locked down. I don’t want anything coming in or going out without my knowing about it.” I stalk across my office from one wall to the other before turning around and striding back.
“You know I don’t have control of that, Russo.” The cavalier air in Sal’s voice makes me want to strangle the cockiness right out of the fucker. “I told you, I’ll talk to the higher-ups and do what I can.”
“If you let what I’m looking for out of the country, no one you love is safe from me.” Venom drips from every syllable that leaves my mouth, each word deadly serious. If Lottie Harris is shipped out of the country because Sal’s twiddling his damn thumbs, I will personally skin him alive. And I’ll enjoy it.
When a girl is taken to be trafficked, the window of ever being able to find them again is usually very short. Maybe ninety-six hours, if you’re lucky. But with children, that window extends for transit conditions. Smaller bodies don’t last as long without food and water, or being in extreme temperatures whether it’s hot or cold. That means timing and weather conditions are huge factors in when a container of little girls can be shipped overseas. Which adds days instead of hours.
The Russians aren’t taking just any little girls, they’re shopping from a list. They won’t move any of them until the full shipment is fulfilled. That extends my window to weeks.
If they have a buyer already set upon delivery, that changes the security factor considerably. Having someone waiting turns the girls from livestock up for auction to curated goods, driving up the price. Where there’s more money, there’s more security. And security means firepower and strategy.
“That won’t happen.” His assurances mean shit. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you.” My phone beeps softly in my ear to announce that that call has ended.
The son-of-a-bitch hung up on me.
My fingers curl tightly into fists, muscles bunching against the urge to smash everything in sight. The pressure from how tightly my jaw is clenched threatens to crack my teeth. My legs carry me from one end of the room to the other, each breath coming out harsh and ragged. It’s taking every ounce of my restraint to contain the fury raging through me. My arms twitch and swing with the desire to cause destruction and violence.
It’s several minutes before I’ve reigned in the fury enough to walk past my safe without pulling out a few magazines and going to pay Sal a visit. He’s not safe from me, especially if he can’t do what he’s told, but that will have to wait until later.
Striding out of my office, I’m looking for Roscoe. I find him in the kitchen with a blonde Suzy-fucking-homemaker.
The entire apartment smells deliciously like sugar and cinnamon, the scent as enticing as it is infuriating. Lexie stands at the counter in a cute little apron with a pan of baked goods. Roscoe’s behind her, lifting the heavy mixer back up onto the top shelf of the tall cabinet by the fridge.
“When you’re done playing baker,” the bite in my voice has my enforcer standing at attention, “Enzo is waiting for you at the warehouse for my cut of the Ortega shipment.”
“I’ll leave now, boss.” Roscoe nods, but Lexie stops him.
“Oh, here,” she lifts a plate carrying a large cinnamon roll in front of his face. “Take one with you.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes when the grizzly man’s face lights up, his lips twitching with a smile, as he takes the plate before heading towards the door. The look I flash him is more than irritated, swiping the ridiculous mushy expression off his face on his way out.
Either unaware or unfazed by my mood, Lexie turns to me with another dessert on a plate. With her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, girly apron cinched in at her waist, and a big smile as she presents the baked good—she’s the picture of sweet perfection. And it’s aggravatingly arousing.
“Do you want a cinnamon roll? Roscoe said they’re his favorite, so I made a bunch.”
“No, I don’t want a cinnamon roll,” I grate, frustration brewing inside me. Sal’s incompetence has me grasping at straws, getting in the way of my meticulous work. I can’t do my job if people can’t follow through on their end, and it’s my results that suffer.
“What’s your problem? I was just being nice.” Lexie’s tone turns assertive, her arms crossing under her breasts.
She wants to be friends. We’re not fucking friends. With Lexie, it’s either more or nothing. And we can’t be more.
There’s something about this woman that irks me to my very core. Every instinct in my body is roaring for me to lean in closer when my rational brain tells me I should get as far away from her as possible. And the warring urges fuel a resentment inside me, sparked by irritation and frustration.
