Serbians,” I remind him. “Are you questioning my integrity, Volodya?” I look to Brad, whose eyebrows must be as high as mine. Someone’s stirring shit. I wouldn’t touch the Serbian mafia with a ten-foot pole. I’m selective with whom I do business with, and rapists are at the bottom of my pile. “Now, the third or not?”
“The third,” he confirms. “I’ll have half transferred. The rest you’ll get once the merchandise has been checked by my men.”
“Fine,” I say, not insulted in the least. We’ve done dozens of deals with the Russians. We’ve always delivered. But, as my father always told me, never trust anyone, and don’t be surprised when someone doesn’t trust me. The Russians and Serbs are enemies and have been shooting to kill for over a decade now. I don’t think they even know what they’re fighting over anymore, and I couldn’t give a shit. They can keep killing each other to their happy, fucked-up hearts’ content. It keeps the business rolling. I smile, sinking back on my heels and breathing out.
“The Serbians are buying,” Brad says from behind me. “You think someone’s moving in on our territory?” He seems more concerned than I am.
“The only way to get shit into Miami undetected is through this boatyard or Byron’s Reach. We’re here. Byron’s is being watched twenty-four/seven. Nothing is coming into this city without me knowing about it.”
Chapter 2
ROSE
* * *
He grunts and pants, his stomach slapping against my ass as he clumsily pounds into me. “Yes, Perry. Oh God, Perry. Oh, please, Perry. Harder. Yes, harder, Perry.” I can hear myself. I sound convincing, and I must look like I’m in ecstasy. But I feel nothing. I don’t even feel filthy anymore. I close my eyes and wish myself away from the luxury of this hotel room and away from this moment. A moment I have no control of, being a woman I hate. But then, in my darkness, I find myself in the only other place I belong. With him. The conflict within twists my mind daily, because if I’m not being a pawn—albeit being lavished with gifts, living in luxury, being treated like a goddess—I’m a prisoner. A puppet. A punching bag. A slave to anything he so desires. Whether in hell or sent to some delusion of heaven, it’s all out of my control, and that makes me hate each cruel element of my life. Except those stolen moments. The moments I’m not being used as a weapon and he’s distracted with business. The moments I can hide away and immerse myself in the luxury of alone time. When I can binge-watch any old thing on Netflix and pretend I’m not me and I’m not trapped in this godforsaken world. When I can soak in the tub, laze around in my robe, eat junk food. When I can let my barrier down and switch off my brain. When I can be the me I like, if only temporarily. Those moments are rare and precious. They are what I live for, along with the memories I keep locked deeply away, safe from the twisted part of my mind. Safe from contamination. But even those tranquil moments snatched in time are tarnished by the knowledge that they are fleeting. Respite. Nothing more than a tease of what could be if I wasn’t me. But I am me. Twisted, damaged, and trapped. Beyond hope and help.
I stare blankly at the headboard, the rhythmic pounds of him against my ass zoning me out.
I know the moment he comes. He sounds like a cat being strangled, and I take it as my cue to join him, finding my voice and screaming. And then his body splatters across my back, flattening me to the mattress. “You’re a goddess,” he whispers in my ear, nuzzling into my neck like a child seeking comfort. I mask my shudder as I laugh lightly, squirming to get him off me.
“I need the ladies’,” I tell him, and he rolls off and flops onto the bed, still puffing, panting, and sweating.
I get up and wander to the attached bathroom in the hotel room, pushing the door closed behind me and flipping the shower on. I don’t look at my naked form in the mirror, unable to face the woman I am.
“I feel de-stressed already,” he calls, following his declaration with a small chuckle. How easily pleased he is. “You’re doing wonders for my drive.”
I’m giving him what his prim, perfect, wholesome wife can’t. Or