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I’d been so restless since that day, unable to think about anything other than Ayla—the sound of her moans, the softness of her lips, and the smoothness of her skin.

Like a permanent tattoo, I couldn’t get rid of her; I didn’t even want to.

I loved being distracted by the memory of that day and the events that had transpired in that underground lounge.

Fuck.

The girl tasted better than I’d thought, and the sound of her moaning when I licked her plate clean still echoed in my head even now. The taste of her juice lingered on my tongue longer than expected, as did the scent of her feminine perfume.

The way she kissed me and ripped my buttons apart, the way her manicured hands roamed my body in desperation, were all a testament to her hunger, her desire to lie with me. We’d both lost control and let our burning passion consume us like a flame.

By now, I’d lost count of how many times I’d replayed the sex from the day.

It was so good that I believed she unleashed the lioness on purpose.

That way, I’d spent hours every day just reminiscing about what a wonderful time we had.

If that were truly the plan, then it sure as hell worked because here I was, fucking distracted despite the Irish trouble knocking on my goddamn door.

Ayla wasn’t just in my head all day; she was in my dreams too, every night.

What did she do to me? Why couldn’t I focus on anything that wasn’t her?

I’d been with other women multiple times—older, bigger, thinner, shorter, taller, and more experienced.

Yet, none of those women had ever taken up a full day in my thoughts.

Perhaps what I felt for Ayla was different. Perhaps it was deeper than I thought, and our connection was way beyond the physical. It wasn’t just the sex alone. No. It was more than that. I just hadn’t figured it all out yet.

However, I was drawn to this young woman by several other factors.

Like the way her eyes lit up when she laughed, how they crinkled at the corners just enough to reveal the authenticity.

The way she moved—graceful and elegant, the warm glow in her hazel-brown eyes, and the way her smooth skin caught the light, like it was meant to be noticed.

There was something about the way she looked at me, as if she could see more than she should. With just one glance, it felt like she could look through the surface, beyond the charm and the confident smirk. It was as if she already knew too much—more than I was willing to reveal.

While I was busy focusing on this incredibly amazing woman, my world, my business, was under attack by the man who birthed her.

Ronan O’Hara was at it again; he was making silent moves.

And according to my brother, Yulian, the Irish assholes were transporting weapons through routes both organizations had previously agreed to leave untouched.

Ronan went behind my back and breached our agreement without even considering the consequences. His actions were a silent message that he had no respect or fear for the Bratva. This was a slap to the face and an insult to the organization I represented.

The Tarasov Bratva, under my command, had yet to retaliate, to put those Irish assholes in their place. Perhaps, Ronan and his Italian friends had mistaken our silence for weakness. They were pushing too hard, the tension between us ready to snap.

They thought they were for war? Those bastards had no idea how bloody things were about to get.

The only problem was my inability to function properly with this woman constantly on my mind. Unable to focus, I hadn’t come up with any plans to handle this situation. Not yet anyway.

Ayla, the daughter of the enemy—the very man seeking to destroy the Bratva with his resources—had invaded my soul.

Because of her, the enemy still walked freely like he was untouchable.

I knew the right thing to do, and with just one coordinated attack, Ronan’s empire would come crumbling down before his very eyes.

However, his little witch of a daughter seemed to have enchanted me or something. I should be thinking strategy; I should be thinking war and how to fucking end those headless chickens. But instead, I was thinking about the sound of her moans.

Fuck, I was in deeper shit than I thought.

To clear my head, I reached out to my brother, and together with my lieutenant, Kuzma, we hit a club downtown. One of ours.

The velvet rope lifted, and we slipped into the pulsing haze of the club. The bass was heavy—so deep that it thrummed through the floor, crawling up my spine like a damn warning. Bodies moved like smoke in strobe light, casting everything in shifting hues of red and blue.

Beside me, Yulian raised his brows and let out a whistle.

“Well, damn,” he began, glancing around with a smirk.

“Can’t remember the last time you voluntarily walked into one of your own clubs.

” A low, throaty laugh left his lips. “Hell, I can’t even recall the last time you actually did something fun. ”

It felt as if the word “fun” was a trigger, and now images of Ayla’s face etched with desire crept back into my mind. Damn it. I came out here to clear my head—to distract myself from thoughts of her.

“So, what’re we really here, brother?” Yulian slammed a palm on my shoulder. “Huh? Who are we avoiding tonight, Interpol or your feelings?”

Kuzma chuckled, his watchful eyes scanning the crowd as if searching for anything out of the ordinary.

While my brother shook hands with a few folks, business associates and the likes, I just kept walking, my shoulders tense, my eyes set on nothing and everything at the same time.

I slipped into the VIP section with Kuzma by my side, my gaze shifting across the women, different shapes and sizes, all of them, half-naked.

This was exactly what I needed. The noise. The distraction. The women. This should help. It should.

As they always did, the women came to me: tall, painted, too eager with broad smiles on their faces.

“Ooh, look what we have here, girls,” one said, a beautiful Asian lady with blue eyes and full lips. “Mr. Sergei Tarasov in the flesh.” She halted in front of me, her gaze seductive. “Been a while since we saw you around these parts,” she whispered, her voice soft and alluring.

The others circled in, their manicured hands gliding over my chest. These sexy women slipped their fingers beneath the lapels of my jacket, easing it off my shoulders.

Their soft, seductive laughter filled the air, warm breath grazing my neck.

One of them, the Asian woman, tugged me gently by the tie, guiding me back until I sank into the plush leather couch.

She leaned in and drew a deep breath, as if savoring my scent.

Her lips curled into a mischievous smile, and she climbed onto my lap with practiced ease.

I let her, curious to find out how my body would respond to her touch.

She moved slowly, deliberately, her hips rolling against me like a snake winding through the grass.

The lady sat there on my lap, comfortable, like she belonged there.

Her lips brushed the shell of my ear, and she whispered, “You seem like you need a distraction. Allow me to ease your stress.” She kissed my neck, then dared to lock lips with me.

Still, I let her.

But everything seemed rather mechanical. Her scent was too sweet, her skin too powdered, and even her voice was too polished. Nothing about her felt real. Of course, this wasn’t authentic; it was a job she was paid to do.

She and every other woman here were nothing like my Ayla.

And then, as though the universe with a cruel sense of humor wanted to punish me, I spotted her in the crowd below.

Ayla.

She stood at the bar, across the dance floor, cradling a glass of wine, eyes wide with shock and a glint of disappointment.

In what felt like an eternity, our gaze locked. Hers, wounded. Mine, steel.

Shit.

Reflexively, I pulled back from the woman, my jaw tightening, my body stiff as stone. “Ayla,” her name fell from my lips, and I pushed the woman aside, already rising.

“What the fuck?” She fell off the other side, blinking, confused.

Ayla shook her head, pain and regret flickering in her gaze.

Damn it! It was too late for an explanation now.

The damage was done.