SINNERS: A Russian Mafia/Sports Romance (Saints & Sinners Duet Book 2)

by Sophia Henry

  “This is the Bear Salon,” he says. “We finished it last week.”

  As if being pulled by an invisible force, I move toward a giant, crystal bear. It must be feet tall. When I reach out and skim my fingertips over the glass, flashes of color sail past. At first, I think it’s just a trick of the light, but as I gaze into the belly of the beast, there’s movement again.

  It’s a fish tank.

  I laugh and turn around, but Kirill isn’t smiling. His jaw is hard. His intense gaze still focused on me. That’s when I realize I misread his demeanor in the elevator. It’s pure, unyielding lust radiating from his azure eyes.

  His chest heaves as he approaches. Instinct sends me backward until I’m trapped against the bear. My heart bounces, banging against my ribcage in anticipation of what he’ll do next.

  He grabs my head, brings my face to his, and claims my mouth. I respond immediately, sliding my fingers into his hair and clutching it for dear life. The harder he presses, the more aroused I get. I suck his bottom lip into my mouth, nipping it with my teeth. His moan is enhanced by his erection growing against my stomach.

  He grabs my hair, yanking my head back until I meet his eyes. “This is what you want?” Kirill asks through clenched teeth. “To be my secret whore?”

  “We both know that’s not what I am. You love me.”

  “Everything I love will die because of me.”

  “We will all die eventually.”

  “Fuck!” He slams his hand on the massive tank behind me. It missed my face by a few inches. “Your father was right. You are a stupid girl.”

  The insult stings. Out of a million things he could say to push me away, he chose the one he knew would hurt the most. But he doesn’t scare me.

  “I. Am. Not. Stupid,” I say, placing my palms on his chest and pushing him backward. “I am smart. I am successful.” He stands tall and firm as I step toward him with each declaration until we’re nose to nose. I lift my head high as I stare at him. “And we both know who helped me become the woman I am today.”

  The challenge excites him, but he doesn’t give up. “If you were smart. You would stay away from me.”

  “I can’t bear these mind games any longer!” I snap. “If you wanted me to stay away, you never would have let me know you were alive.”

  “My uncle convinced me it was best.”

  “And now he is dead and you can make your own rules.”

  His eyes blaze, anger and passion radiating in waves. My body hums in vibration with his. “You have a death wish, Stasya,” he whispers. The hushed voice makes me shiver.

  Suddenly, he grasps my hips and pulls me into him, seizing my mouth once more. I wrap my arms around his neck and grind my pelvis into his erection. His hands move to his pants, unbuttoning and unzipping quickly. Once his cock is free, I reach down and lift my skirt giving him full access. He slides to my entrance, groaning when he doesn’t find any other fabric stopping him. He shoves himself into me hard and fast. I gasp and grasp his shoulders. He doesn’t let up, thrusting with wild abandon.

  I squeeze my eyes closed, clenching my teeth every time his cock hits my inside wall. The line between pleasure and pain is paper-thin, and I honestly don’t know which I’m feeling, but I don’t want him to stop. I want him to fuck me until we fall—joined together as a pile of sweaty, heaving bodies on the floor unable to move.

  “This will be your life as my whore, Stasya,” he growls in my ear. “Do you like getting fucked like this?”

  “Yes,” I hiss. He can’t intimidate me. “We are one. Connected for eternity.”

  Maybe he remembers the words he uttered to me after the very first time we came together because he stops and hugs me to his body. His cock throbs inside me, but he doesn’t move. Just buries his face in my hair inhales deeply. Then he whispers, “There is no Kirya without Stasya.”

  My heart bursts with unfiltered joy I haven’t felt since I lost him.

  When he lifts his head, his eyes are soft—the way I remember them. Instead of resuming the punishing drives, he lifts me up and pats my thighs. Without taking my eyes off his, I wrap my legs around his waist. He leans down to kiss me, resuming his thrusts with our lips locked. This time they’re deep and rhythmic. Exquisite, not unforgiving.

