by Nicole Fox
When he comes inside me, his body pressed firmly against mine, there is a brief moment where I forget where I am, who I’m with, who I have become. For one tiny second, everything feels like it might be okay.
He collapses down beside me, our legs locking together from his movement. As I start to fall asleep, I feel his arms slip around me, pulling me closer. I rest my head near his heart, listening to it beat.
Only then can I fall asleep.
13
Maksim
In the two and a half days since Cassandra and I fell asleep together, I haven’t seen her.
I see traces of her in the house like she’s a ghost—the smell of slightly burnt toast, the coffee mug drying in the dish rack, the sound of the shower running—but every time I see some semblance of her, I go the other direction.
It’s a reminder of vulnerability I thought I had banished from my soul the day Natalie died. It’s a reminder that the Bratva is in a war and Cassandra is a wolf in the chicken coop.
And even within the small possibility that she isn’t, she could be something worse. Not just a spy, but a virus. Here to infect me. Consume me from within.
I’d rather be dead than weak.
So, I let her exist in the background. Out of sight, out of mind.
The only vulnerable person in the house now is the Balducci lieutenant in my basement.
The handcuffs on the lieutenant clatter as Fedot presses his foot against the man’s shattered knee. The man’s screams rip through my house’s basement. I loosened his gag after Cassandra left, but I still look up at the ceiling like she might hear and interrupt us.
That’s the thing I’ve learned about ghosts—they come and go as they please.
“Do you know how long you’ve been down here?” I ask the lieutenant. Fedot steps out of the way. I squat down in front of our prisoner. The man’s name is Joe Biagini, but I don’t use it. He’s no better than a stray dog to me, and I wouldn’t name a stray, either. Besides, I intend to break him down until there is little left in him that resembles the spirit of a man.
“It’s been three days since the club shooting,” I continue. “Your people haven’t come looking for you. I haven’t heard a single whisper that they’re looking for you. Best-case scenario, they assume you died in the shooting. Worst-case scenario, they’re preparing to kill off your loved ones because they assume you’re a squealer. Either way, it’s not worth all this pain. Just tell me who planted the bomb that killed Ravil. This will all stop. I’ll let you leave intact. You can run. I know you won’t be able to return to your men after being gone so long. Paranoia is good for the clan but bad for the stragglers. Isn’t that right, Fedot?”
“Yes, boss,” Fedot says. “Every Bratva member knows that if they disappear for more than a couple of days, we won’t take chances on them. We know they’ve either been with the police or another enemy.”
My father was a good man, but even as a good man, he had the Akimov temper. All the Akimov men have it. My great-grandfather fought against bears in the bitter cold of the Russian wilderness.
My grandfather took enemy scalps in both World Wars, and never met a commanding officer he didn’t insult to the man’s face.
One died on the battlefield, the other in a blizzard. Both victims of their own fury.
My father tried to forewarn me about the Akimov temper—that it could become a trait of strength and lead to glory, but it could also become a death sentence.
But he was killed in a car accident, so his advice seems pointless in retrospect. His self-control didn’t save him. I will not restrain myself now, as the temper barges through me like a stampede.
The Balducci lieutenant won’t look me in the eye. His eyes shift back and forth, so I know his eardrums haven’t been ruptured yet and he can hear me just fine. He’s just a piece of shit that thinks I’m too wary of Balducci retaliation to not take this to its inevitable, violent end.
I grab him by his face, my thumb pushing into a gash across his face. He squirms, his mouth gaping open as he makes a pathetic whining noise. I press my thumb down harder.
“Listen, you worthless shit,” I hiss. “There are three ways out of this. I kill you, they kill you, or I help you disappear. And you should know that, if I am the one to kill you, it’s going to take a long time. I’m not going to risk taking a whole body out of here, so I’ll cut you apart inch by inch while you’re still breathing. I will throw you out beside my steak bones and my spoiled takeout. Every day. One inch at a time. I’ll start with the extremities, so you’ll live through it longer.”
I keep staring at him. His eyes finally meet mine.
“Okay,” he rasps. “I’ll … I’ll talk.”
I take my hands off his face and step back, trying to rein in the anger burning in my veins. I can hear my father’s voice in my ear. Calm down, Maksim. Breathe. Do not be a victim to your own hatred.
But his voice is too weak and distant to change my mind.
The man adjusts his weight in the chair. He eyes me warily.
“Gianluigi knew it would get under your skin,” he mutters. “First, your wife, then your right-hand man. He knew—”
“He’s not as knowledgeable as you and his other rats pretend to be,” I cut in. “Tell me who planted the bomb. I’d like to pay him a visit before I deal with Gianluigi.”
“They’d all be fine if it weren’t for you,” the lieutenant continues to ramble. “You’re the reason that they died. They stuck around you and—”
I yank my gun out of its holster. I pull the trigger three times in quick succession. The chair topples over. The lieutenant is dead before he hits the floor.
“Boss—” Fedot says. “He was going to talk.”
“No. He was going to monologue,” I say. The truth is a lot more ambiguous. “It was a waste of time. We’ll find someone else. Take care of the body.”