“The problem is that we’re not friends, Lexie. You work for me, that’s it. I’ll let you know when I need you, all you have to do is follow orders.” My words come out coldly, betraying the anger simmering inside me. “I don’t need baked goods with frosting and sprinkles.”
A full range of emotions crosses Lexie’s open face—shock, outrage, confusion, defiance—before settling on hostile acceptance. She lets out a short humorless laugh, completely devoid of her usual warmth.
I hate it.
“Fine, if that’s how you want it to be.” She matches my coldness, plopping a cinnamon roll heavily onto a plate. “I won’t bother you with any more baked goods.”
With that, she swipes the plate from the counter and stalks out of the kitchen towards her room. I watch her go, frustration warring with a sinking feeling starting to claw at me that feels almost like regret.
***
My head hurts. Every gritty detail of the Harris job—every question, strategy, and possible outcome—races through my mind in a thundering roar that pounds against my temples. I’ve been sitting for too long, focusing too hard. Shoving away from my desk with a harsh breath, I stand to stride across my office. Standing in the doorway, I fight to quiet my brain as my eyes wander across the penthouse. My gaze doesn’t stop moving until it lands heavily on Lexie’s blonde head in the living room. The Harris job fades away as my laser focus zeroes in on the captivating woman.
Sweet fucking silence.
She’s barely looked at me since our confrontation in the kitchen yesterday. And true to her word, she hasn’t offered me another cinnamon roll, or a slice of the banana bread she baked early this morning. I should feel relieved, but all I feel is irritation. Turns out, being on the receiving end of Lexie’s cold shoulder bothers me more than I thought it could.
And it’s only been one damn day.
I can’t seem to keep my eyes off of her. Since we’ve met, Lexie’s drawn me in like a moth to a fucking flame. Her energy is unapologetic and irresistible. With the way she collects admirers wherever she goes, I know I’m not the only one who feels it.
Half of me—the twisted selfish half—feels the primal urge to snuff out that beautiful light of hers when she’s sharing it with other people. I want to be the only one who gets to bask in her rays. That smile should only ever appear for me. If I can’t harness it and own it, it shouldn’t exist at all. It’s a possessive and sick way of thinking, but it’s always a temptation residing just below the surface.
Luckily the other half, the one I tend to listen to—to act on—doesn’t have it in him to steal that glow from her. Her lovely, addicting glow that radiates with everything she is. I’m self-aware enough to know this part of me is selfish too. If her light’s gone, my life dims with it. Her ability to scatter the shadows lurking with my demons vanishes. And I’m not willing to give that up. Not willing to give her up.
Lexie’s laughter rings through the penthouse, filling the living space even from her corner of the couch. Christ, I can’t stop looking at her.
She’s playing with the sleeve of her ridiculously cute matching loungewear set, the sky blue color exactly matching her eyes, her focus trained on the usually unfeeling bald man sitting on the opposite side of the couch. But even Roscoe cracks a smile for Lexie.
When I walk into the living room and her eyes meet mine, her smile falters.
I don’t fucking like it.
“Go get dressed, Lexie. We’re leaving,” I say before I fully think it through. This dinner with Viktor is just an excuse to go back to his office for a drink afterward and talk about his territory, I hadn’t decided to take Lexie along. But now that I’m standing in front of her, I want her with me.
“Am I putting on my scrubs?” she asks with a sigh. The fact that she assumes I only want her to come patch someone up chips at the wall around my heart. Because it couldn’t be further from the truth. But I should just say nevermind and have her stay home. She’ll just be a distraction anyway.
Instead, I hear myself say “Put on a dress, we’re going to dinner.” The words slip through the cracks in my self-control far too easily. Her face floods with surprise and confusion, but she stands to go change anyway.
Telling her to put on a dress was a mistake, one I regret as soon as she emerges in a little black number that leaves so much but very little to the imagination. Thin straps, open square neckline draping across showstopping breasts, accentuated fleshy waist. The hemline that stops just above her knees is made less modest by the slit on one side that flashes creamy thigh. Her glittery black heels click on the floor as she walks towards me, sleek ponytail tossed to one side while she struggles to clasp a gold necklace.