  The way we fuck—whether it’s primal or sweet—doesn’t say anything about how we feel about each other, but at this particular moment, I can tell that something inside him changed. The flip switched.

  My Kirya—my love—is back.

  “Did I hurt you?” Kirill asks, interrupting the silence of the aftermath. The crystal bear looms above us as we lay on the floor in a tangled twist of naked, sweaty limbs.

  I shake my head.

  Exhausted and satiated? Yes.

  Hurt? No.

  He’d never physically hurt me. That’s one thing about Kirya that I’m completely sure of. If he wants to be rough, fuck all his frustration out, I can handle it. I’ll take whatever he has for me.

  Kirill has had a grasp on my mind and soul since the first moment he defended me against Papa.

  My body was the last thing he claimed—something I never realized until this very moment.

  13

  Stasya

  “What’s this mischievous look in your eye, Stasya?” Veronika asks as she sits down across from me at the tiny table in the back of the Russian Dining Room. “You look like a cat who devoured the family bird.”

  “I didn’t know I had any kind of look.” I glance at my eyes in my compact mirror before tossing it into my purse and skim my top lip gently to make sure I’ve removed the excess lip gloss I just applied.

  If she knew the reason for any mischievous looks, she would be mortified. I’m engaged to one man and fucking the one I truly love behind his back.

  She leans closer and whispers, “Did you and Dima—?”

  “Did we what?” I ask, confused.

  “You know,” she presses. “Have some fun before the morning skate?”

  Suddenly, what she’s alluding to hits me. “Oh! No.” I shake my head. “No.”

  “I’m sorry to have upset you. I just thought, I mean, he’s your fiancé,” she apologizes quickly.

  “It’s okay. I wasn’t even thinking straight. Between Dima and the Americans playoff run and everything on my mind with the store. It took me a minute to understand.”

  “Does Dima have a no-sex-during-the-playoffs rule?”

  “Um,” I pause. “I don’t know. I don’t, um—”

  “Do you two not—”

  “We do!” I answer quickly, then wonder why I’m even discussing this with her. Though we’ve been friends for years, I’ve never been one to tell my girlfriends details of my sex life. It took me a month to tell my best friend, Svetlana, after I lost my virginity to Dmitri. But that was mainly because I was embarrassed by how he treated me afterward.

  Technically, we’re in the middle of a no-sex-since-I-found-out-Kirill-was-alive slump. Not that Dmitri has even noticed. We’ve never been a hot and heavy couple.

  Passion was never something Kirill and I lacked. Over the last few weeks, we’ve picked up right where we left off. I hate that we have to sneak around. I hate that I’ve begun to justify cheating—something I’ve never agreed with before.

  The moral rules are shady when it comes to people coming back from the dead. Black and white don’t apply.

  “How is Pavel holding up with the playoff pressure?” I ask, hopefully changing the subject. Dmitri has been short-tempered and quiet since the playoffs started. It’s almost as if everything I say aggravates him.

  Which is annoying, but not a reason to cheat on him. The guilt eats at me.

  “He holds up wonderfully.” She winks.

  “That’s not—” I stammer, absently tracing the rim of my tea glass. Part of me wants to tell her about Kirya—the entire story from childhood to today, but I can’t. No one knows he’s alive and I have a feeling he’s keeping it that way for a reason.

  T
here’s always a reason for deception—or omission of information.

  “I know, Stasya. I’m teasing you.”

  It’s been years since I’ve lived an underground life. I’d gotten used to it when I was with Kirill, but being able to live freely, without fear and secrets, has me off my game.

  Is it a game I want to get back into?

  “As I said, there’s so much going on with the store and—” I stop and take a breath, then smile as I release it. “You know what? I’m going to relax and enjoy lunch with a friend.”

  “Good!” she says, leaning back as Sergei, her brother, sets a three-tiered-tray of crustless sandwiches in front of us. “Thank you, Seryozha.”

