The Rolls pulls up in front of a massive high rise in The City. Irritation rolls down my spine. These high-bred, silver-spooned English society motherfuckers have all the money in the world when it comes to gaudy displays of wealth, but none when it comes to reimbursing their debts.
The door opens and I step out, buttoning my suit jacket as I straighten to my full height. I give an appraising look at the building and the ethnographical makeup of the people bustling about the busy business center.
Marco echoes my thoughts out loud.
“He’s going to hate being confronted here,” he says with a smirk.
I grunt in acknowledgment, adding, “I’ll hang him out the window of his precious building by his balls if that’s what it takes to get my money back.”
Marco laughs loudly and follows after me as I stalk towards the revolving door, the both of them flanking me as they keep a watchful eye on our surroundings.
“Jefe,” Arturo says, “Have you thought more about what we discussed?”
I groan loudly, dismissing him.
Not one to let himself be dissuaded unless a gun is pressed against his family jewels, he continues.
“You can’t keep putting this off, your father–”
I spin on my heels and face him. He stops abruptly, almost colliding with me in the process. Most men would wilt under the dark glare I pin on him, but he only drops his gaze.
“Do you work for me or do you work for my father?”
“My loyalty is to you–”
“Good,” I say, turning back around.
“And the entire da Silva cartel,” he finishes.
I bite back a snarl, not wanting to draw attention to us before we’ve entered the building.
“I don’t press this topic lightly, Thiago,” he continues. My eyes narrow on him. He uses my name to placate me, to remind me that he’s been my consejero, my advisor, for years and has rightfully earned my trust. Grudgingly, I nod at him to go on. “But you know this is the next move we have to play.”
“We’ve destroyed the other cartels. The Italians are cowering in fear that we’ll turn our attention towards them next. The Armenians are a minor nuisance. The Irish are our allies. The Russians are staying out of our way. We have a strong alliance with Blackdown that gives us the cover of a legitimate business. We’ve won. I don’t understand why you or my father think I need a wife. What exactly will that buy me?”
“We’ve won for now. We shouldn’t let arrogance blind us into thinking that makes us untouchable. If you want to actually solidify your position in London, to prove that the war of the past year wasn’t a temporary power grab with you easily replaceable by the next well funded cartel, that the da Silva house is here to stay for good, then you need to marry.”
He throws open the door and follows after me into the building. The security guard at the front desk stands when he sees us approaching the turnstiles.
“What are you–”
His sentence cuts off abruptly when Marco points a gun at him. He blanches when he recognizes the five dagger tattoos on his fingers that identify him as a da Silva cartel member.
“Let us through,” he orders.
When he doesn’t immediately obey the order, fear freezing him in place, Marco steps up to him and presses the gun against his forehead.
“Let us through or find out what your desk looks like with your brain for decorations.”
He gulps and nods repeatedly, shaking fingers reaching for a button hidden underneath the ledge. A light flashes green and a metallic sound indicates that the lock is opening.
“A word of advice,” Marco tells the security guard as Arturo and I walk through. “Keep this between us if you want to make it home to your family tonight.”
“Marry outside of the cartel, Thiago,” Arturo continues, ignoring the threats in the background. He presses the button calling for the elevator. “Marry a good English woman to prove that you’re making your home in London permanent.”
“And what am I going to do with a good English woman once I’ve married her? Long walks in the park followed by daily tea and crumpets?” I shake my head. “You know she won’t fit into this life and the last thing I need is something like a wife getting in my way.”
“Who gives a fuck what you do with her? You just have to marry her, not live with her. Get a marriage certificate signed, put on a show for a brief honeymoon period, go to a few events together spread out over a year and then stick her in a country estate where she won’t bother anyone.”
I work my jaw back and forth as I think about his offer.
“And you think anyone will agree to that willingly?”
He gives me a look. “Their women aren’t like ours. Whichever English rose you decide to pluck will probably prefer a quiet life in the countryside to dealing with you coming home covered in blood every night.”
We step into the elevator and he presses the button to the top floor. I lean against the wall and cross my arms, my teeth grinding together.
“Plus,” he adds. “No one said she had to come willingly. Take the one you like if you want. Once the certificate is signed, there’s nothing anyone will be able to do.”
I grunt in response, effectively ending the conversation.
Realistically, I know it’s only a matter of time until I need to make a decision. Part of me knows it makes sense for me to use a marriage as an opportunity to advance the cartel’s interests. The other part doesn’t want to deal with the responsibility of having a wife, especially one I don’t want.
I’ve been focused almost exclusively on business and expansion since coming here. Nothing else has held my interest, not even being nine inches deep in a woman.
The last woman I’d fucked was an uninspiringly dull encounter. She’d been on her knees, talking about how huge my cock was, desperately trying to get my limp dick hard with her hand, mouth running a thousand miles per hour spewing some inane bullshit. It’s only once I’d taped her mouth shut and fucked her from behind, face down into the mattress, that I’d been able to get it up long enough to pump into her five times before the most anticlimactic climax of my life.
Her elaborately faked screams of pleasure had done my head in. I’d thrown her out with clothes in hand and hadn’t fucked anyone since.
That was over a year ago.
It hasn’t been for lack of opportunity mind you.
No, women throw themselves at me constantly. Being queen of the da Silva cartel is a coveted position, especially these days, and I’ve had no shortage of offers.
Sex loses its luster when pussy is freely offered just for a grab at power. With barely a look in their direction, women spread their legs for me, their eyes shining with the possibility of being my wife.