Fucking hell.
Not a distraction, she’s a devastation. A tornado of beautiful chaos determined to leave my life in ruins. And I’m nothing short of a storm chaser praying for disaster.
Christ.
Once the necklace is secured, she centers the pendant on her chest and looks at me—for what— approval? Running a hand over my beard, I’m staring at her. Dumbfounded, the woman has stolen all words. My breathing is uneven as I desperately grasp onto the mask of calm that’s splintering under her expectant gaze.
It’s all I can do to give her a short nod.
Stepping into the elevator, I avoid looking at her reflection as the doors close. The last thing I need is to take this meeting with a raging erection, and one glance at her like this will have me rock hard. Roscoe catches my eyes, his brows lifting to communicate that he notices my discomfort. My glower in return only feeds his amusement.
Fucker.
“Who are we going to dinner with?” Lexie asks, oblivious to our silent exchange. She fiddles with the ring she always wears on the middle finger of her left hand, twisting it in a sign of what I recognize as anxiety. She’s nervous.
“Viktor and Levi Mikhailov will be there with their wives, along with Enzo.”
The elevator stops.
Ding.
The car ride is spent in silence. Lexie taps on her phone, most likely texting her best friend, Mia. I do my best not to stare at the way her dress rides up when she crosses her legs. My eyes keep catching on thick thighs despite my best efforts.
Get it together, Russo.
I can’t show up to meet Mikhailov tripping over my hormones like some horny teenager. This dinner, despite its casual front, is crucial to the Harris job. If I can’t get Viktor’s blessing to enter his territory, it could result in a turf war I have no interest in getting involved with.
My ties to the Cosa Nostra already have Mikhailov and his Bratva roots on the fence about me. Old family feuds run deep, even now. This dinner is an active minefield. One misstep and this whole situation detonates.
Tugging at the shirt cuffs clasped at my wrists, I roll my shoulders to ease the tension settling there. The restaurant comes into view and my resolve is set firmly back into place. I’ll get what I need from Mikhailov tonight, there’s no other option.
My hand finds its way to the small of Lexie’s back when we enter The Dining Room, the heat of her body radiating through her little black dress. Enzo stands waiting at the host stand, giving Lexie an enthusiastic greeting.
“Reporting for duty, Boss,” he says to me, exaggerating his dutiful tone with a nod before his focus turns to the blonde. “And here I thought it would be a stuffy business dinner. But if you’re here, there’s hope for a good time. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Hi Enzo, it’s nice to see you again,” she replies. The fact that Enzo’s happily married doesn’t stop my fingers from flexing against Lexie’s back. Her head lifts to look up at me curiously, but I keep my eyes straight ahead.
“Mr. Russo,” The hostess steps forward to address me. “Your party is already seated and waiting for you. If you’ll just follow me.” As we follow the young woman through the restaurant, my gaze takes note of each exit, every member of staff on the floor, and each set of male eyes that follow the woman on my arm.
Viktor and Levi are seated towards the back of the restaurant, the best table in the place that seats eight with a view of the city. The Dining Room is one of the more upscale restaurants in the city, with marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the city skyline, and a six-month reservation waitlist. This place couldn’t be more different from the seedy outdated bar Levi owns—which is exactly the point. When authorities are looking for Russian thugs, Levi’s bar is the first place they look. No one expects Viktor, the head of the Russian Bratva, to frequent a ritzy place like this, let alone own it.
“Russo,” Viktor greets with a nod to the other two men. “Who is this?” he indicates towards the woman on my arm.
“This is Lexie, she’s with me,” I state simply. “Lexie, this is Viktor and his wife Vera. And you remember Levi, with his wife Alina.” Vera is a striking woman with severe features, like her piercing dark blue eyes that can cut you with a glance. Her black hair is cut cleanly at the shoulders and curled inwards in a sleek bob. The darkness of her hair stands in stark contrast to the fairness of her alabaster skin.