  “I’ve just taken a bite of a delicious cucumber sandwich when Veronika says, “I like it, by the way.”

  “Like what?” I ask, covering my mouth with my hand as I chew.

  “The happiness radiating off you. I didn’t mean to ruin that with my teasing.”

  As I walk back to the store, I’m mulling over my lunch with Veronika. She noticed something was different about me the first time she sat down with me. Last week, Debbie spotted a “skip in my step” as she called it.

  Kirill once told me I’d never be a good poker player because I wear my emotions for all to see, like the T-shirts that are so popular right now—with the brand scrawled across the front. I’m in too deep with Kirill and I can’t go on this way; lying to Dmitri and sneaking around to see a man who says he wants nothing to do with me, yet won’t leave me alone.

  I’ve come to a proverbial fork in the road. If I were a prince in a folk tale, I would be standing in front of a monolith reading the inscription: "If you ride to the left, you will lose your horse, if you ride to the right, you will lose your head".

  One way is safe, but boring and passionless. Marrying a man I’m not in love with was never how I saw my life going. Even as a girl, I dreamed of a man who would free me from my father. Someone who would keep me safe, treat me well, and love me for who I was—even if I was just an accountant Gosbank. Dmitri provides those things, but there’s no spark.

  Then there’s Kirill, someone who brings so much passion to everything he does. He treats me well, has always appreciated and loved me for who I am, and can provide anything I’d ever want. But there’s no safety with him, except when I’m in his arms. I go back to a life of fear and paranoia.

  I have a successful business and a good life here in America. Since the Soviet Union dissolved, there are no restrictions from me going back to Russia, for visiting or business, whenever I want. I can fly to fashion week in Paris or London.

  Technically, none of that has to change, but being with Kirill takes more planning and security measures.

  I’m confused and hurt. Guilt weighs on my soul. Giving in to the passion with Kirill behind Dmitri’s back isn’t right. Dima may be boring and self-absorbed, but he’s not a bad person and he loves me in his own way. I can’t forget how much he’s helped me.

  Once I get back to the store, I sail past Debbie and Jordan, straight into my office. There’s too much on my mind right now to focus.

  I need to clear my head.

  Lifting the phone’s handset and holding it to my ear, I flip quickly through the Rolodex on my desk until I find the card labeled: Krasivo Custom Art. Slava Rybakov is the only person who will understand the situation and be able to give me sound advice.

  When his shop manager answers, ask to speak to Stan. It’s still so hard for me to call him that. Why he would change a beautiful diminutive like Slava to Stan is beyond me.

  Stan. It’s so American.

  Stan the man.

  “What?” he barks into the phone, cutting off my English rhyming thoughts.

  I laugh. “That’s how you answer your calls?”

  “Well, I didn’t know it was the queen,” he grumbles. “What took you so fucking long?”

  “Can I come to visit you this weekend?” I ask hopefully, though he’s never denied me anything. Well, maybe at first, but not after a little persuading. I’ve got Slava wrapped around my finger.

  But don’t tell him.

  “Two men isn’t enough?” he teases. “You want to throw a third into the mix?”

  I twist the cord around my finger, laughing as I answer. “I hate you.”

  “I know. When are you coming?”

  “Thursday night to Saturday morning. I can’t be gone for long.”

  “See you Thursday, my queen.”

  “Shut up,” I say rolling my eyes as I hang up the phone.

  Spending time with Slava is exactly what I need. He’s always been a voice of reason to help me clear my mind.

  Before I call the airline to book my ticket, I’ll need to run the idea by Debbie and Jordan. If I leave on Thursday night and come home Saturday morning, I’ll only miss one full day the store, so it shouldn’t be an issue.

  No, the biggest issue is that I already know which way Slava will steer me. It’s the subconscious reason I chose him to help me work things out.

