Page 130 of Filthy Little Fix

I want to keep going, I want to provoke him back, ask, "Beautiful enough for you to fuck me on this canapé table right here in front of everyone?" But I don't. Etiquette.

Dante's gaze drops to my mouth, and for a second, the Don of the Volkovs mask slips. I see the hunger underneath. The same hunger I feel.

"You know you're beautiful. Don't feign surprise," he says, his voice hoarse. He leans in just enough for only me to hear. "I buttoned your fucking collar because there are too many people in this hall looking at something that isn't theirs. Now drink your champagne and behave."

He pulls away. He leaves me there, melted and completely fucked in the middle of the goddamn Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I look at the glass in my hand. Champagne suddenly seems like the strongest drink in the world.

Fuck it. I love him so much it hurts.

The SUV stopsin front of the mansion. I didn't get any congratulations from Svetlana for not embarrassing anyone, but I also didn't get any lectures or threats, so I consider it progress. The ride is a list of her complaints about people: they're condescending, pretentious, mediocre, some are stupid. She also hates social events. Dante is content to listen to her complain, saying a few things in Russian. If I had to guess, I'd translate it ascalm down. I know. Yes, they're all ridiculous.

The guard at the mansion door approaches and opens the door for Svetlana. She gets out, saying to Dante, "The Rotterdam shipment report will be on your desk at nine. I expect your comments before noon."

Dante gives her a dismissive wave. She glares at him. He doesn't get out of the car.

"Aren't you getting out?"

"I have business to attend to," he says naturally.

Svetlana grimaces. She knows there's no business other than me. "Ugh."

She still expresses disgust. Acceptance isn't endorsement. Unlike Dmitry, who once thanked me during a dinner, away from prying ears, for Dante being calmer these past few months, Svetlana still fantasizes about the right moment to murder me with her own hands.

She straightens up, smoothing her silk dress, and begins to parade towards the entrance. She gives a nod to Marco and Grigory, Dante's capos, who are smoking by the door.

Marco takes the cue and approaches. He stops at the open window as soon as the guard closes Svetlana's door.

"Boss, sorry to bother," he says. "Is the settlement with the Brighton Beach contacts still on for tomorrow?"

"It's on."

Marco's gaze then meets mine. His expression changes. Professional respect gives way to a cautious camaraderie. "Hey,kid. We're thinking of a poker game later, in the back room. To celebrate the fall of the Malakovs. Even Luca said he might play a hand. You should show up."

The inner circle of Volkov's guys now consists of a few muscular hulks and me. I don't leave my bunker much, but sometimes we see each other. I'm secretly teaching Marco everyone else's tells. He's preparing to spread the most absurd fake news he can invent to justify his sudden, crushing victories on poker nights. I promised to lose to him if he started his disinformation campaign in front of me. It's a very fair deal, if you ask me.

But before I can even think of a response, Dante says, "He's busy."

Marco gets it immediately. None of the capos talk back to Dante, let alonequestionhim. They respect him, and above all, they areterrifiedof him at all times.

"Of course, boss. Good night."

Dante gestures to the driver, and the car starts to move, leaving the capos and the mansion behind.

Busy. I love it when he uses that excuse. My duties will probably involve being on my knees.

The rest of the ride to my—our—house is silent. When we arrive, the forest is dark, the concrete and glass fortress softly lit. He follows me into the suite. The door closes, and the world outside disappears.

I take off my jacket, tossing it onto a chair. I start unbuttoning my shirt.

"Tired?" Dante's voice comes from behind me.

"Social events are worse than interrogations," I reply, without turning around. "At least in interrogations, people are more honest."

I feel his presence approaching. His hands land on my waist, warm, heavy.

"You did well today," he says, his voice a low murmur near my ear. "You behaved."