I can’t fucking blame them.
My family was once digging itself out of poverty and grime, climbing up the bloodied ladder of power, rung by rung and death by death until we reached the top. So game recognizes game and I don’t judge them for it. But nothing kills my erection like the stench of desperation on a woman.
Sticking my dick in my fist and getting off that way had provided just as much excitement as the countless faceless one night stands, with the added bonus of headache-free post-orgasm clarity when I didn’t have to kick anyone out as they tried to bargain staying overnight.
Seems I’m going to have to get used to it if I’m going to pick one of these insipid debutantes to be my wife. If nothing else, I understand the argument Arturo’s making regarding the value such an arrangement could bring to the business.
And the cartel, my family, that always comes first, even above my own interest.
Who knows, maybe I’ll find a bride worth keeping around.
I’m not holding my breath.
“I’ll think about it,” I finally say.
Marco whistles in shock, amazed that I’m even considering this.
Arturo looks up from his phone and gives me a surprised look. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me, I’m far from agreeing to this,” I snap back. “But if I do, I get to choose.”
He puts his hands up.
“That goes without saying, jefe,” he says as the doors open onto a large reception area. There are two corridors on either side of a concierge desk, each with a large meeting room in the corner faced with two more hallways leading to more offices.
Arturo walks out, followed by Marco who throws me a grin and a quick, “Let me know if you need help shopping for your wife, jefe. Happy to test out the merchandise for you before you make a decision.”
The two of them make their way across the bustling reception area towards where we know the CEO’s office is.
I follow ten steps after them, still deep in thought.
A heady, moody scent slams into me, star anise and black liquorice, knocking me back and ripping me from my introspection.
I stop in my tracks, disoriented and confused by the sudden, unexpected assault to my senses. I’m caught off guard and I never get caught off guard. That’s the difference between life and death in my line of work.
I’m immediately on high alert.
My pupils dilate at the potent scent. It wafts around me in this open space, teasing me and making me desperate for more. I sniff at the air like a dog, searching for the source of the bewitching smell. My eyes track the people traveling between the two different sections of the floor, looking for something I’m sure I’ll know once I find it.
And then I see her.
She’s across the room and walking in the opposite direction, getting progressively further away from me, and taking her scent with her. It follows after her like a shadow, robbing me of the enthralling experience that almost brought me to my knees.
Her back is to me so I don’t see her face, but my dick twitches for the first time in months regardless. She’s piqued my interest and awakened my long dormant curiosity and for that alone I want to follow after her.
Long legs peek out from under a tight skirt that hampers her progress but highlights the curve of her very delectable ass. A tailored jacket hugs and emphasizes the slope of her flat stomach and perky breasts. I wonder if she has it buttoned all the way to the top or if she’s left a hint of cleavage visible to torture the men and women around her.
I couldn’t miss her even if her scent wasn’t causing a cataclysmic reaction inside me. She’s wearing pink from head to toe, from her stilettos to the clip holding back her long, blonde hair from falling in her face. She’s incongruous with her surroundings, a burst of color amongst a sea of dreary dark tones.
She turns her head slightly to the side to acknowledge what her colleague is saying and I get my first partial glimpse of her features. Magnetic blue eyes enhanced by dark makeup peek out from under thick eyelashes and rest above high cheekbones. A slightly upturned nose scrunches in response as a hint of a smile curls her full lips.
It’s only a sliver of profile and I’m breathless.
‘Beauty’ is far too small a construct to describe her. It’s a designation that’s been used to describe too many people.
She’s the kind of perfect that deserves its own word, one that is hers alone, that describes no one else.
Who the fuck is she?
The question is bouncing against the walls of my brain on repeat, getting louder and more clamorous.
My eyes don’t leave her, the need to blink long abandoned. She doesn’t notice me, somehow doesn’t feel the weight of my gaze as it burns an imprint into the side of her face.
My cock is rock hard in my trousers and demanding I go after her. But more concerning is the foreign feeling that squeezes my ribcage and chokes my major organs. There’s a pinch that’s almost painful and definitely unrecognizable.
I shake my head to rid myself of those thoughts.
Maybe it’s time I get laid. It’s been way too fucking long, that’s why I’m having this confusing and altogether overly dramatic reaction to a stranger.
Nevertheless, I plan on following her.
I’ve only taken one step before a voice yanks me back to reality.
“Thiago.” I look over my shoulder and find Arturo standing with his hands in his pockets, his brow pulled into a quizzical furrow. Marco is nowhere in sight. Clearly, I fell behind them and, based on the confused expression on Arturo’s face, he wants to know why. “Are you coming?”
I look back at where I saw her, hoping to see the figure in pink in the distance, but she’s gone.
My fists clench in irritation and my mood darkens out of nowhere. What is this reaction I’m having? It’s unexplainable. It has me rattled and unsteady, both feelings alien to me.
Popping a cinnamon candy in my mouth to calm me, I stalk past Arturo and down the hall before throwing the door to the swanky corner office wide open.
It bounces against the wall and rattles in its hinges as the eyes of the man who sits behind the large desk find mine. They widen in abject fear before he manages to school his features into an emotionless mask.
But it’s too late. He’s fed me his fear and my anger is ready to feast on it. Marco smirks when I take my knife out and open the blade, the silver shining with deadly precision under the bright lights. My own sadistic grin pulls at my lips as I turn to face the man who can’t pay his debts.
“Alexander Noble,” I announce, voice reverberating against the office walls. “Tell me, are you ready to meet your maker?”
