Page 5 of Heartfelt Pain (Ruling Love #3)

Lennie loves her parents. Even when she was fighting with her mom, Gia, Boris checked in. And after Leopold’s attack, I saw firsthand how much he cares about his daughters.

“Jane told me you were out here,” he says.

“She doesn’t normally give my location away when I’m on break.”

“She likes me,” he declares with a touch of that Russian mafia smugness.

I smile around my cigarette. “She likes everyone. Don’t think you’re special.”

It’s not unusual for people to drop off gifts. Little things, intending to build friendships. Jane is sincere. She either likes you or doesn’t. But when you’re a customer, especially my customer, she treats you the same .

The tip of my stiletto stubs out the cigarette against the concrete. I keep my arms crossed.

A guy like Boris doesn’t get nervous, and as if to prove it, he smiles again. “I really hate Cain Murray, you know.”

“I’d always been told it was personal.” And not business.

Right around the time I took over for Aunt Macy, Boris had gotten into it with the Irish.

I was green at the time. When people asked for information, I didn’t know how to obtain it. Pity, because information on personal beefs can be just as useful as the intricate business matters floating around.

“Care to tell me about it now?” I ask.

He flashes a wolfish smile. “Not particularly, no.”

“Then what can I do for you?”

“I want an analysis done.”

My brow wrinkles. Sure, we get all kinds of strange requests, but this is slightly more off-kilter than usual.

“We talking cost analysis, business analysis. You want me to hook you up with my financial guy?”

It’s not so much a chuckle, but rather an amused huff of laughter that comes from the man. “I want Cain Murray dead.”

My brows almost hit my hairline.

Before I can ask any questions, an aggrieved sigh rips through the Russian. “I have my own opinions on what would happen if I take out Cain Murray. But I’m told I need an impartial analysis. I’d like you to gather what intel you can and present your findings.”

I try to keep a blank face. “It’s not for me to tell the different syndicates who they should and should not take out.”

“I’m asking for intelligence.” It seems he’s prepared himself for my arguments. “And you sell information all the time. ”

He’s right about that.

But information is just as explosive as bombs so I tread lightly. “For some reason I’m gathering there’s a bit more to it this time.”

His grin is slightly more sinister. “It is not vengeance and it is not retribution I seek.”

I cock my head to the side.

“But rather peace,” he concludes.

“And that can only be achieved with Cain Murray’s death?”

The Irish can be fun. They’re happy-go-lucky when they drink.

But believe it or not, I’d rather be trapped in a room with Lev Zimin than Cain Murray. He’s the type of guy all women should be wary of.

“It will only be achieved when he is dead,” Boris says.

“Why not run him off?”

Cain’s not in charge of the Irish but he’s high enough that his death would cause waves. It’s not unusual, though, to work out deals which see men sent to different continents.

“He could go back to Dublin,” I suggest.

Boris smiles, but it’s fatherly. Like I haven’t figured something out yet.

Men and their patronizing bullshit.

“I’ll see what I can do.” I’ve got plenty of qualms about the idea, but it’s better to placate Boris. That way I can figure out what the hell is going on before things get out of hand.

He nods, satisfied. “Lennie says you’ve got a book club going.”

Oh dear lord. Please do not ask me about the content of this month’s pick.

He laughs slightly like he already knows. “Do me a favor and invite Ads. ”

We’ve got a nice little group going. Russet comes along and while it’s been a while Adeline sometimes pops in.

And Boris knows that. But I nod at his request before he turns to walk away. “I’ll give her a call.”

“What’s that about?” Isolde leans against the doorway, peering at Boris’s retreating figure. A rat scurries away from him and his shoulders remain square as he steps over a piece of trash.

“I don’t know,” I tell her honestly, walking in tiny circles.

“He worried about Len?” she asks.

“I think there’s another daughter on his mind.”

Isolde’s nearly invisible eyebrows lift. “Yeah, that tracks.”

I’m guessing we both share the memory of Adeline Akatov standing over Leopold Stuart’s body.

Vicious little killer. The thought ran through my mind at the time, but who was I to judge? Leopold tried to take our girl from us. We all wanted to put a bullet in his chest.

Good for her, putting in six.

“Ben says the Aoki’s are here.” Isolde jerks her head back toward the restaurant. “You ready?”

“I suppose.” I roll my neck, the muscles stiff and sore. I’d like another cigarette if I’m completely honest. But time is money.

Isolde narrows her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Huh?” I belatedly realize she’s honing in on my movements. I bend my knee, taking a long step. “Nothing.”

“Why are you moving like that?” she asks.

I stop. “I’m not.”

“You only bite your lip when you’re in pain.”

Her words make me stop. Since we’re alone in the alley and no one appears to be behind her in the doorway, I squat slightly. These tight pants do not allow for a lot of movement, but I pick at my crotch.

“Don’t make fun of me!” I preemptively tell her .

Her blue eyes slightly widen, a puzzled look on her face. “That’s not very ladylike.”

“You don’t say.” But I can’t finish when I whimper. Isolde grows more alarmed when I smash my lips together.

“I mean no disrespect but is something wrong with you down there?” Isolde asks.

A sigh scrapes against my soul, I’m so annoyed and tired. “I have an ingrown hair.”

“A what?”

“An ingrown hair,” I wallow, my chin dipping down. “And it’s in a very sensitive spot, okay. I mean like. . .” My hand circles around my crotch, indicating the area.

Isolde doesn’t get it. “Like how sensitive?”

“Sensitive!”

“Are we talking near the lips?” she asks, staring right at my crotch. “On the lips? Near the clit.”

I whimper at the last part.

