And tell Allegra if she keeps spreading lies about my husband, I will tell everyone I know she has implants in her butt and breasts. I took pictures of the doctor’s report I found on her desk. Just one more word and I’m sending them to all her friends. Tell her that.

  I knew those photos would come in handy one day. Allegra has been cultivating the image of a natural beauty. So, her friends finding out she came home from Brazil with much more than just a tan a few years ago would be social suicide.

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me,” I sign.

  My mother looks at me in surprise. “You really like him.”

  I sigh. There’s no point in telling her I’m in love with my husband. My mother always had problems with understanding emotions, and I accepted the fact a long time ago.

  We spend a few more minutes checking out the purses and then move on to the next store, where Mom picks up a couple of dresses and heads into a changing room to try them on. While I wait for her, I take out my phone, trying to ignore the guy who’s been sizing me up from the other side of the store since we came in. I’m used to men looking at me. It happens all the time, but it doesn’t mean I like it. Just because I’m pretty doesn’t mean it’s okay for a random man to ogle my ass.

  I’m scrolling through my phone when I feel a hand land on my waist. I squeeze the handles of my bag and turn around, ready to smash the idiot in his head with it, but I find Mikhail standing before me.

  “I guess I should announce myself next time, or risk bodily harm.” His mouth curves up slightly.

  I drop my phone into my bag. “Maybe.” I grin. “I thought you were working.”

  “I tried.” He places his hand at the back of my neck. “I kept imagining men trailing after you like they were following a beacon. I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t think about anything else. It’s maddening, Bianca.”

  “So, you’ve been stalking me around the mall?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long?”

  “Three hours.”

  “You have a problem, you know?”

  “Yes, I do.” He bends down and whispers, “Some guys were watching you when you were trying dresses on earlier. When you came out of the changing room, they were eating you with their eyes and I had to intervene.”

  My eyes widen. “Are they alive?”

  “I threw them out when you weren’t looking. I won’t be so gentle next time.” He places his hand on my chin and tilts my head up. “No one is allowed to look at my wife the way they were doing.”

  I close my eyes for a moment to compose myself because this is seriously turning me on. Should I be worried about the fact I find his possessiveness hot? I am all for feminism and emancipation, and I feel rather guilty because just the thought of Mikhail scaring men away for looking at me starts a tingling sensation between my legs.

  “And what would you do if one of them tried to touch me?” I sign. “Or kiss me?”

  Mikhail’s lips tighten, his eye staring at me, as he bends until his mouth comes next to my ear. “If anyone dared to touch you, I would chop off their hand. Like I should have done with that idiot at your Nonna’s birthday party,” he whispers. “And if someone was insane enough to try putting his mouth near my wife, I would behead him.”

  I suck in my breath as I feel myself getting wet.

  “Bianca, do you think this color works with my hair?” My mom exits the changing room, and surprise spreads on her face at seeing Mikhail there. “Mr. Orlov. Did something happen?”

  “Yes,” I sign quickly before he can reply. “We have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Grabbing Mikhail’s hand, I drag him out of the store and toward the narrow hallway on the right, where I saw the restrooms.

  “Care to share what just happened to make us run from the boutique?” he asks once we're far enough away not to be overheard.

  I turn around to make sure no one is around, pull my skirt up, and tug his hand so it presses against my wet panties. Mikhail inhales sharply as he massages me with his palm, making me whimper. Without removing his hand, he takes a step forward and then another, guiding me backward until my back hits the wall.

  “It looks like you missed me.” He moves my panties to the side and places his finger at my entrance. “Did you, little lamb?”

  I nod, put my hands on his chest, and slide them down until they reach his crotch.

  “Good,” he whispers, then crashes his mouth to mine at the same time he thrusts his finger deep inside me. “Here? Or home?”

  Based on the sound of his voice and how hard his cock is under my palm, he doesn’t like the home option any more than I do.

  “Here,” I whisper, not quite believing what I’m saying.