Alina has a much softer look with long dark brown hair and wide brown eyes. Her default expression seems to be a stoic pout as she watches quietly. Despite her docile appearance, I know Levi’s wife is anything but passive.
Lexie greets the two women in her usual fashion, complimenting them with a smile. Levi and Alina sit next to Vera then Viktor at the large circular table. Roscoe takes the seat next to Viktor while Enzo sits next to his son. I place myself next to Enzo, with Lexie on my right beside Roscoe.
Conversation starts off mildly with politeness and pleasantries. Lexie comments on Alina’s earrings, which starts a small debate about natural diamonds versus lab-grown. I think a diamond is just a sparkly rock, natural or not. The pretty pink nurse seems to agree with me. What we talk about here at the table is inconsequential—the only conversation that matters to me tonight is the one I’ll have with Viktor later. Alone.
Everything seems to be going smoothly until the waiter comes around to take our dinner orders.
“And what would you like to eat, Miss?” The waiter addresses Lexie with a little too much interest. My eyes narrow at the man, but he’s too focused on the blonde at my side to notice.
“I’ve never eaten here before. What’s your favorite dish on the menu…” Lexie looks up at his name tag. “Blake.” The smile she offers him is far too warm and inviting. And I don’t miss the way Blake eyes her chest. More than once.
“I would recommend the center cut filet. It’s so tender, it melts in your mouth.” My grip on my fork tightens. Could he be any more brazen with his come-on?
“Oh, that sounds delicious.” There’s no reason to smile so much while ordering food. “I’ll do that in the six-ounce, with the loaded mashed potatoes and mixed greens salad.”
“Excellent choice, you have good taste.”
I swear, if this fucker looks down her dress one more time. Of course, Lexie doesn’t care enough to notice.
“And to drink, perhaps the house red?”
My arm stretches across the back of her chair, fed up. I’m done listening to frivolous conversation—done letting him stare at her like she’s the real meal. He doesn’t get to taste her, no one does. Leaning across her, I force the server’s attention to me while I stare down the pathetic man trying to toy with something that doesn’t belong to him.
She’s not his, and she never will be.
“We’ll take a bottle of the Brunello di Montalcino Riserva.” My expression speaks the threats that my words don’t. His face pales at the murder in my eyes. Looking from Lexie to me, the waiter seems to finally register that he’s made an error. Luckily for Blake, he’s smart enough to take a step back. His posture shifts with a polite nod.
“Right away, sir. My apologies.” With that, he excuses himself and scurries away like the roach that he is. Lexie watches him go, flashing me a look of irritation that tells me she knows exactly what just happened. Her annoyance grates against my nerves.
She wants to keep talking to him.
Keeping my arm across the back of her chair, I bring my lips to her ear. “Try to be a little less shameless,” I growl.
Her gaze flickers to me before her eyes roll briefly to the ceiling.
“I was just having a conversation. Waiters are people too, they deserve to be treated like it,” she says as if she blatantly flirts with every waiter she comes across. The mental image only works to darken my mood.
“Why do you insist on talking to everyone who gives you the time of day? Are you really that desperate for attention?” I snap. A breath in only fills my lungs with her delicious scent.
“Probably because I’m starved of good conversation at home.” Her barb hits me dead center. “I’ve got to take every opportunity I can when I’m out.”
“It’s childish. You’re just begging for people to take advantage of you.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I want someone to take full advantage, Callum.”
Arousal floods through me with her innuendo, seeping into my anger and fueling my agitation. She’s looking for someone to fuck, and she’s making sure I know it’ll be anyone but me.
“No one respects ridiculous women who try so hard to be the center of attention.” She blinks at me, taking a sip of her water as she holds onto her unaffected facade for dear life. I can see her shiny confidence slipping. I’m conflicted as to whether or not that’s my goal; break her down, take away any ability to replace me, so I’m her only refuge.
