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Agreeing to his terms would seal my fate.

It’d be sacrificing my future and any hopes of being a traditional wife.

I’d be married to a man in the Mafia.

A dangerous criminal.

Endless thoughts consume my mind.

To somewhat put myself at ease, I stare down at his hand on my thigh. I inhale a deep breath, relaxing at the smell of his rich and smoky cologne.

I bite into my cheek, still tasting the liquor. “What would I tell my friends?”

“We fucked, and you got pregnant,” he says simply.

I drop my phone to my side. “If I sign your contract, you can’t continue to hang this debt over my head.”

“Oh, Gen, I’ll hold it over your head forever.” He slides closer, getting in my face, and slips his hand between my legs.

I tremble, knowing I should pull away.

My heartbeat quickens.

My throat turns dry.

“Be prepared to hear it like a broken record.” He dips a single finger beneath my panties, smirking at how wet I am. He removes his finger, rubbing his digits together to play with my juices. “The Russians are a fucking headache to deal with, and I did it for you.”

“You expect me to lie down and spread my legs for a man who speaks to me like that?”

I’m surprised I’m able to argue with him with how turned on I am.

But arguing is one of my best hobbies.

I can do it in my sleep, turned on, turned off, drunk, on melatonin.

I hate how my body is falling for him.

I’m a fucking feminist.

I have an RBG bumper sticker on my car, for Christ’s sake.

Well, my old car.

“What happens if I say no?” I ask.

“I’ll offer it to someone else then.”

“Was that your plan all along?”

“With how busy my life is, yes. I don’t do relationships.”

“What do youdothen?”

He smirks, and I harden my glare at him.

His ringing phone interrupts our conversation, and I’m relieved at the break.

He takes the call, not leaving the room for privacy. Nodding, he listens to whatever is said on the other line before saying, “Yeah, okay.”