by Christa Wick
Even if they didn't accept the offer, he reasoned, it might buy time for his body to recover and the punch soup of his brain to come up with a better plan. He had been absent from his job with Stark International, an American security firm, long enough for his powerful boss and friends to start looking for him. He just had to get at least one of these three jokers to spread his name around or try to access the bank account his employer monitored.
Arkady came to stand over him, the young man's green gaze staring into the neon blue of Nazarov's good eye.
"As Osip said, corpses don't need money. You can't give us enough to keep us alive. And unless you have it laying around in paper, which you clearly don't, you can take it back with a few keystrokes."
Half certain he was flinging himself from the frying pan into a volcano, Nazarov offered an alternative—one that would certainly force them to communicate with someone outside the Rodchenko family syndicate.
"Ever hear of Rodya Kalinin?"
Arkady's face lit with speculation. "You mean the fucking rat who almost crippled the Volkovs a couple years back?"
Almost?
Muscles painfully pulled the corners of Nazarov's mouth into a smile. Arkady's assessment was an understatement. Even the head of the Volkovs, old Vanya with his perpetually bloodstained fingers, had spent time in a Russian prison with all the information Kalinin had turned over to the Russian prosecutors. Their U.S. operations had been wiped out completely.
"What's so fucking funny?" Osip asked, hand leaving his pocket to wrap once more around Nazarov's throat.
"I am Kalinin," he answered, his pain momentarily abated as shock spread across the faces of the three men holding him prisoner. "And whether you pieces of shit want to save me for your boss or sell me off to the Volkovs, you better get me a fucking doctor."
3
Mikhael
New York City – Ten Years Ago
The brightly colored curtain on Mikhael's bedroom glowed pure white as lightning flashed above the city. He counted, waiting for the thunderous boom that must follow. When he reached six, the window rattled.
On the previous lightning flash, he had reached a count of eight. The storm was moving closer and growing in intensity.
Soon she would come, his Alina, her phobia driving her out of her bed and into his as it had done since he was fourteen and she was eleven.
Only she wasn't eleven anymore. She was nineteen, her body deliciously ripe with a woman's curves, her hips and thighs providing a thick and muscular base to support her heavy, full breasts that jutted from her chest. The innocent, small pucker of her mouth had turned equally voluptuous, her pale mauve lips meant to be bruised with a man's kisses.
She was everything he desired and the only woman truly off limits.
Her father, Dmitrey Rodchenko, was a Russian crime boss. He ran half of Moscow and several New York boroughs. Tendrils of his empire spread up and down the Atlantic seaboard. Drugs, prostitutes, gambling, protection money—if a penny could be gained by brute force or illicit pleasures, Rodchenko squeezed with an iron fist.
The old man took whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted. Alina's mother was one of his imported prostitutes. He had kept the woman locked in a room for two years so he could have her whenever he wanted her. When Alina was born, he left her to rot in a whore house until she turned nine.
Mikhael's mother was pulled from the Moscow slums and brought to New York within weeks of her husband's death. Rodchenko tried to leave Mikhael behind, but Kata Nazarova withered without her son.
Now Kata was dead and it was clear the old man wanted to shed all the baggage she had brought with her. Mikhael would have left already but for Alina and the danger surrounding her.
Floorboards squeaked in the hall outside his room. Mikhael closed his eyes and prayed that she wouldn't knock.
He knew she would. Rodchenko and his psychotic son, Dima, were out of the city for a few days to formally introduce Dima as the heir apparent of the old man's criminal empire. Most of the household staff would be in bed except for a few guards who were supposed to be at posts scattered around the three-story townhouse but were likely clustered at a table playing cards and drinking from the old man's walk-in wine cooler.
A soft knock fell against the wooden door. Mikhael rolled his lips, quelling the temptation to answer. Let her think he was sleeping, he prayed. Let her go back to her room.
The sky lit up again, the whole room glowing. A heartbeat later, thunder so loud he jerked upright cracked the sky.
Alina threw open the door.
"Please, Mishka." Trembling, she stood at the threshold to his room, her long white gown lit on one side from the one lamp at the top of the stairs that remained lit all through the night.
She had fled her room without a robe. The light turned the fabric of her nightclothes semi-transparent, teasing him with the curves beneath the cloth and the dark outline of nipples and pubic hair.
Falling back against the mattress, he brought an arm up to cover his eyes. He didn’t need the temptation of Alina's body against his, didn’t need to feel her shaking with fear, the thin linen shift covering her no guard against the heat she generated.
"Go back to bed, little one," he said. "The storm will be out by the harbor in a few minutes."
"It won't," she protested, quietly closing the door and walking over to his side of the bed.
His arm still shielded his eyes. Grabbing his hand with both of hers, she lifted it up, forcing him to look at her as another flash of lightning brightened the room. Her arms trembled as she braced for the oncoming clash of thunder. When it came, she let out a small squeak and dropped his hand.
"Don't be cruel, Mishka," she begged, hugging herself. "I hardly sleep anymore as it is, not since Kata..."
Trailing off, she knelt next to the bed, her head resting lightly on the mattress. "I'm sorry."
