Trapped With My Ex's Mafia Uncle (Billionaire Pakhan #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Ella

"That goddamn agency of yours! How the hell can they send you to do this alone? With your face and your brains, you should be sitting in some high-rise office sipping coffee in Chanel, not playing Super Cleaner in the middle of the night!"

Sasha's voice nearly blew out my eardrum through the phone. She always got worked up like this on my behalf.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, babe. But this gig pays the most right now. Solo job means all the money's mine. Gotta go, Super Cleaner needs to save this poor, neglected luxury apartment. Talk later. Love you."

I hung up, cutting off Sasha's tirade mid-rant. I stared at the empty mansion before me and let out a long sigh.

Okay, "poor and neglected" probably wasn't accurate.

This penthouse was obscenely huge. Standing at the entrance, my entire rental could fit in the foyer with room left over for a bicycle. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the New York skyline, like someone had tossed a handful of diamonds across black velvet.

I set my cleaning supplies on the marble floor. The sound echoed dully.

Alright, Ella. Be professional.

The agency had been clear—owner's out of town for the weekend, wants a "deep clean." Good news for me. Meant no one breathing down my neck, pointing out a single speck of dust in some corner to drive me insane.

I started in the living room, waging a systematic, merciless war on dust. Whoever owned this place clearly had money to burn—every piece of furniture radiated that "I don't need to tell you what this costs because you couldn't guess" energy.

Leather sofa, handwoven rugs, books on the shelves that actually looked read, not just decorative.

I couldn't help glancing at the spines—Russian, English, a few engineering textbooks thick as bricks, with an Asimov sandwiched between.

Interesting guy.

By hour four, my back started protesting. My legs went on strike. I stopped at the master bedroom door, pushed it open, and—

And I saw the goddamn pool.

Not an indoor pool. An outdoor heated pool on the balcony, set into the night, water reflecting the city lights, steam rising faintly like something out of a decadent fairy tale.

I stood in the doorway for a full thirty seconds.

Ella Collins, you cannot.

Ten more seconds.

You have three hundred dollars' worth of professional integrity.

I stared at that shimmering water, thinking about how I'd dragged myself out of bed at five this morning, put in eight hours as an intern at the office, and now hauled my half-dead body here to clean someone's home while that "someone" was probably lounging in a five-star hotel somewhere, feet up, sipping whiskey. ..

Professional integrity quietly slipped out the window.

I just wanted to soak. Five minutes. Ten, tops.

I double-checked—apartment silent except for the low hum of the AC. No sign of human life. I set my phone to vibrate on the folding table by the pool, then, at a speed Sasha could absolutely never know about, I stripped off everything and slid into the water like a fish finally set free.

I'm done. I'm finished. I can never go back.

The hot water wrapped around me instantly, and I let out a sound that wasn't entirely dignified.

The temperature hit every screaming muscle dead-on, like someone had pressed a full-body reset button.

I tilted my head back. Manhattan's light pollution was too bad to see many stars, just a few faint pinpricks.

Just five minutes.

I closed my eyes.

That's when I heard the key slide into the lock at the front door.

My heart stopped for a full two seconds, then restarted at quadruple speed, pounding so hard my throat tasted bitter.

The guy on the business trip came back.

Shit shit SHIT.

My brain completed a high-speed calculation in half a second—clothes. Where are my clothes? Clothes on the folding table. Folding table by the pool. Pool's outdoors. I'm in the pool. I'm naked in the pool.

Logic crashed completely.

I scanned the balcony like a mouse spotting a cat. In the corner, a narrow door, slightly ajar. Storage closet. God, if you're going to help me once today, make it now.

I hauled myself out of the water silently, grabbed my clothes and phone from the chair, and shoved myself barefoot through that narrow door.

The closet door clicked shut just as the foyer light turned on.

I crouched inside, back against the cold wall, wet hair plastered to my face, heartbeat so loud I annoyed myself. A sliver of light leaked through the crack in the door. I held my breath and peered out.

A man walked in.

Tall. That's what I noticed first—at least six-two, maybe six-three.

Tailored suit, silver hair catching the light with a cold gleam, like he was born not to exist in ordinary people's lives.

Billionaire. Or supervillain. He took off his jacket, tossed it casually over a chair—movements lazy but radiating effortless control.

This guy living here made perfect sense.

But I was crouching naked in his storage closet.

Fuck.

I clutched my clothes tighter, jaw clenched, ordering myself not to move, not to breathe, not to exist.

The man sat on the lounge chair, angled toward the pool, scrolled through his phone, then set it down. He closed his eyes, fingers resting loosely on his knee, like a precision machine finally powering down, slowly relaxing into the silence.

I realized I'd been holding my breath for nearly a minute.

Carefully, microscopically, I started breathing again.

Through the slats in the closet door, I saw he still had his eyes closed.

Silver-white hair looked cold under the light, but his face wasn't cold. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, lashes casting small shadows—this face wouldn't look out of place on any magazine cover.

Damn.

He's too fucking hot.

Wait. Ella. What are you doing? You're naked hiding in your employer's closet checking him out?

This is a crime scene, not a place to get turned on.

I took a deep breath.

