From the time we leave Damon’s, Natalie doesn’t speak to me.
We spend the night in a hotel suite. I order room service and draw her a bath. I watch her eat in silence that’s suffocating. I listen to the sounds of her bathing from behind the locked bathroom door and want to kick it open and force her to talk to me.
I don’t.
This suffering is my penance. However long her silence lasts, I’ll wait.
She sleeps in the king sized bed. I lie awake on the sofa, my heart aching, and listen to her breathe.
The next morning, we fly to New York. She doesn’t ask where we’re going. I think she’s in a state of deep shock at seeing Damon.
I should’ve shot that prick when I had the chance.
When we arrive at La Guardia, she’s sleeping. I unbuckle her seat belt and smooth a hand over her hair. “Baby. Wake up. We’re here.”
Eyes closed, she mumbles, “Where?”
“Home.”
Her lids flutter, then lift. She gazes up at me for a moment, then looks out the window.
It’s obvious she can tell by the view that we didn’t land at Reno-Tahoe International.
But she only takes a deep breath and stands, avoiding my eyes.
She refuses to look at me on the drive into the city. She doesn’t look at my driver, either, or show surprise at seeing the Bentley waiting for us on the tarmac. She just stares out the window, her gaze far away.
I have to keep my hands curled to fists at my sides so I don’t pull her against my chest and bury my face into her hair.
When we get into Manhattan, she cranes her neck to look at the skyscrapers we pass. She looks very young, gazing out the window with wide eyes, her lips parted in awe.
I want to take her everywhere in the world so I can see that look on her face over and over again.
As soon as I regain her trust, I will.
She keeps absent-mindedly toying with the ring I gave her, twisting it around with her thumb. That she hasn’t taken it off is a good omen.
I wish like hell she’d tell me what she’s thinking.
When we pull into the parking garage of my place on Park Avenue, she sits back into her seat and grips the door handle, looking straight ahead. Even in profile, I see her anxiety.
I feel it, coming off her in waves.
I say gently, “This is my home. One of them. We’ll be safe here until it’s over.”
She swallows, but doesn’t ask what I mean by “it.”
I reach out and grasp her hand. It’s cold and clammy. When I squeeze it, she withdraws, sliding both hands between her thighs, out of reach.
We take the private elevator to the eighty-second floor. The doors slide open, but she doesn’t move. She stays frozen in the corner, blinking, looking out into the foyer of the penthouse.
“It’s the whole floor. 8,000 square feet. 360-degree views of New York City. You’ll love it.”
After a moment, she steps forward hesitantly. I hold the doors open for her, ignoring the electronic alarm bell when it starts to chime. She walks out of the elevator and into my home, not stopping until she’s crossed the living room and is standing at the floor-to-ceiling glass windows on the opposite side of the elevators.
For a long time, she silently takes in the view of Central Park.
Then she turns to me and says quietly, “I’m not going back to work, am I?”
Knowing I can never hold back a shred of the truth from her ever again, I answer without hesitation. “No.”
“Or Lake Tahoe.”
“No.”
“Permanently?”
“Correct.”
“What if I said I wanted to?”
I say softly, “You don’t, baby. You would’ve already told me if you did.”
She draws a slow breath. We stare at each other. My arms ache to feel her warmth.
“I left Mojo with Sloane.”
“I’ll bring him here. Along with all your things from your house.”
After a moment, she whispers hoarsely, “Just burn that damn house down. Burn it to the ground.”
When I take a step toward her, my heart throbbing, she holds up a hand to stop me.
“Not yet, Kage. You need to leave me alone for a while.”
Her voice is broken. Her eyes shine with unshed tears.
I’ll leave her alone all she wants later, but right now she needs her man.
When I stride forward, my gaze leveled on hers, she says firmly, “No.”
“Yes.”
I grab her, pull her against my chest, and squeeze her, hard. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t hug me back, either. I dig a hand into her hair and whisper into her ear.
“Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
With her face hidden in my shirt, she sighs. “You can start by getting me a glass of wine. I can’t deal with this shit sober.”
“Are you gonna run away as soon as I go into the kitchen?”
“I had the thought. But I know you’d follow me, so…” She sighs again.
“I would. I’ll always follow you. You’re my north star.”
She makes a strangled noise and burrows her face deeper against my pec. My heart soaring, I kiss her throat and hold her closer.
“Stop sniffing my hair, pervert.”
“I can’t help it. Your scent is my favorite drug.”
“If you say one more romantic thing, I’ll throw up.”
She’s angry, hurt, and shell-shocked, but underneath all that, I hear something else in her words.
Love.
I almost groan out loud.
Buried in my back pocket, my cell phone rings. I don’t want to answer it, but I’m waiting for an important call.
If it’s the one I’m expecting, I can’t miss it.
“Go ahead,” Nat says softly, pulling away. “I can tell you want to.”
“I’ll get you that glass of wine. I’ll be right back.”
Nodding, she turns away and winds her arms around her waist. I leave her staring out the window and head into the kitchen, pulling out the phone and putting it against my ear.
The number is blocked, which is a good sign. Everyone else who calls me is programmed in.
“Talk to me.”
“It’s done.”
The voice on the other end of the line has a slight Italian accent. Massimo only lived in Italy until he was ten years old, but still retains a hint of his motherland in his speech.
“Good. How?”
“A fight broke out in the lunch room. Made it look like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Got caught in the crossfire, so to speak. There won’t be any questions.”
