She threads her fingers through my hair and inhales. I thrust inside her to the hilt. Her eyes roll back as she trembles, her body shaking in my embrace. Hushed whimpers escape her as I retreat, but then they turn into fervent moans when I drive into her again.
My side burns while I pound into her soaked pussy, faster and faster. As she comes, Vasilisa’s moans transform into rapt screams, reverberating off the bedroom walls. I marvel at every note, every ragged breath, every whimpered whisper. I swallow all her sighs. Pry every shuddering quiver from her body. Imprint it all on my memory.
My beautiful Russian princess.
I keep my eyes locked on hers as I explode into her welcoming heat, spilling my seed but keeping my secrets.
“Non ti lascerò mai andare, Vasilisa.”
* * *
A string quartet is performing on a small stage set up to the left of the main entrance. Instead of a classical piece, however, they are mid-rendition of a popular movie score. Draped in black cloths, high-top tables are scattered throughout the main lobby, with tealights inside tiny fishbowls making up the centerpieces. The guests are the who’s who of locals and frequent visitors alike. Dressed to the nines, they mingle and hover near the tables, their never-empty cocktail glasses catching the glow of the candles.
Dozens of eyes follow us as we move further into the space. Nothing uncommon about that. My reputation always precedes me, and my face never fails to garner curious looks. But tonight, all stares seem to be reserved for the woman walking by my side.
I should have expected it. Human beings are naturally drawn to wondrous things. And she is so exceptionally gorgeous that, once tempted eyes are set upon her, they struggle to look away. The primitive parts of our brain just can’t seem to process that something so stunningly beautiful could possibly be real. That makes the stares inevitable.
Still, I can’t handle this shit. I’m acutely aware of every single man looking at Vasilisa, and my fingers itch to pull out my gun and start shooting the motherfuckers. Every. Each. One. Right between the eyes.
“A lot of people here,” Vasilisa comments beside me. “You’re not concerned that someone may recognize me and send word to Bratva?”
“Not particularly. People around here know not to stick their noses in my business, unless, of course, they’re willing to face the consequences.”
“I have a distinctive feeling that the said consequences wouldn’t include working on your firewalls.”
“It would be hard to do such a task without their hands”—I look down at my little hacker—“or heads.”
“Rafael!” a male voice booms over the people’s chatter.
I tighten my hold on Vasilisa’s waist and glance at the source. Nazario Biaggi, the son of Calogero’s underboss, is squeezing himself through a wall of guests, heading in our direction. We went to school together, and before I left Sicily, we were best friends. Nazario was never initiated into the Family, picking a construction career over Mafia life. It’s the only reason he’s allowed to set foot in my territory.
“I’m glad to see you tonight,” he says with a smarmy smile as he approaches. “Especially in such lovely company.”
Nazario’s gaze rivets on Vasilisa, his eyes eating her up. Rage and jealousy, like molten fucking rock boiling just under the surface, explode inside my chest while I watch him extend his hand toward her.
“Touch her, and I’ll snap your neck,” I say in Italian, then pull Vasilisa closer to me and switch to English. “This is Nazario Biaggi. One of my business associates.”
Nazario’s eyes flare in surprise, but he quickly hides it and pulls out one of his flirtatious grins. “Always a pleasure meeting one of Rafael’s . . . candied delights. Does the lady have a name?”
Blood colors my vision as I try to control an overwhelming impulse to punch him in the face for daring to smile at my woman. Nazario has always been a flirt, but I’ve never given a fuck when he ogled my hookups before or when he flashed his grin at them. He might be loaded, a construction industry mogul, but his wealth doesn’t even come close to mine. I could buy everything he owns in the blink of an eye. No woman would ever leave me for him. Except her. Because, apparently, my money doesn’t interest her in the least.
“I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Biaggi,” Vasilisa chirps, her sugarcoated tone slashing me right through the heart.
She likes him. Of course she does. Women always fall head over heels for Nazario, and they would even if he didn’t have a dime to his name. The pencil-dick is that good-looking, I suppose. Envy grips me in its claws, shredding my insides into pieces.
“The lady’s name is Gummy Bear, but I’m the sour kind,” Vasilisa continues with a smile. “And I’d very much appreciate it if you’d stop staring at my boobs.”
My head snaps up. “You were ogling my woman’s cleavage?” I growl, switching back to Italian.
“No, not at all.” Nazario takes a step back and clears his throat. “My father wanted me to pass along a message. About a week ago, several Cosa Nostra men were found dead in Palermo, their tongues were missing. Dad was concerned that you may have had something to do with that.”
“Oh? Did he share his concerns with the don?”
“Yes. Calogero assured him that a gang from Trapani killed them.” He cocks his head, eyeing me with suspicion. “So, it wasn’t your handiwork after all?”
“I would only ever kill my godfather’s men if he broke the terms of our agreement. But the don would never go against his word, would he?”
“Of course not.” He nods and his voice drops lower. “But should anything of that nature ever happen, my father would like to be the first to know.”
“Well, let the underboss know I’ll keep it in mind.” I tighten my hold on Vasilisa’s waist and motion toward the bar. “Let’s go get a drink.”
“Gummy Bear?” Rafael asks as we walk up to the bar.
“Seemed like a suitable name for an eye candy.” I shrug. “What was that discussion about? It sounded pretty serious.”
“Nazario subtly informed me that my godfather seems to be losing the support of some Cosa Nostra members.”
“Are they going to oust him from power?”
“If he fucks up, yes.” He passes me the beverage handed to him by the bartender.
“Never a shortage of drama in the Cosa Nostra world.” I take a sip of my drink. “Grape juice? Really?”
“I’ve noticed that alcohol doesn’t agree with you.” He places his hand on the small of my back and ushers us back toward the mingling crowd.
This cocktail party is being hosted in the lobby of an antique building. The grand foyer features a domed ceiling, decorated with intricate hand-painted scenes depicting lush gardens of paradise. The elaborate details are everywhere—walls, columns, inlaid colored marble.
My eyes glide over the tiled floor with its incredible floral mosaic, then across the ornate floor-to-ceiling windows, and settle on the stucco decor and humongous old-looking paintings.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been inside such a beautiful building,” I whisper.
“It was the summer mansion of a seventeenth-century nobleman who got rich through the silk trade,” Rafael says. “He lost it in a game of cards, and the property changed hands quite a few times over the next four hundred years. When it went up for sale two years ago, it was basically a ruin. The complete restoration took nearly a year and a half.”
“I can’t believe they’ve kept everything the same. Even the wall paintings?”
“Those are called frescos. And yes, they’ve been restored, as well.”
My eyes slide back to him. “You know the new owner?”
“Quite well, actually. An unscrupulous motherfucker that one. But he has a weakness for cultural relics”_Rafael reaches out and brushes my cheek with his knuckles_“heritage . . . and . . . a feisty little hacker who keeps rejecting his gifts.”
The musicians switch to a slower melody, a highly emotional piece with a violin in the lead. Everyone is having a great time, but I’m only partially aware of the people moving around us. I’m completely tuned in on Rafael, ensnared in the twin green beams that seem to blaze right through me.
“Should I take that as a compliment? Being called a weakness doesn’t sound like much of one,” I whisper.
“It depends on your view of such things.” His hand moves along my chin. “Let’s say someone opens fire right now. There’s a high probability of that happening, considering the number of enemies I have. If I were alone, I’d simply go for my gun and neutralize the threat. If I had to give chase, I’d do it. There wouldn’t be anything here that would distract me from accomplishing that objective.