Sick bastard.
“What people think about me is none of my business. I’m not gonna try to take up less space just because other people feel small.” Something flashes in her eyes, something deeper and more fierce than I’ve ever seen in her. I’ve struck a nerve, one I wasn’t looking for. One I’m starting to regret poking at. “How you’re feeling right now is your problem, it has nothing to do with me.”
My eyes hold hers, pinning her where she sits. The conversations coming from the other side of the table barely register, my attention laser-focused on the woman next to me.
Each breath I take is filled with the addicting scent of her perfume. She’s everywhere; in my head, under my skin, in the air I breathe. Everywhere but where she belongs—in my bed.
She couldn’t be more wrong. What I’m feeling right now has everything to do with her.
***
As good as the food was, I was relieved when dinner ended. Now I can get to the real reason for this meeting tonight. And a few minutes without Lexie clouding my every thought means I have a much better chance of focusing.
Viktor and I stare at each other across his desk, drinks in hand. Our casual posture belies the tension radiating between us, a tension that always exists between a Vor and a Made Man—even if it’s been a lifetime since I’ve been in the Outfit. Family ties run deep, something I’ve learned to work in my favor, but tends to complicate matters. People tend to let their emotions run hot and things get messy. From our past encounters, Viktor is more level-headed than that, something I’m banking on being the rule instead of the exception.
“So what’s this about you wanting into my territory?” he rasps. Aged leather and wood groans under me when I lean back in the traditional winged chair.
“Anton shit the bed, I’ve been called in for housekeeping.” That’s as much information as I plan on giving. With jobs like this, the less you reveal the better.
“Kozlov?” he doesn’t sound the least bit surprised. I nod a confirmation. “What do the Grassos want with Anton?”
I spot the lure easily. He’s fishing. I’m not about to take the bait. Running a hand over my beard, I take a sip of the whiskey. It’s a top-shelf single malt, one of the best. I expect nothing less from Viktor.
“If this had to do with the Outfit, I wouldn’t be here talking to you right now. There wouldn’t be a conversation, just a bunch of body bags and bribed cops.” Lucciano Grassos and his trigger-happy men tend to shoot first and ask questions later, if at all. Fucking hotheads like them are what keep people like me and funeral homes in business—always leaving messes to clean up.
“Khorosho,” Viktor acknowledges, turning the tumbler of whiskey absently on the desk. Cold dark eyes regard me without blinking. “What do you want with Anton?”
“You know better than to ask me that, Viktor.” Considering the work I’ve done for him and the syndicate, he knows I don’t mess with discretion. It’s what keeps me alive and my bank account growing.
“If you won’t tell me what you want with him, then you can tell me what he’s worth to you.”
There it is, an opening for negotiations. Exactly what I’m here for. I lean forward, resting my arms on my knees. Like most chairs with arms, this one is too small for me to sit comfortably. My mask of control remains firmly in place, not even hinting at my discomfort, my gaze remaining unflinching on the Russian.
Someone less seasoned would offer up something in exchange for what I’m asking. But I know how the Mikhailovs operate. I can see on his face that he came in here already knowing what he wants from me. He always comes prepared, it’s something we have in common.
One of the only things.
“Knowing you, Viktor, you already have a price in mind. What do you want?”
The old Russian smiles knowingly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It never does.
“Turns out both the Kozlov brothers have been more trouble than they’re worth. Alek’s been skimming from the arms shipments and doing side deals.” Anger edges Viktor’s tone sharply.
Ah, there it is.
“He’s stealing from you.”
The biggest problem with organized crime is all the criminals. They get it in their heads that they can get away with anything. That they’re untouchable. It’s not just stupid to steal from a man like Viktor Mikhailov, it’s practically a death sentence if they’re caught. They’re always caught. And I’ve been the executioner on more than one occasion.
“He dug his own grave, all you need to do is pick out a casket.” Disdain drips from his voice. Dealing with Alek is a small price to pay in exchange for the answers his brother can give me.