I turn around, walking back the stairs.
A rat in a corner is the angriest creature on the planet, my father’s voice rasps in the back of my head. Does that make him the most powerful?
Of course not. A vulnerable man is an angry man. Both are weak.
I snarl and punch a wall.
As I step into the library, Cassandra is walking down the stairs. She’s wearing a white shirt and black underwear. It’s one of those sights that’s hard to reconcile with the violence of my life. It’s one of those things that should only be possible in a dream.
She notices me when she’s at the bottom step. Her hand clings onto the handrail, her movements suddenly a lot less certain. I remind myself that she’s a virus, but she doesn’t look the part now. She looks soft, innocent, transparent.
“I thought you had left,” I say. Her body sways slightly until she leans against the handrail.
“I did, for a short while,” she says. “I heard a noise. Is it what I think it was?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Yes, it was.”
There’s no need to be coy. The sound of a gun would be unmistakable to the daughter of a Mafia don. She’s no idiot.
She gazes down at her feet. Her hand glides down her black hair. When she looks up at me, there’s something moving behind her eyes that could be fear or hope.
“Is someone dead?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say again.
“Is it my father?”
I run my finger over my face, where the Balducci lieutenant’s gash was. Her logic makes sense—I want to hurt her father and I just made it clear that I thought she was gone—but it doesn’t settle right in my mind. Somewhere, the thought that I’d give her a chance to say goodbye is hidden behind all my other ruminations. I find it and discard it. I don’t owe her anything. I’ve fucked dozens of women without getting attached to them—the only difference with this one is that the blood that runs in her veins is blood that I desperately want to spill.
“No, it wasn’t your father,” I say. A breath escapes out of her, her shoulders relaxing.
“I want to see
my daughter. When can I see her?” she asks.
I tighten my grip on myself.
I don’t owe her anything.
I’m busy annihilating everything her father thinks he deserves.
She’s the enemy.
She’s the vulnerability.
I let out a slow breath. “Tomorrow.”
The answer comes out on its own. I intended to give an excuse, but the answer comes out just as easily as the bullet that killed the lieutenant.
Cassandra rushes over, flinging her arms around me. As she hugs me, there’s a numb shock over her exuberance and a sharper shock that I didn’t have any instinct to defend myself. The numbness starts to fade, replaced by a warmth that feels downright destructive.
I pull away from her, grabbing her wrists to push her away. “Just be ready to go tomorrow. I have a lot of shit going on.”
There are flecks of blood that have transferred from my shirt to hers. It should be the only thing catching my attention, but there’s also a faint outline of her nipples showing through the shirt.
I cross my arms over my chest, looking back at her face. “Go put on more clothes.”
“All the clothes you insisted I wear are too fancy for walking around the house,” she retorts.
“I don’t care.”
She rests her hands on her hips. “God, all I do is show some gratitude that you’re going to fulfill your side of the deal and you act like I proposed to you. I know you have to act like a badass in front of your men, but right now it’s just the two of us. You don’t have to act like a hug is a death sentence. It’s just a hug.”
“I’m not acting,” I say. “I’m not upset. You just need to remember your place in this deal.”
She snorts. “My place? Oh right—on my knees in front of you in the shower?”
I grit my teeth, trying to block out the memory of her ass, her soft lips, her moans. “You know what I mean.”
She reaches forward, her hand cupping the side of my face.
“I’m happy that I get to see my daughter,” she says. “It doesn’t have to be any more than that. If you can accept that, you should come to the kitchen with me. We can have a drink together.”
Her hand drops away. She walks north, heading toward the kitchen. I watch her hips sway.
Then I follow her.
We settle in the library. The collection of books in this room was started by my great grandfather. This is insignificant in every way except seeing Cassandra in the middle of it, holding onto her glass of whiskey.
She plucks one of the books off the shelf. “I’ve heard this one is good. Mary Lionel was a fantastic journalist.”
“She goes into a fair amount of detail about the corruption within the music industry,” I say. Sitting in one of the rustic red chairs, I rest my glass on the armrest. “But I know you have higher ambitions than that. How is that going for you?”
She sips from her drink. “Great.”
“You’ve been going out a lot. Not always the typical nine-to-five hours either. I’d assume your investigations are going well, but I know you wouldn’t be able to get any information out of the people who know the most about the Bratva.”
“What makes you think that’s what I’m doing when I’m gone?” she asks. She stands on her tiptoes to put the book back. As she stretches, the shirt creeps up, drawing my attention to the tempting slice of pale skin it exposes. “Maybe I’m watching every movie in the theater. I have plans to visit one of my high school friends tomorrow—do you think I’ll question her about the Mafia?”
“You may be going out tomorrow with a friend, but I doubt you do that often.” I take a quick drink. “I did thorough research. You work, sleep, and drink overpriced coffee. For a while, I assumed you were boring, but it turns out you just pour all of yourself into your work.”
She sips her drink, avoiding my gaze. “I’m not working right now.”