Forgetting his reason for wanting Alina out of the room, he reached over and stroked her hair. She was apologizing for mentioning his dead mother so soon after the woman's demise. It was inconceivable to the girl that he missed Kata less than she did.
Far less. Kata Nazarova had become a ghost long before she died. And she stopped being a mother the day she became Rodchenko's mistress. Mikhael's presence was required as a salve to her conscience. But her conscience didn't extend to making sure that her son was free from neglect or abuse.
Forget lifting a finger to stop Rodchenko from taking a strap to Mikhael's back for some imaginary infraction. Kata couldn't be bothered to bat an eye.
Sliding toward the center of his bed, he tugged lightly at Alina's hair. She lifted her head, saw the space he had opened up and climbed onto the mattress. He pulled the blanket up around her, the inside of his wrist unintentionally grazing the point of her nipple.
She stopped breathing at the contact, restarted only after he had the blanket all the way up to her chin.
Let the storm pass quickly, he prayed.
For months they had been dancing around their growing attraction to one another. It would not be long before everyone started to notice. Dima, her demon half-brother, had long accused him of lusting after the girl, even when carnal desire had played no part in Mikhael's love for her.
Now Dima was criticizing everything Alina did, threatening to send her to work with her mother if she didn't stop acting and dressing like a slut—his demented mind warping his perception of the outfits her father clothed her in.
"You're shaking," Alina said, turning on her side and planting one dainty palm against his bare chest. "Have I infected you with my fear?"
"No," he rasped.
Rage made him tremble. Nothing about Alina was slutty. Dima was only blaming her for his twisted desires.
What would the bastard do if he knew Alina had visited Mikhael's room while he and his precious papa were in Atlantic City?
Grabbing hold of Alina's hand, he rolled onto his side to face her.
"You can't stay and you can't come
back."
Feeling her flinch, he cursed himself for his harsh tone. But soft words wouldn't work with the girl. She'd find a way to talk him out of the command if he sugar coated it. She could talk him into or out of almost anything, but not this time. Her safety, even her life, depended on it.
"Why?" she asked, her voice cracked and trembling.
"Don't be dull," he answered sharply. "Do you think your papa will save you if Dima wants to send you away? And what do you think Dima will do before that? You know where you will go. Why shouldn't Dima break you in first?"
She tried to free her hand from his grip but Mikhael held on tight in his anger. Relenting, she relaxed into him, her body wracked by silent sobs she was too proud to voice.
Damn it, he should have let her go when she tried to pull free. Now her soft curves were molding around his arm and against his chest. The heat of her body penetrated his. He could smell the mix of berries that scented her shampoo and made his mouth water.
He tugged his hand away and tried to slide to the far side of the mattress.
"We can leave," she whispered, stopping him cold. "The two of us together."
He could leave. He had already taken steps to clear the way. That he was still in Rodchenko's house was only because the man would lose face among the other bosses by tossing Mikhael out so soon after Kata's funeral.
Mikhael lingered because of Alina and a need to earn as much money as he could before he escaped Dmitrey's influence.
"I can't keep you safe," he answered after a long pause. "Not yet."
Keeping her safe would require new identities, ones created by someone outside of the Russian mafia that polluted America's east coast. That took money and connections he didn't have. Hell, he had no connections beyond a name at the FBI, some aggressive crime fighter whose assassination Papa Rodchenko had been toying with a few weeks before.
She answered with a soft exhale of disbelief. "You don't want me any more than my mama or papa."
Another quiet sound escaped her, this one loaded with hurt and her own quiet anger. "It seems only Dima wants me."
Sitting up, she swung her legs off the side of the bed, ready to leave despite the storm raging on.
"You're leaving without me, aren't you?"
He wanted to lie, to say he was staying and that he'd do whatever was necessary to get the old man to keep him inside the family. But lying would only make her hurt that much more when he left.
Reaching across the mattress, he snagged her hand before she could stand.
"The storm's not over."
"It will be out by the harbor soon." She looked at him over her shoulder, the room too dark for him to see her face. "You said so."
"Stay." He didn't want her to leave, not like this, not thinking Dima was the only one who wanted her.
He was not the monster her half-brother was. He loved her beyond the desire he felt for her. She had been his only true friend all these years of living in New York.
"Stay," he repeated, drawing her close, lips parting to claim her mouth in their first real kiss.
4
Alina
Alina melted into the kiss, heat erupting in her chest and stomach. Her hand slipped free from Mikhael's to drape her arms over his shoulders. He cupped her face, his palms and the tips of his fingers callused from the work her father had him perform at the docks for so little pay.
That same work packed his already big body with muscles. She ran her hands from his broad shoulders to his thick biceps. Her nails dug into the unyielding flesh as a moan slid from her mouth into his.
She couldn't remember how long she had waited for this moment, how many times she had brought herself to a silent, straining climax in her cold and lonely bed knowing he was just a few doors down.
When Mikhael started to pull away, his hands unclenching from the sides of her face, she clung to him.
"Don't stop," she whispered breathlessly.
All the heat that had warmed her torso sank to the valley of her hips, a throbbing ache building as she sought to wrap her arms around his neck and keep him from pushing away.