At least he looked tired. He'd probably head to the bedroom soon. Sleep. Or shower.

Then I'd have a chance to crawl out of this damn closet, get dressed, sneak out, and pretend tonight never happened.

But he didn't move.

He just sat there on the lounge chair, one hand on his knee, the other—my stomach clenched—the other slowly, lazily, undoing the button on his suit pants.

No.

Maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe he was hot. Maybe he—

His fingers flipped open his belt buckle. The metal click rang crisp in the quiet space.

No, no, no, no.

He pulled out the belt, then undid the button, unzipped. But he didn't take the pants all the way off, though I swear I thought things were heading that direction.

He slid his hand under the waistband of his boxer briefs...

Oh my God.

He gripped his cock...

OH. MY. GOD.

Then he pulled it out. Erect. Hard as stone.

Right in front of me, less than five feet away, hand wrapped around his fully exposed, rock-hard dick.

My cheeks burned. My heart jumped into my throat. I should feel disgusted. I should feel ashamed.

But heat flared between my thighs, that familiar wetness making me squeeze my legs together.

He leaned back on the lounge chair, head tilted slightly, silver hair like liquid mercury in the moonlight. Eyes closed, lashes casting small shadows on his cheekbones.

His hand stroked up and down his shaft twice. His breathing got heavier.

"Fuck..." he cursed under his breath, voice rough as sandpaper.

His hand slid up and down, slow, then fast, firm, then smoother. This man was edging himself, and it was the most erotic, mesmerizing thing I'd ever seen. With each stroke, his jaw loosened further. Fine beads of sweat formed at his temples. The muscles in his forearm tensed, veins bulging.

That wasn't the only thing bulging.

With every stroke, he got harder, wetter, precum sliding down, natural lube.

The closet suddenly felt stifling. Not just because of the tight space, but because of some uncontrollable heat rising inside me. My thighs clenched involuntarily. The damp clothes clutched against my chest rubbed my nipples, making them ache and harden.

I shouldn't be reacting like this.

This is wrong.

But my body didn't care about right or wrong. I could feel the wetness—that shameful, sinful slickness spreading between my legs.

No. I can't. Ella, you can't—

But my hand had already moved to my own body, fingertips brushing my nipple, then sliding lower...

I touched my pussy.

I bit my lip to keep quiet. I was already soaked, my finger sliding easily into the folds, finding that throbbing spot and pressing down hard.

Fuck.

Pleasure made my breathing ragged, so fast I felt like even five feet away he could hear it.

But thankfully, the guy five feet away was breathing even harder.

This was insane.

But I couldn't stop. I watched him through the crack, my finger pumping in and out of my wet pussy at almost the same rhythm as his hand stroking his cock, like he had me pinned on the bed, that thick dick pounding into my cunt.

God, that massive cock! How deep would it go? Would it make my belly bulge?

A wet squelch. More fluid leaked from my pussy.

Suddenly, his strokes sped up, body tensing.

The man let out a groan, a sound I'd only imagined in my filthiest dreams. Similar to what I'd imagined, but better.

Rougher, deeper, more raw. Like sandpaper scraping from deep in his chest, dragging across my nerves, hardening my nipples, making my core ache.

My fingers sped up. Pleasure shot through me like electricity from fingertip to everywhere.

I clamped my other hand over my mouth, desperately suppressing the moan trying to escape my throat.

I bit my lip to stay silent, fingers circling fast in the wetness, the other hand kneading my breast. The air in the closet thinned and burned. My breathing grew more frantic, heartbeat roaring in my ears.

"Fuck... yes... right there... да, дорогой, yes, just like that. Just like... oh God..."

His words melted into mumbles, and I was too busy keeping myself quiet to make out much beyond what sounded like Russian mixed with English.

He was getting close. I could tell. His breathing fractured, body strung tight as a string about to snap. His grip tightened, movements losing control.

"Fuck... I'm close..."

Me too. Pleasure coiled in my belly like a flood about to break. My legs started trembling, toes curling.

Almost. Almost.

He suddenly went rigid, a low roar bursting from his chest. "Fuck—"

At the same instant, pleasure tore through me.

Too intense. Too sudden. My whole body convulsed, knee slamming into the closet door—

BANG.

The metallic crash exploded in the silence.

Everything froze.

He shot upright, alert, turning toward the closet. Through the crack, I saw his expression, from blissed-out to razor-sharp in one second.

No, no, no—

He stood, strode over naked, cock still half-hard and glistening. Every step tightened my chest. God, I'm so fucked.

The closet door yanked open.

Light flooded in, making me squint. When my vision refocused, he stood there, looking down at me.

And me?

I was fucking naked. Legs still spread. Hand still between my thighs. Body still trembling in the aftershocks.

Shock flickered in his eyes for less than a second, then shifted into something more complex—surprise, suspicion, and a hint of dangerous amusement.

His gaze traveled slowly down from my face, skimming my still-heaving chest, my curled legs, finally stopping on the hand still trapped between my thighs.

His mouth curved into a smirk that made my legs weak.

"Well, well, well," he said in that velvet Russian-accented English, every syllable like licking a blade. "What do we have here?"