“You sending a message to make him an example, or are you looking for a more permanent solution?” I ask. There are a lot of ways this problem with Alek can be solved, and I have no problem pulling the trigger on any of them, metaphorically or literally. Viktor takes a minute to contemplate, clearly not a hundred percent on his decision. When dealing with rats in your own ranks, it’s a complicated situation. You might be able to take care of the rodent, but each extermination comes with its own set of issues.
“His blood runs too deep, he won’t disappear quietly. Maybe some hard time will teach him some respect.”
I can feel the regret radiating through his anger. Dealing with family matters has to make the most sense in the long run, not just what feels good in the moment. And with the murder in Viktor’s eyes, he wants nothing more than for Alek to suffer a long and painful death. But when murder isn’t on the table, a nice hard prison sentence can have the desired effect.
“Are we talking all day?” I offer, a life sentence. The option is definitely tempting, but Viktor shakes his head.
“A dime should do the trick. I have some friends waiting to welcome him in Sing Sing. You fix my Kozlov problem, you can have yours.” I can get a ten year sentence, easy.
“Consider it done,” I state.
I down what’s left in my glass, the liquor burning smoothly as it goes down. Rising from the chair, I place the empty tumbler on the desk heavily and pull my suit coat together to button it closed smoothly. “I’ll be in touch,” I say, agreeing to his terms and sealing the verbal contract. Viktor remains sitting, simply nodding before I turn to leave.
Lexie isn’t where I left her. Instead, I find her at the bar with a young female bartender. The medical kit sits open on the counter, gauze wrappers scattered across the surface. Getting closer, I can see she’s got the young woman’s hand spread flat in front of her while she sutures a gash across the palm.
“What happened?” My voice doesn’t pull Lexie’s laser focus from her meticulous work. The bartender swallows loudly, clearly nervous in my presence.
“One of the bottles broke,” Lexie answers, tying off the last stitch. Peeling open one of the iodine swabs, she applies the disinfectant liberally before covering it with a sterile bandage. “There you go. Try not to use that hand, and keep it clean. Usually, stitches can come out after a few days, but hands are tricky—healing might take a little longer. I’ll come back to check on you in a week, and we’ll go from there.” Lexie leans back, giving the other woman a reassuring smile as she pulls off the disposable latex-free gloves.
“Thank you,” the bartender says earnestly, withdrawing her hand and cradling it to her chest. She casts a nervous glance over her shoulder. “I better get back to work or else Michael’s gonna kill me. But seriously, thank you.”
“It’s no problem, really.”
My pretty pink nurse, always so gracious.
Finally, she turns those bright blue eyes on me. “Are we leaving?”
“We are.”
“Ok, just let me pack up and say goodbye to Vera and Alina.” Of course she wants to say goodbye to her new friends, like this is some social event.
I watch in silence as Lexie makes her goodbyes, hugging both of the women. Seeing her embrace the Russian mob wives looks oddly similar to watching someone tame attack dogs. Both Vera and Alina are well-versed in the Bratva culture of blood and money. And yet, adding Lexie to the trio turns them back into playful puppies on a playdate.
The silence in the car on the ride home holds a noticeable tension. Lexie’s acting like I’m not even here, refusing to say a single word or even glance in my direction. I let my temper get the better of me at dinner, and I hurt her. She won’t admit it, she even tried to brush it off. But I saw the moment the verbal blow landed. Now her confidence is bruised, because I’m a jealous idiot.
Turns out, getting the silent treatment from her bothers me more than I ever thought possible. I have to fix this, make things right. Make it up to her.
“What I said at dinner was wrong.” Some of the tension eases when she finally turns from the window to look at me. “I’m sorry.” As a man in my position, I don’t often find myself having to apologize. But with Lexie, it doesn’t just feel necessary, it feels right.
“Thank you,” she replies, her eyes steady on mine. “Don’t ever talk to me like that again.” Even as she says it, in the deepest most visceral part of me, I know I never will. I can’t.