He wanted this. She was as certain of his feelings as she was of her own. For more than a year she'd seen flashes of the same intense look on his face that she had recognized as lust in other men. Only, with Mikhael, the hard need was tempered by something delicate and fragile that kept her from fearing his desire.
"Don't you love me?"
"Yes," he groaned and buried his face against her neck. "On my life, I love you."
Knotting her fingers in his yellow-gold hair, she pressed closer to him. Forgotten was the storm with its crashing thunder. Only the lightning was acknowledged as it bathed them in its fleeting brightness.
She kicked at the blankets, hungry to see his bare chest and strong arms the next time the storm illuminated the room. When they were free of the bedding, he pushed Alina onto her back, his hands wrapping around her wrists, her fingers unthreading from his hair as he pushed her arms above her head and covered her body with his.
Mikhael planted a row of kisses against the sensitive flesh of her neck. Squirming, she pushed up against his weight, frustrated that he had her pinned down, the pace of his ardor slowing so quickly she feared he would pull away.
"Don't stop," she begged, hips thrusting upward. "Don't ever stop."
"Love," he said, rasping the word in Russian. "We can't..."
Feeling the hard jut of his cock against her soft underbelly, she knew they could. His body already willed it so.
He stopped moving, his hands still holding her arms captive as he rested with one cheek pressed against her chest. Her needy, throbbing flesh couldn't convince him. She didn't think her tears would either.
"You'll leave and it will be someone else I don't want, someone papa orders me to marry or..."
She wouldn't say the little devil's name, not when her body was in a fevered pitch, the pulsing ache between her legs making her thighs wet.
Could Mikhael smell her need? Did the musk of her sex cling to his nose as it clung to hers?
"I love you," she pleaded. "I need it to be you. You don't have to promise you won't leave later."
Only half of what she said was true. She loved him. But she wanted his promise, prayed that if he took her he would have to stay. Her body began to shake and jerk, the pain of his stopping triggering an emotional breakdown.
His head bounced lightly against her breast from the violence of her movements. His arm brushed innocently against her swollen nipple. She cried out at the contact. Having him against her, hard where she was soft, her flesh sensitive to the barest contact between them, was an exquisite torture she never could have imagined.
"Mishka, please. It hurts so bad."
His hands whipped down the bed at her tearful begging. Finding the hem of her nightgown, he shoved it up over her hips. His hand burrowed between their bodies, calloused fingers slipping between her thighs until he found her slit, hot to the touch and drenched. He squeezed the plump flesh, his mouth returning to her neck to suck and kiss and bite.
The painful need between her legs grew, doubled, then doubled again. Her ass rocked against the hard mattress. She tried to part her thighs, to ease his access to all the raw and weeping flesh hungry for his touch.
Her hands and forearms wrapped around his head, caressing and squeezing at his skull. Her chest pushed upward, her breasts heavy with the request that he suck and kiss at them with the same intensity as he did her neck.
Groaning, Mikhael slipped lower down. As his head passed her belly button, she shimmied the nightgown up and off.
"Here," she urged, uncertain of his destination and wanting his mouth on her aching nipples and his cock buried inside her.
Elbows pressing at her sides, she pushed her breasts up toward his mouth, offering him his choice of feasting on either one. Lightning from the still raging storm filled the room just as his tongue darted out to wet his top lip.
She moaned seeing the t
ip. Her legs spread at the sight, her thighs pressing at his hips in a silent coaxing.
"Alina—"
Choking on her name, he surrendered to her offering. His mouth latched around one pouting nipple. Each hand seized a breast, squeezing and pushing them together, his cheeks rough with the day's growth of a young man's beard. His breath blew hot against her skin to singe the nearest nipple with its heat.
Feeling the hard press of his cock as it strained against his underwear, her hands pushed between their bodies. The maneuver pressed her breasts closer together, the added pressure teasing a whimper from her throat.
Mikhael groaned at the sound, his body shaking with hers.
Sensing the intent of her questing hands, he lifted his hips and shucked off his underwear. He surfed forward to lick a slow line up her neck as her fingers wrapped around his hard shaft. She gasped at its dimensions, earning a rumbling growl as he bit lightly at her chin.
His big hands grabbed her hips as she stroked him. His fingers pressed in, dimpling her flesh. A shudder running through him, he abandoned one hip and seized a handful of her hair. Their lips touched and then his tongue thrust inside her mouth.
He withdrew, bit at her lip, tugged it as far as it would stretch.
"Fuck," he growled, ending the kiss and burying his face against her neck.
His hand left her hair, glossed down her arm to find one ripe breast. Squeezing, he roughly held it in place despite her squirming so that his mouth could latch onto her nipple. Then his fingers zipped down to dust her hands off his cock.
He released her nipple with a pop then held her arms down against the mattress as he kissed a line from the valley of her breasts, over the curve of her belly, then down to the silken hair covering her mound.
"Mishka..."
She didn't want him to stop, but fear of the unknown turned her muscles tense. She had heard the maids talk about a man having his mouth against a woman's sex, their words more vulgar.