  Mikhail grabs me by my thighs and lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist, put my arms around his neck, and trail kisses down his neck as he walks to the ladies’ restroom on the left. After a quick check of the stalls, he locks the door and carries me toward the wide marble counter with sinks.

  I squirm as the bare skin of my backside connects with the cold stone, but the unpleasant sensation is quickly forgotten because I am too focused on removing my panties.

  “You’ve fucked with my head so completely, Bianca.” He grabs my hips and buries himself inside me in one swift motion. “I can’t think straight anymore.”

  This. The feeling of him filling me so completely makes me want to scream in delight. There is nothing better. Mikhail’s cock is huge, just like the rest of him, and I enjoy the sensation of my walls stretching to accommodate his size. Placing his hand at the back of my neck, he slides out slowly, then slams back into me. I gasp. Then smile.

  “Harder,” I urge.

  The hand at the back of my neck moves upward, grabbing a handful of hair.

  “Like this?” he asks, and slams into me again.

  “Yes.” I grip the side of the marble counter with all my strength, wrap my legs around his hips and lean back as Mikhail destroys me, piece by little piece. And the destruction has never felt better.

  Chapter 16

  When Mikhail told me we were having dinner with the pakhan’s wife, I expected a detached, perfectly dressed Russian woman who, most likely, would ignore me the entire evening. Nina Petrova is the complete opposite of what I anticipated, in her torn jeans, flowing blouse, and a small silver nose ring.

  “Don’t you dare, Roman. I mean it!” Nina pokes her husband’s chest, staring daggers at him, then turns to me. “He’s been following me around the house for two months like I’m going to trip over my feet and fall down the stairs as if I’m some baby deer.”

  She takes my hand and leads me across the large foyer toward the hallway on the right side of the house.

  “We’ll be in the kitchen. Mikhail said Bianca has a mean recipe for pasta, so maybe she’ll share it with Igor,” Nina calls over her shoulder. “If I see you anywhere near the east wing, I’m going to end you, Roman.”

  It’s rather funny, seeing this petite woman threatening her hulk of a husband. Petrov doesn’t say a thing as he stands there, leaning on his cane, and watches us leave.

  “Since I told him I’m pregnant, Roman has become unbearable with his mother hen behavior,” she says while we walk down the hallway. “So, you and Mikhail . . . how’s it going with you two?”

  I just smile a little and nod. Usually, people who meet me for the first time tend to keep quiet as if there’s no point in starting a conversation. Nina isn't like that at all. It’s . . . strangely refreshing.

  “Okay, now, please try to keep an open mind. It’s not as bad as it looks,” she says and opens the double doors in front of us.

  The first thing I hear is a deep voice yelling in Russian, then two more female voices joining the yelling match, followed by a sound of clanking silverware. I enter the kitchen after Nina and stop in my tracks, staring.

  A huge man in his sixties, wearing a white apron and standing in front of the stove, is motioning to the black smoke billowing out of the oven and shouting at the girl on the other side of the kitchen island. Behind him, another girl is hitting his back with a rag. And in the corner, an older woman with short gray hair is yelling at the cook while threatening him with a spoon dripping with sauce.

  “We have a guest!” Nina shouts, and everyone turns toward us.” This is Bianca, Mikhail’s wife. Be nice.”

  They look at me, nod, and return to their yelling.

  “Well, it was worth a try. Sorry.” Nina shrugs.

  I take the phone from my purse, type in the message window, and show the screen to Nina.

  “Oh, we’re not intruding. This is just an ordinary day in the kitchen. Don’t worry. Let’s go to Varya, so you can write the pasta recipe for her, and she’ll check if we have the ingredients. Since Valentina burned the meat again, we’ll need a backup dish. You can instruct Igor on how to make it, if that’s okay?”

  I look at her, confused. How does she mean for me to instruct the cook? I doubt he’s familiar with sign language. I guess Nina notices the confused look on my face because she waves with her hand dismissively.