Her eyes bug out. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

I bend down, hands on my knees. I applied an ingrown serum, but it’s not working fast enough. It’s been a bitch all morning.”

“I couldn’t make my wax appointment,” I explain. “So I shaved.”

She frowns. “You’re not supposed to do that.”

“I was tired of the hair!”

“Why don’t you get laser hair removal?” Isolde asks. I have no idea her hair preference down there, but she sounds knowledgeable as she asks.

“I couldn’t make a fifteen minute waxing. When am I going to have time to go get laser hair removal?”

Especially since I know it requires multiple sessions.

“You make your own schedule,” she points out.

A siren pierces in the background. Running a hand through my hair, I pray the shitty spring weather hasn’t destroyed the locks.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asks when I straighten.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the zipper of my pants didn’t rub. It’s a painful jolt at times, made worse by the knowledge that my own skin betrayed me.

I’m already running late for the meeting. I run a hand under my eyes, making sure the humidity hasn’t ruined my mascara. “I’ll be fine.”

Isolde glances behind her and steps out into the alley. The door leading into the kitchen closes. It’s just us and the trash and the rats.

“Take off your pants,” she orders.

“What?”

“Underwear,” she corrects her British terminology.

I make a face. But I won’t lie, I’m tempted.

And Isolde is serious. She motions at me to undress.

I give her a look. “They’re already waiting. And you know the Aoki’s are impatient as fuck.”

Isolde waves the concern away. “Take off your pants. You know it’ll help.”

She’s not wrong. Going commando and hot compresses are an ingrown hair’s worst nightmare.

“I can’t go to a meeting without wearing underwear.” It’d be weird.

“They’re not going to know.” Isolde’s thick accent elongates the words. “Now, hurry up and take off your underwear.”

“Right here?” I squeak, glancing in both directions. Sure, it’s empty, but the last thing I need is someone getting a shot of my naked ass.

“Hurry up, it’s fine,” she assures me with more confidence than I feel. Figures, since she’s not the one getting naked. “Right here, the camera is angled away. ”

“I thought you had Abe’s dad fix that?” I ask suspiciously.

“Abe’s dad barely knows how to use his mobile. I told him I’d fix it and I haven’t gotten a chance. Come on, hurry up.”

“I am not putting my bare feet on this ground.” But I unzip my trousers. Isolde holds my arm as I lift my foot out of my heel, ensuring I never touch the ground. I wiggle out of the underwear. The next side follows and then I’m standing out in the alleyway with my underwear in my hands.

“What do I do with them?” These pants are too tight. It’d be obvious I have something strange in my pockets.

“Throw them away,” Isolde suggests, pointing at the dumpster.

“I’m not throwing away two hundred dollar panties.”

Everything covert about the operation goes out the door when Isolde shouts, “Why the fuck are you wearing two hundred dollar panties?”

“They’re La Perla.”

“You should be fucking ashamed,” she tells me. “Two hundred dollar panties.”

“I like you because you don’t judge.”

“Put that somewhere,” she demands of my panties.

“Here,” I hold my hand out.

“Are you fuck—” Sighing, she swipes them out of my hand and stuffs them in her hoodie pocket.

We turn to find Abe standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “This is why people don’t understand if you’re gay for each other or not.”

Isolde and I share a look. And then shake our heads.

“No offense,” Isolde says.

I shrug. “I’m not gay for you either, it’s fine. Thanks for saving my underwear, though.”

“Two hundred quid,” she rats me out to Abe.

“Yeah, but how much are you worth without them on?” He smirks at me .

I flick his ear as I pass into the kitchen. Thank fuck it’s only Abe back here. I don’t think I could take his dad or any of the other workers' jokes if they overheard Isolde and me.

But I’m only halfway through the kitchen when I come to a stop. “You know what. . .”

I’m not sure who I’m talking to—my friends or myself.

“Maybe that’s what’s been wrong lately,” I say.

“What? You not going commando enough?” Isolde asks.

I turn slowly on my heel. I wear stilettos every day of the week. They make me feel powerful. Same with the expensive panties.

Something feral stirs in my belly. A memory of me in nothing but heels, my underwear around my ankles drifts through my mind. A cock slammed into my pussy, over and over again.

My core tightens and I force the image away.

I clear my throat, the kitchen stuffy.

“I need to get laid.”

Abe and Isolde swap looks.

“Okay, I don’t really appreciate the silent conversation there,” I tell them. “I’m serious.”

“You’re about to go into an important meeting and you’re thinking about sex?” Isolde asks.

I shrug. “Men do it all the time.”

“Your boyfriends keep getting killed.” Abe points out.

I hum under my breath. That is an issue. Or maybe just a minor inconvenience.

“I’m not looking for a boyfriend. I just need to get laid.” I hold up my hands, shrugging innocently.

I’ve got a vibrator. But I’m tired of doing it myself.

And while I know I’ve shared an awfully lot with my friends already, I’m not willing to announce just how much of a loser I am.

Because the sad fact is now that I’m standing in the middle of Fujimori’s kitchen with no underwear on, I’m reminded of a really big fact:

I haven’t had sex since Roman fucking Zimin.

I didn’t mean to go celibate. My heart was broken. My business almost in tatters. I trusted no one. And okay, the broken heart wasn’t mending itself very fast.

Sex with strangers had been a fleeting thought. I didn’t want to take any risks—both with my heart and reputation.

“What is happening in that head of yours?” Abe’s dark eyes crinkle as he studies me. His black hair sticks up and his arms are crossed.

A lot of time has gone by. Five years to be exact.

How the fuck did I not realize I’d gone so fucking long without sex.

I mean sure, sex doesn’t rule the world but still. . .

I need to get laid.