thighs. It’s a crime to look as effortlessly sensual as she does.
Not wanting to press my luck a second time, I leave them to it before I get caught. But when I climb into bed, all I can think about is how good it would feel to fold myself against her and feel every last curve of her body.
This is dangerous.
At the next meeting the following day, I head to my office, where I find a few of my men sitting around the table, talking. The moment I enter the room, the conversation dies down and they sit up straighter.
One man clears his throat and nods at me. “Boss,” he says in acknowledgment.
“Pietrov,” I reply.
I take a seat at the head of the table and fold my hands in my lap, looking at the others. “What’s the problem?” I ask. I may not be a detective, but I can tell when someone isn’t saying something. Right now, I have a lot of men not saying much.
Konstantin, who runs all our operations in the southeastern stretch of Bratva territory, clears his throat and says, “Boss, we’ve been having some problems with the shop on 71st.”
“What kind of problems?”
“There’s this gang that hangs out down there. Territorial as hell. I’ve tried to get them to fuck off, but they keep coming around, causing problems for the business.”
Every day, it seems like I’m putting out fires for people that are more than capable of doing the job themselves. Konstantin is a good man, though. He works hard, makes sure my money is delivered on time, and stays out of my way. He’s loyal.
So, I lean forward and say, “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe they need someone to remind them that they don’t run the streets anymore. I do.”
It’ll only take a call to have the thugs dealt with. I’ll send Miron and his men down there. Break a few bones, bloody a few noses. They’ll get the message, if they know what’s in their best interests. After all, those that stay out of my way usually live to tell the tale.
Over the next hour, a few more men bring their problems to me one by one, and I issue instructions. I chuckle to myself, imagining how much the FBI would pay to be a fly on the wall here. Racketeering, extortion, illegal import/export—the charges they’d be able to pile up in an hour alone would keep their prosecutors busy for years.
Too bad they’ll never get close.
As the meeting dies down, Konstantin says, “How’s the boy doing?”
“Much better.” This conversation is personal, and under normal conditions, I’d tell him to mind his own business. But I must be in a talkative mood, because I add, “The girl’s made it easier on him. Hiring her was a smart move.”
“Seems like it. I don’t know how you function when she’s around,” Konstantin chuckles. “If I were you, I’d have her bent over every surface in this house, day in and day out.” There are a few murmurs of agreement.
I raise an eyebrow. “Who says I haven’t?”
The others around the table laugh at my response, and I sit back in my chair. I’ve got an amused expression—exactly what my men expect of me—but I’m surprised to find that inwardly, I’m seething. In fact, I’m picturing smashing Konstantin’s face against the wall and forcing him to apologize.
She’s mine, I’d snarl. Not yours. Not ever. Not even in your fucking dreams. Understood?
I shake it off. She means nothing to me. It’s just a stupid hallucination. Hardly worth getting worked up over.
They don’t need to know that I’ve tried my hardest not to be involved with Victoria. She’s a distraction, and I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her. She’s not a willing employee, not like a few of the maids who’ve thrown themselves at me. She’s being forced to stay here, and I know that if given the chance, she’d probably stick me in the neck with my own switchblade to get away. The only thing stopping her is the understanding that not even death would stop me from getting my revenge.
The others begin filing out, some of them heading home and some of them heading back to work. Soon, the only two left are me and Pietrov. He leans back in his chair and puts his hands behind the back of his head, staring at me.