Page 23 of The Pakhan’s Bride (Mafia Bosses #3)

KONSTANTIN

A Few Weeks Later

My wife is adjusting well to this world.

It's a cold morning, with the wind thick and carrying the exhaust of men in armored cars.

What follows is daily routine. I shower, go to the kitchen, have my toast, eggs over easy with a dash of salt, and coffee, after which I get to work.

By seven a.m., I've already processed a ledger of blood—two debtors vanished, one traitor turned into a byline on page four of the morning news, three shipments rerouted to make the customs dogs chase their own tails.

Orlov interrupts me in this haze of work, coming to meet me in the office. He sits down at the table, on the chair directly opposite to mine, and gazes at the table as if it's the most interesting thing he's ever seen. " Pakhan ," he says, not looking up. "Your wife is up to something."

He pronounces it like a joke, but the skin around his mouth is pinched. I like that he's afraid of her, even now.

"Tell me," I say with no heat in the words.

He glances up at me then, and the expression in his eyes is wounded.

He's telling me, in as few words as possible—probably so he doesn't annoy me—that he doesn't like the indulgences granted to Zoya mere weeks after her arrival.

"She's been making calls from the house line," he grumbles.

"Sokolov and I monitored them, per your directive. "

I nod. I'd given the order myself, back when Zoya first arrived.

No personal phones, all communications routed through landlines we controlled.

"She's asking questions," Orlov goes on.

"Trying to trace surviving Baranovs. Last night, she called her cousin in Geneva who works in international law. She's trying to stir something."

"What did the cousin and my wife talk about?" I ask quietly.

"Nothing," he admits, this time a tad sheepishly. "She never answered. But I'm sure she's trying to find out more stuff about her darling daddy."

I run a hand down my face. Of course she is.

She's not stupid. She was raised by a man who believed in contingency plans more than bedtime stories.

Maybe she should find things out for herself , I think.

That'll save me from having to tell her.

But then again, Orlov is right in that it presents a risk to my image.

The Pakhan's wife snooping around doesn't exactly scream stability or strength.

"Is Sokolov's man in place?"

He nods, then pauses, as if unsure I'll like the next part. "She offered him a bribe. Diamond earrings."

I almost laugh. "Did he take it?"

That draws a chuckle from him. "Of course, the old dog. Then he called me."

"Make sure the cousin in Geneva gets a polite warning," I say. "Nothing heavy."

Orlov bows, like this is all he's ever wanted in life, and slides out of the room.

The day continues as days do, a pulse of meetings, muscle, messengers bearing news in sealed envelopes.

I conduct each like a surgeon—clean, fast, with minimum suffering.

But under the surface, I am thinking about Zoya.

Her hair in the lamplight, the way her lip curls when she's about to lie.

By three, the city outside has gone the color of steel wool.

The temperature is dropping. The men in the parking lot have started stamping their feet, faces wrapped in cheap black scarves.

I finish the final call of the day, then kill the lights in my office.

My reflection stares back, faint and pale.

I look tired. I look like a man who has already died once and is waiting for someone to notice.

I check the cameras from my phone. Lev is at his lessons, Galina is organizing the kitchen, the two cleaning staff are exactly where they should be, moving in slow, choreographed circles on the ground floor. But Zoya is not on the grid. Not in the common rooms, not on the balcony, not in her study.

With a sigh, I head upstairs to her bedroom and knock once, twice, before she answers.

"It isn't locked." Muffling my chuckle, I open it and peer inside.

She sits on the edge of the bed, back straight, hands folded in her lap like a schoolgirl at confession.

The dress is navy, sleeveless, cut to draw the eye to the collarbones and the hollow just below her throat.

She's taken off her shoes. Her feet are bare, nails painted a soft crimson.

She doesn't look up when I enter. "You're hiding," I say.

She picks at her thumbnail. "You'd know."

I close the door behind me. The lock clicks, loud in the hush.

"Why are you bribing my men?" I say. My voice is the voice I use on men who owe me money.

She shrugs, but I see the muscle in her jaw twitch. "Curiosity."

I walk to the dresser, pour a drink, neat. "You think we faked the wedding, and I'm going to toss you out when I've had my fill."

She turns, finally, and the smile on her lips is nothing like a smile. "I think you could. If it was useful to your public image."

I drink, then set the glass down. "Did you expect a fairy tale? Doves, a cake, some kind of happy ending?"