“Like hell you’re not. You’re looking for dirt on me in every corner of the city.”
She snorts. “You are a textbook case of narcissistic personality disorder.”
“That’s not a denial.”
“If I was researching you, I’d be the one asking the questions.” She moves over to the piano, sliding her hand over the white keys. “For the record, I am not just working when I leave your house. I’ve also walked through some parks.”
“I’m going to deduce that it’s one park and it’s the one across from your daughter’s school.”
She frowns. “Yes, mostly that one.”
“Have you seen her yet?”
“No,” she says. “Do you think they stopped letting her out after seeing me?”
“Maybe. It wasn’t your most brilliant plan.”
“Right,” she says. “Because luring your enemy’s daughter to the park was a foolproof plan, too, right? Nothing unpredictable has happened since then.”
I take another drink. “Some bad, some worse. An occasional spike in pleasure.”
“Does this unimpressed act ever get you anywhere other than a place of self-pity?” she asks.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not pitying myself.”
“Bullshit.”
“I didn’t take you out of self-pity. I took you for revenge.”
She walks over to me before kneeling down near the armchair. “If it was revenge, you’d go straight after my father. This is about taking what you want.”
I glance down at her naked thighs. “If that was my goal, I’d already have you spread out on this floor.”
She smiles thinly at me. “But you wouldn’t be able to lie to yourself about your intentions.”
I smirk back at her. “I’ll have to get your father to ask me what my intentions with you are—I’ll be certain to tell him in explicit detail.”
With her down on her knees, it’s easy to forget the conversation and just imagine her mouth on me again. At the same time, this conversation could almost be considered fun. Most women simply agree with everything I say, desperate for my approval. Cassandra doesn’t give a fuck about my approval. She will go where I want her to go; that much is certain. But she clearly intends to fight me every step of the way.
Down the hallway, I hear one of the grandfather clocks chiming. Eight o’clock. I haven’t eaten since this morning and the alcohol is starting to make me hazy. I take out my phone.
“What are you doing?” Cassandra asks.
“Calling my chef. His pastrami sandwiches are better than anybody else’s in the city.”
She snatches my phone out of my hand, tapping on the screen to end the call. “Are you kidding me? It’s not exactly working hours.”
“I pay him well.”
“I don’t give a shit. Let him sleep.” She sets her glass down on the piano bench. “Do you have bread and cheese?” she asks.
I shrug. “Probably.”
“Butter?”
“I’m sure.”
“Good. I’m going to make my infamous grilled cheese.”
“Infamous? Because it kills people?” I ask.
She gestures to the blood on my shirt. “Not any worse than you do. Come on. Prepare to be blown away.” I wince at her choice of words, but she doesn’t notice.
She walks out the south entrance of the library. I watch her until her ass disappears. I keep sitting, waiting for her to reappear, to fall into subjugation. I finish my drink. I wait. I look around the room, remembering every movement she made within its walls.
I set my glass beside hers, then leave the library. Walking down the hallway, I follow the sound of clashing pots and pans. She doesn’t understand. Most of the foster homes I lived in only took in kids to get a paycheck and play the part of the martyr in front of other people. They’d whine about having to deal with these bratty kids and how much the spoiled children cost to take care of. I lived on scraps—cans of olives, stale cereal, ketchup on bread. Butter or dried fruit was considered a good day. My childhood was filled with rearranging ingredients to make someth
ing palatable. Once I was wealthy enough to get a chef, I found one of the best ones in the city that would be willing to overlook any questionable activity and ever since I’ve never had to face looking into a pantry with that childhood dread swooping in.
By the time I get to the kitchen, there’s a pan on the stove. She’s buttering two pieces of bread, the blade of the knife moving with a flickering glint in the light overhead.
“Did your father teach you how to make this?” I ask.
“Would that change your opinion of it?” she asks. “No. I learned in college. YouTube and desperation are the best teachers. The key is low heat under the pan.”
“I see.”
“You wait until the butter is melted on the top bread.” She raises the buttered bread. “You also have some good ingredients here. Gourmet cheddar cheese with some sourdough bread. We’ll see. I’ve never used gourmet cheddar.”
She carefully drops the first piece of bread on the pan. It sizzles. She layers the cheese and second piece of bread on top of it, gnawing on her lip in concentration. Her hips sway slightly as she checks the flames under the pan. It’s hard to resist. I walk swiftly toward her. She stiffens slightly before I reach her. My hands are on her hips, barely brushing over her ass. Her back arches, her shoulders tapping against my chest.
“How did I know you’d be the type to like women the most when they’re in the kitchen?” she teases. It’s easy to forget everything creating distance between us when she’s this close to me.
“I like my women anywhere,” I say. “I like them better when they’re not wearing pants.”
“That’s not what you were saying before.”
“The alcohol has made me smarter. And less interested in clothes.”
She picks up a spatula off the counter. “I need to focus on the sandwich. This is art you’re witnessing.”
“I’d rather witness you.”
I run my hands under her shirt, tracing the outline of her spine. She shivers under my touch. Her ass presses against my cock. She’s so good at this.