  14

  Kirill

  Charlotte 1994

  Slava called me as soon as he hung up with Stasya—and I was on the phone with an airline booking a flight to Charlotte three seconds after hearing she was going down there.

  I should be satisfied with our tryst at the Dining Room and stay away from her.

  But I can’t.

  She consumes me completely.

  The only person I would die for—the only person I can’t live without.

  The last time I was in Charlotte, about a year after Slava settled in, I spent six months with him. I’d just finished a hospital stay, recovering from the gunshot wounds I took to protect Stasya. My only two requirements for leaving Russia were: somewhere warm and somewhere I could hide without worrying that someone might find out I was alive.

  Charlotte was the perfect place. It’s a sleepy Southern city with very little action. Well, very little “above-world” action. Underground, this place is a hot-bed for human trafficking. Especially with the number of people moving in from all over the country every year. From the look of how it’s going, I bet the size will double in the next twenty years. Slava moved here and started his business at the perfect time.

  Krasivo Custom Art is in a run-down, working-class part of the city. From the outside, the weathered, brick building looks like it could crumble at any time, which might turn off some potential customers, but I doubt those are the clients Slava’s looking for right now. He got his start tattooing in prison and kept that kind of clientele in Moscow. He’s well known for his work in the tattooing community.

  Tattooing isn’t even legal here, hence the shop name—Krasivo Custom Art. Though there’s art on the wall, I doubt any of it is for sale. Slava knows what “a front” is—a business that appears to be one thing to the public and another thing to people who understand.

  Despite the way it looks from the outside, the shop is the epitome of cleanliness. Slava is the most meticulous man I know. Which is why he’s so good at his work—tattoo artist or hitman—both require impeccable cleanliness.

  When I enter the shop, Stasya is lying face-down on Slava’s table naked from the waist up. He’s hunched over, tattoo machine buzzing as he shades a section on her shoulder.

  “Looks like I arrived at the perfect time,” I say, striding to the table.

  Slava lifts his foot from the pedal on the floor and sits back. “Here we go,” he whispers.

  Stasya raises her head. “Oh my god! You’re like a banya leaf!”

  The barb makes me laugh out loud. It might be insulting if it weren’t true. After a trip to the bathhouse, your body is so sweaty everything sticks. Leaves, in particular, are annoying to remove. Maybe my persistence is wearing her down.

  “Am I not allowed to visit my best friend?” I ask, rolling a black stool from another station to sit next to the table.

  “I hate you so much,” She hisses, clenching her fist and punching Slava’s oute
r thigh. In doing so, she gives both of us an eyeful of her big, beautiful breasts.

  Lust and jealousy swirl in my stomach. I’m not worried about Slava. It’s an involuntary reaction to someone else seeing her naked.

  “Lay down and shut up,” I tell her. “Let the man finish his wo—” I stop mid-word when I glimpse the design sprawled across the top part of her smooth, delicate back.

  It’s a gorgeous, intricate angel across. The wings are black and the tips curl over onto her shoulder. Though she didn’t have it when we were together, it feels like I’ve seen it

  That’s because I have the identical tattoo across my back—with one exception.

  The angel on my back carries a sickle on one hand and a lock in the other.

  Her angel holds a key.

  I came here to talk to her about how we move forward living in the same city apart. How do we push through the anger and hurt and keep the past in the past? On the plane ride, I was still debating between cutting all communication off or giving in. When the wheels touched down, I thought I’d made my decision—the right decision.

  But seeing her tattoo tipped the scale.

  We can be together here in Charlotte for one more night. Then it has to end.

  At the shop, Stasya must have resigned herself to the fact that we’re both staying with Slava tonight because she hasn’t complained since we walked in the door.

  When he bought the house, it was a complete dump—almost condemned by the city. He began renovating it last time I was here, even getting me in on the work by telling me that demolition was good for my rehab. I’m not sure if swinging a sledgehammer at the old, termite-infested cabinets helped with the rehab, but it definitely worked for getting aggression out.