and their calculated attempts to become the next Mrs. Nikitin.
I scan the crowd out of habit, cataloging faces and potential threats. It's automatic after years of living this life. Then my gaze snags on someone, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I stop thinking about business entirely.
She's dancing near the center of the floor with two other women, and fuck me, she's beautiful.
Red hair catches the lights, short and styled in a way that frames her face.
She's laughing at something one of her friends said, her head thrown back, and even from here I can see the genuine joy in her expression. It's refreshing. Real.
I can't look away.
She moves with an unselfconscious grace, her body swaying to the music.
The dress she's wearing hugs every curve, and Christ, what curves they are.
Her breasts strain against the fabric as she raises her arms above her head, full and round, and I find myself wondering what they'd feel like in my hands.
Her waist is small, flaring out to hips that make my fingers itch to grip them.
When she turns, I get a perfect view of her ass, round and firm, the kind that would fill my palms perfectly.
This is not why I came here tonight. But I can't stop watching her.
The way she moves is hypnotic. Her hips roll with the beat, slow and sensual, and I feel my cock stir in response.
She's not trying to be sexy. That's what makes it so goddamn effective.
Every movement is natural, unforced, like her body was made to move to music.
When she lifts her arms and runs her fingers through that short red hair, her breasts lift with the motion, and I can see the outline of her nipples through the thin fabric of her dress.
Christ. I want to put my mouth on them.
She spins again, laughing with her friends, and there's something about her energy that draws me in.
She's not performing for anyone. She's not trying to catch someone's attention.
She's just living in the moment, enjoying herself, and it's the most attractive thing I've seen in years.
The contrast between her and those painted dolls in my living room couldn't be sharper. This woman is alive, vibrant, real.
The predator in me recognizes prey worth hunting. Not the weak, desperate kind like the women my council keeps throwing at me. Those are easy targets, already caught before the chase begins. This one is different. She's unaware that she's being watched. That makes her infinitely more interesting.
She turns, giving me another view of that perfect ass, and my hands flex at my sides.
I want to grip those hips, pull her back against me, feel her body move against mine the way she's moving to the music.
The dress rides up slightly when she bends, and I catch a glimpse of smooth thigh that makes my mouth go dry.
This is what attraction is supposed to feel like.
Not the polite tolerance I felt sitting across from those women in my living room.
This is raw want, the kind that makes a man forget he's supposed to be civilized.
The kind that makes him remember he's an animal underneath the expensive suits and carefully maintained control.
Her friends say something to her and she laughs again, the sound carrying over the music. Even her laugh is genuine. No fake giggling, no performative bullshit. Just pure amusement. When was the last time I heard something that real?
I should look away. I should finish my drink and go home. Instead, I push off the wall slightly, keeping to the shadows but positioning myself where I can see her better. Where I can watch every roll of her hips, every arch of her back, and every smile that crosses her face.
I'm so focused on her that I almost miss when her entire body goes rigid.
The change is instant and dramatic. One second, she's loose and happy, and the next, she's frozen, her eyes locked on something across the club.
I follow her gaze to a man who's just entered, pushing through the crowd.
Even in the dim lighting, there's something familiar about him, but I can't place it.
The shadows and strobing lights make it impossible to get a clear look at his face.
The redhead says something quick to her friends, then turns and hurries away from the table.
She's not running, exactly, but she's moving fast, weaving between dancers with clear purpose.
The man follows her, his trajectory deliberate.
His eyes are locked on her with an intensity I recognize. Obsession. Possession.
My jaw tightens. I don't know what's happening, but I recognize prey and predator when I see it. And that woman, my beautiful redhead, is definitely running from something.
She's moving in my direction, though I don't think she's noticed me yet. Her eyes keep darting back to check whether the man is still following. He is. He's closing the distance between them, his expression determined, almost angry.
Then she looks forward and her eyes lock on mine.
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other. Her eyes are blue, I realize. Bright blue, even in this shitty lighting. There's fear in them, but also calculation. She's making a decision.
She walks straight up to me, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something light and floral that cuts through the club's heavy air.
She's shorter than I thought, the top of her head barely reaching my shoulder.
Up close, she's even more stunning. A small mole sits at the left corner of her mouth, and I have the sudden, inappropriate urge to trace it with my thumb.
"Please play along," she says, her voice urgent but quiet enough that only I can hear.
Before I can respond, before I can even process what she's asking, the man pursuing her arrives. He's breathing hard, his face flushed with anger or exertion or both. Now that he's closer, I can see him better, but I still can't place where I've seen him before.
The redhead turns to face him, and her entire demeanor changes. Her spine straightens, her chin lifts, and when she speaks, her voice carries confidence I'm not sure she actually feels.
"Arnie, I'd like you to meet my fiancé."