  “Don’t worry. Igor only speaks Russian, anyway. Just point with your finger. It works for me—most of the time, at least.”

  “Did you talk with Dushku?” I ask Roman and take a sip of whiskey.

  “Yes. He says he had nothing to do with the shooting, or with the guys who followed you.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I’m not sure.” Roman leans back in his chair and grinds his teeth. “Everything about this is fucked. All of the guys were Albanians, but none of them were working for Dushku. They were just some random gang members. What I am sure about is that the same person hired all of them.”

  “Maybe it’s a setup to make us attack the Albanians. We have the product, Albanians buy it. If we start a war with them and cut the supply, the Albanians will have to search elsewhere.”

  “Irish?” He raises his eyebrows.

  “Nope. Italians.”

  “It doesn’t make sense. Why did the don agree to the cease-fire, and the marriage to unite La Cosa Nostra and the Bratva if they were planning to make a deal with the Albanians anyway?”

  “To buy some time.” I take out my phone and start browsing the photos. “I found it strange Bianca’s brother wasn’t at the wedding. They’re close. It didn’t make any sense. When I asked her where he was, she said Bruno sent him to arrange some business and he still isn’t back. Take a guess where he is.”

  “Oh, I have a feeling I won’t like the answer.”

  I open the photo our contact in Mexico sent me this morning and pass the phone to Roman.

  “Son of a bitch,” he says, staring at the screen.

  “Yep. Bruno’s son and Mendoza, our main supplier.”

  “Looks like the Italians framed the Albanians, or tried to at least, so we’d turn on each other. Most likely, they’re hoping to swoop in and offer to supply the drugs to the Albanians the moment our business dealings ended.”

  “Yes. But I think this is all Bruno’s doing. He enjoys licking the don’s ass. I believe he planned to inform him only after he’d set the events in motion.”

  “Well, we’re not going to war with the Albanians, so Bruno will end up with a lot of product and no buyer.”

  “I’m sure Don Agosti won’t be happy with Bruno going behind his back,” I say. “Especially since the don himself agreed to the treaty between us.”

  “You know, I always wondered why Bruno offered his daughter for the marriage.”

  “He wanted exclusive inside info on the Bratva. Bianca told me so herself.”

  “Oh? Did she now?”

  “Yes. She said no. I have a silent alarm set on the door to my home office. Bianca’s never tried to get inside, Roman.”

  “Are you sure?” He looks at me sideways. “Absolutely sure?”

  “I am. Why, do you doubt my judgment?”

  “Of course, I do. You’re desperately in love with her, anyone can see that.”

  I look at the glass in my hand. The light is reflecting in the dark brown liquid much the same as it does in Bianca’s eyes.

  “I am,” I say and down the drink.

  Roman smiles and shakes his head. “Well, I’ll be damned! If someone told me a woman would have you, of all people, wrapped around her finger in less than a month, I would’ve considered them mad.”

  “You’re one to talk. Remind me how much time it took Nina to have you eating out of her hand?”

  “Way more than a month.”

  “You were a goner after a week, Roman.”

  “Okay, two weeks.” He shrugs. “And what about Bianca?”

  “What about her?”

  “Does she feel the same?”

  “I don’t know. Bianca is hard to read.”

  “Women are hard to read in general, Mikhail. Sometimes, I feel they came from another fucking planet.”

  “I think she likes spending time with me.” I shrug. “We went to the mall last week.”

  “I knew it.” Roman hits the chair with his palm. “She dragged you to watch some teen movie. Admit it!”

  “Not exactly. We had sex in the restroom.”

  “Mikhail Orlov. Had sex in the restroom.” He raises his eyebrows. “In a mall!”

  “Yes,” I say, and he bursts out laughing.

  I ignore him and continue, “She also said she wanted me to take her dancing.”

  “You? Dancing? What’s next, pigs flying?” Roman sighs. “Did you tell your wife what you do for the Bratva?”