Hearing that, I breathe easier. Until Massimo adds, “You owe me for this.”
These pushy Italian fuckers. Always asking for more.
But I expected this. A deal as complicated as this one is never straightforward.
“I’m opening up the ports for you, remember? You can take up trade again, get the money flowing, when all the other families are still locked down. That was the deal. We’re square.”
His laugh is short and hard. “No. Knocking off the boss of a family is too big to make us even. And you know all it would take is for me to leak word of this and you’d be fucked.”
“No one would believe you, Massimo. You’re a pathological liar.”
“I guess that’s a chance you’d have to take, wouldn’t you? There’s always some ambitious malcontent in the ranks who’d be happy to start a coup and install himself as the new king.” He laughs again. “You should know.”
I’m not worried by this threat. I sense Massimo has something else he wants. He doesn’t care about exposing me, but he does care about gaining advantages.
Whatever it is, he’ll reveal it eventually.
“Go ahead. Say what you want. My men are loyal, and we’re in the middle of a war. You’d look like an idiot.”
“Your men? Max isn’t even cold yet and you’re already taking the reins? You’re one vicious fuck, Kazimir.”
“Remember that the next time you threaten me.”
He scoffs. “Like I don’t have insurance for that scenario. I drop dead, all the heads of the Russian families get a nice little package from me, explaining what you did.”
“Sure. The proof?”
“A recording of this conversation, for one thing.”
I smile, opening the wine fridge. “Too bad I’ve got a scrambler on the signal so all you’ll hear on playback is white noise.”
In the following silence, I hear Massimo seething.
“Look. I appreciate your effort. And I’m in a generous mood. So as long as what you’ve said turns out to be fact, and I see on the news that Max died in a prison fight as an innocent bystander, caught in the frenzy a bunch of crazy Italians beating each up over drugs, I’ll grant you a favor. Look the other way if you want to steal one of our shipments, something like that. Accordo?”
He pauses. “Accordo.”
His pause was too brief for me to believe it’s going to be something as small and inconvenient as stealing a shipment, but I’ll deal with it when it happens.
One thing at a time.
We hang up without a goodbye.
I pour two glasses of wine and head back into the living room. Nat is right where I left her, staring out the window.
She takes the glass I hold out to her without a word.
“I want to show you something.”
Sipping her wine, she glances at me.
“It’s this way.”
I turn and walk away, knowing that the surest way to get her to do something is not to insist that she do it.
Unless she’s tied up in bed, she hates being bossed around.
Sure enough, she follows, her footsteps soft on the wood floor. I lead her past the kitchen and formal dining room, down a corridor, and to one of the guest rooms at the end. Then I open the door and stand back to allow her to look inside.
Her gaze wary, she peeks inside the room.
She gasps.
“It’s yours,” I murmur, enjoying her expression of astonishment.
She stares for a moment, looking around with wide eyes. “How long have you had it like this?”
“Since you first told me you were mine.”
“But you said we could never live together. That I could never even visit you here. So why go to all this trouble?”
She gestures to the room. It’s an artist’s studio, filled with artist’s things: paint, brushes, easels, blank canvases of all sizes waiting to be colored in.
Reaching out to stroke her satin cheek, I murmur, “When the longing got too bad, I’d come sit in here and imagine you on that stool in front of the easel, painting something that made you happy. Maybe a picture of me.”
She looks at me with tears in her eyes.
I want to kiss her, but I don’t. Whatever happens next, she has to be the one who initiates it.
I might be the king of the Russian mafia now, but my queen will always hold the most power. Only she can make or break me with a single word.
She says, “You said you’d never bring me here. So what’s changed?”
“Max is dead.”
She blinks. I nod, letting her take a moment to process that.
“You…”
“Yes.”
“Because?”
I say softly, “Any man who threatens you loses his life, no matter who he is.”
She blinks again. Moistens her lips. Takes another sip of her wine.
Her hand is shaking.
“This is kind of a big thing for you, though, right? I mean, politically.”
“Yes.”
“Will it be messy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will there be other guys fighting you to be in charge now that Max is gone?”
She chews her lip. Her brows are drawn together. I’m not sure what she really means for a moment, until it dawns on me that she’s worried.
About my safety.
About me.
Whatever this emotion is that’s expanding like a hot balloon inside my chest, I’ve never felt it before.
My voice comes out gruff. “No. There will be a vote, but that’s a formality.”
She nods, glancing away. In a small voice, she says, “That’s good.”
It takes every single ounce of self-control I have not to throw this goddamn glass of wine I’m holding to the floor and crush my mouth to hers. I need to taste her so much I’m almost salivating.
She senses it. Looking up at my face, her cheeks color. She glances away again, swallowing.
“I need to talk to my parents. They probably think I had a mental breakdown. I was shouting like a lunatic when I called them.”
I keep my voice gentle, so I don’t scare her away with a needy growl. “Of course. I’ll give you some privacy. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
I turn to walk away, but she stops me by saying my name.
When I turn back to her, I see how hard she’s trying to hold it together. Her lower lip is quivering and her face is pale, but her shoulders are straight and she’s standing tall.
She says, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Saving my life.”
We stare at each other. The air between us crackles.
I say softly, “I told you, baby. It’s my duty and pleasure to take care of you.”
Then I turn around and walk away, leaving her to decide if that’s enough to make up for all my other sins.
It’s too bad I’m not the kind of man who prays.
I could really use a higher power’s help right now.