She stands and crosses to me in three steps. "You're angry," she says, almost gently.

I look down at her. "I'm annoyed you're going through everyone but me to get answers."

Her hand slides up my shirtfront, slow, tracing the line of buttons. "You don't like being doubted?"

I grab her wrist. Not hard, just enough to stop the motion. "I don't like being lied to," I say. "Especially by someone who belongs to me."

She laughs, open-mouthed, the sound sharp as broken glass. "Belongs to you? You must be drunker than you look."

I squeeze her wrist. "Careful, Zoya."

She leans in, lips at my ear. "Or what?"

For a second, I consider letting her go, walking away, but the thought is unbearable to me. Instead, I press her against the wall, hard enough to make the painting above the dresser shake. Her breath hitches, then deepens. Her free hand goes to my tie, pulls it loose, lets it drop to the carpet.

She moves first, and she knows the game.

Her fingers work the buttons of my shirt, one by one, exposing the tattoos on my chest. Her mouth finds the hollow of my throat, teeth grazing the line of my collarbone, then lower.

I slide my hand up her thigh, the dress riding high, silk over skin.

She opens her legs, no pretense. My fingers find the line of her underwear, then slip beneath.

She's wet already. I lift her easily, and she wraps her legs around my waist, locking her ankles at the small of my back.

The dress bunches at her hips, navy pooling around her ribs.

Her arms go around my neck, nails scoring the skin.

I turn and carry her to the bed, drop her onto the sheets, and strip off my shirt.

Her hair fans out on the pillow, dark against white.

She shoves the dress down her hips and wriggles out of it, flings it across the room.

She's left in nothing but a bra and panties, both black, both expensive, both bought with my credit card.

She holds my gaze as she unclasps the bra, tosses it aside, then runs her hands over her breasts, not for my benefit but to remind herself that she can.

I drop my pants, then kneel on the bed beside her. She pulls me down, mouth to mouth, tasting like vodka and peppermint.

We roll, twist, fight for the high ground. She tries to pin me, but I'm heavier, stronger, and I want her to remember it. I push her wrists above her head, pin them with one hand, use the other to pull her panties aside, tear them at the seam. She hisses, bites my jaw, then laughs again.

"You'll have to pay for that."

I press two fingers into her, slow, then fast, then slow again. Her hips buck, chasing the rhythm, and she moans through clenched teeth. Her eyes are blue, ringed in black, unblinking.

I want to ruin her. I want to remind her who she is, and whose. She comes, hard, arching off the bed, muscles tight as wire. I let go of her wrists and she claws my back, dragging me down, legs wrapped tightly around my waist. Her cunt is velvet and heat, pulling me in, squeezing.

I don't fuck her gently. I don't fuck her softly. I fuck her like I want to break her in half and piece her together again, molecule by molecule, until she's only mine.

She takes it. She meets every thrust, every grind, every slap of skin. She leaves new lines on my chest, marks that will take weeks to fade. She bites my ear, my throat, the line where my jaw meets my neck. She's wild, and she's laughing, and she's crying, all at once.

"You remember Paris?" I ask.

Her eyes blow wide open. "You mean the first time, or the last?"

I lean in, kiss her where the pulse beats hardest. "Both."

She exhales, shudders, then laughs. "You said I was going to kill you."

I run my tongue along her collarbone, all the way to the point where shoulder meets neck. "You tried."

Her pulse jumps, her breath catches. She's not ready to give up, not even now.

And then, even though the animal in me wants to go hard and fast, I slow down so I can take my time, the way I used to in Paris.

I taste her skin, trace every scar and dimple, reacquaint myself with the topography of her body.

She tries to talk, but I silence her with my mouth, first the lips, then the jaw, then lower.

I move south, tongue circling her left nipple, then biting, gentle but with enough pressure to make her gasp.

She arches, presses up into me, but I pin her down, hand tight around her wrists. "Let go," she says, voice strangled.

I shake my head. "No."

I pull my cock out and slide my free hand down her torso, flat and hard, fingers splayed. I slide two fingers in, slowly, and her hips buck off the bed. Her thighs clamp around my wrist, vise tight, but I keep the pace torturously slow.

She tries to twist free, but I know every angle, every cheat. I keep her pinned, keep her waiting.

"Say it," I whisper, my mouth close to her ear.