  “She knows I’m in charge of distribution.”

  “So, you haven’t told her.”

  I look down at my glass. “Nope.”

  “She’ll find out, sooner or later, you know this.”

  “She won’t. I’ll make sure she never finds out.”

  “Mikhail . . .”

  “She doesn’t care about my eye. Or the scars. I don’t know why, but she doesn’t. She’s never asked what happened, even though I know she must wonder. But I can’t tell her what I do for the Bratva . . . I don’t think she’d be able to get past that.”

  “Well, shit.” He squeezes his temples. “Okay, I’ll talk with Maxim, maybe he can take over . . .”

  “No. Information extraction is my job. And anyway, who could be a better interrogator than someone who’s experienced most of the torture techniques himself?”

  “Oh my God, this is amazing.” Nina moans and reaches with her fork toward the pot again.

  The big cook, who is standing on the other side of the table, grabs the pot by the handle and slides it toward himself, speaking something in Russian and pointing behind his back.

  “Baby wants it.” Nina grabs the other handle of the pot and starts pulling it back to her.

  The cook lets go of the pot, throws his hands in the air, and walks away.

  “Baby card works every time. Igor doesn’t understand much, but he knows that word.” Nina grins, takes another forkful of the pasta, and stuffs it in her mouth.

  I can’t help but laugh, grab another fork and join her.

  A throat clears behind me, and I turn to find Mikhail pulling up a chair and sitting next to me.

  “Is this our dinner?” He quirks a brow. “The one the four of us should be eating together? In the dining room?”

  I put down the fork. “Nina started it. I had to join. It would be rude to let the pakhan’s wife eat alone.”

  “I see . . .” He cocks his head a little and leans toward me. “Can I have a taste?”

  I smile, take a little bit of the pasta on the fork, and lift it to his mouth. Nina’s watching the whole exchange from the other side of the table with wide eyes, her mouth gaping open.

  “Holy shit,” she mumbles, but Mikhail ignores her comment.

  “You made it? I thought they invited you to dinner, not to make one.”

  “Well, technically, Igor made it,” Nina throws in. “Bianca instructed him, and I helped with the translation.”

  “I wonder how that worked out.”

  “I pointed. And Nina poked Igor in the ribs when he didn’t follow.”

  Mikhail raises his hand to brush his finger down my cheek and his lips widen a little in a smile. It’s small and gone after a second, but my heart still skips a beat. He has a beautiful smile.

  The kitchen door on the other side of the room opens and the pakhan comes in, his face somber. He says something in Russian and Mikhail curses.

  “There was a fire in one of the warehouses. I have to go.” He kisses the top of my head and stands up. “I’ll call Denis to pick you up and take you home.”

  “Message me so I know you’re okay. Please.”

  “I will.” The look he gives me is part surprise and part satisfaction, and then he’s gone.

  * * *

  It’s close to three in the morning when Mikhail comes back. I jump up from the couch the moment I hear the door open and, clutching the blanket around me, rush to him. He’s covered in soot, black splotches all over his hands and face, but he looks unharmed.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  “I was worried.”

  “Lena?”

  “Asleep. We had pancakes for dinner again.” I sign and start unbuttoning his shirt. The sleeve is torn in one place, but when I inspect his upper arm, I don’t find any injuries.

  “The pants. Then the shower.”

  He doesn’t complain about me ordering him around, just kisses me lightly on the lips and, leaving the ruined suit on the floor, heads toward the bathroom. I take his shirt and pants to the trash can, then go after him.

  In the bathroom, I remove my clothes and get into the shower where Mikhail is already washing his hair. I take the soap from the shelf, lather my hands, and lift them to his face. He looks down at me for a second, then bends his head. There’s a big black stain on his right cheek, so I start there. It comes off rather easily, and I move on to his forehead and then his neck. There’s no soot on his chest, but I move my hands there anyway, stroking his skin in a circular motion.

 

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