Dirty

by Stevie J. Cole

  We eat in silence and I make no effort to converse with him. My mind is elsewhere, dreaming of hot desert sands and dirty corrupt streets I may never again see. When the servants come back to clear the table I scoot my chair back. Ronan clears his throat. "We have something to discuss," he says, tossing his napkin on the table.

  "Oh?"

  He taps the tabletop. "You want your freedom, but... I want to keep you."

  I lean back in my chair, my gaze locking with his. "Yes."

  His eyes dragging over my body until every last inch of my skin heats from his look alone. "You've played fair so... as much as I may crave you, I must let you go. You're free to leave." He shakes his head as he scoots his chair away from the table and stands. "Such a shame, we could have been so powerful together."

  I narrow my eyes. "You're letting me go?"

  "Yes." He turns from the table. "I will miss you, little kitty."

  My heart rate picks up, and something close to panic seizes me. This is what I want, isn't it? Freedom.

  "I'll have Igor bring a car around for you." He starts toward the door.

  "Ronan." His name falls from my lips without permission.

  Pausing, he turns to face me. There's a desperate moment where all I can hear is the rattling of my own breath inside my lungs. I'm caught between the knowledge of what I should do, of what I need to do, and what I want...what I crave. The two contradict each other violently, clashing inside my mind.

  My fingernails scream in protest as I grip the edge of the table, trying to keep myself seated, trying to let him walk away. My body feels very much like one of his puppets as I get up, walk to him, and slam my lips against his. I need him, his taste, his power, his sheer brutality. His fingers grip my hair, tugging hard enough to make my scalp burn. The kiss is angry and desperate, need laced with hate and a strange finality that makes my chest hurt.

  "You now have your freedom," he says against my lips. "And now I get to keep you, because you want this." His fingers tighten in my hair.

  I pull back until my lips barely brush his. "I can't want you."

  "Ah, but you crave me just as much as I crave you. We're two addicts chasing the same dark high," he breathes, the scent of expensive brandy caressing my tongue. He's right of course. That swirling need wraps around me in a vortex so deep and dark that I'm left drowning.

  My hold tight to the front of his jacket, and every single fiber of my being gravitates toward him. I can't say anything. I don't trust myself to speak—not to jump head first into Ronan's twisted world, because as much as I try to deny it, I do want him. I want everything that we could be, and there are no longer any pretenses for me to hide behind. He set me free. This time there's no doubt that I'm a willing participant. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. A lamb in the sights of a lion with nowhere left to run or hide.

  "Don't lie to yourself, Camilla. There is no reason to." He sweeps his fingers along my throat. "If you didn't want this, you would already be out the door."

  I glance at the door and think of Gabriel, of the cartel we built together. It was once all I craved, to carve out a little piece of power for the two of us, to become ruthless and feared, but now... Now Ronan has changed my perception. I thought I was powerful and that my name granted me protection, yet he took me and so easily made me powerless. He made me both hate him and want him. No man will ever compare. No man will ever make me want to fuck him and slit his throat in the same breath the way this one can. Perhaps, at some point I'll be ready to quit this crippling addiction, but at this point, I can't. I won't.

  A trembling breath leaves me and the war in my mind reaches a precipice, a tipping point. If I walk away from Ronan now I will forever crave him. I will always want something beyond my reach. "I'm free to leave?"

  "Yes."

  With a sigh I lift my gaze to his. I can see the same war raging in his eyes. We both want something we despise because it makes us weak, but what if it made us stronger? What if Ronan makes me stronger? He's right, together we could be unstoppable. I still can't completely concede to being his, though. I need to keep my business. "I want my cartel back," I smirk.

  His eyes dance with amusement. "Of course you do."

  "And I'm not staying as your whore, Russian."

  A slight smirk tugs at his lips and he strokes his fingers over my cheek. "The devil would never have a whore as his queen, krasivaya," he says as he turns around and walks out of the room.

  7

  Camilla

  The next few days are strange.

  I make an effort to avoid Ronan while sleeping in his bed each night. If I go elsewhere he finds me; I've tried.

  I've agreed to stay here. To be with him, and I am terrified of what that means. If anyone had told me a year ago that I would willingly choose a Russian over my brother, my cartel, my country...well, I would have laughed. But I still have my cartel, and now...now I have the opportunity to grasp more power than any boss in Mexico could ever dream of. Isn't that what people like Ronan and I seek above all else? Even together, we're looking to over-power each other. There's a thrill in having even the slightest thread of control over a man as untouchable as Ronan. And having him at my side—that's intoxicating in a way I don't have words for.

  Yes, true power is rarely an addiction of the pure. Ronan and I are as tainted as each other.

  I lie awake, listening to his breaths, feeling his chest rise and fall against my back as his arm tightens around my waist. Every morning I wake up and fight through this quagmire of emotions. For the most part I force myself not to get too close, to remember who and what he is, but it's these few moments between night and day, when the sky turns from black to grey when it's the hardest. Ronan makes me feel protected and wanted, something precious in a world where I have always been disposable to everyone but Gabriel. Even my own father would not protect me or save me when it meant jeopardizing his business. Maybe that's just the extent of Ronan's power; he doesn't have to choose one or the other. But somehow, I know he would kill anyone who would hurt me, even if only for touching what he deems his. His control and need to dominate would allow nothing less.

  He groans and presses his lips into my shoulder, trailing his fingers over the bare skin of my waist. When I roll over I'm met with those deep blue eyes, watching me lazily. He sweeps my hair from my face. For a long moment he just stares at me. As if lured by simple gravitational force, I lean in, placing my lips against his. For once, the kiss isn't hard or angry or violent. It's simple, almost sweet. After a few seconds, he pulls away from me and rolls out of bed in nothing but boxers. I watch his muscular back roll and flex with every step as he goes into the bathroom. Yes, Ronan Cole is a contradiction I'm not sure I'll ever understand.

  I must have fallen back to sleep because I jolt awake when the sheets are ripped off of me and cold air engulfs my body.

  Ronan snaps his fingers. "Get dressed."

  "Fuck off, Russian." I tug at the covers but he doesn't let go. I sit up and glare at him. He's showered and dressed in an immaculate suit. "It's early and it's cold. Go and... kill world leaders and take innocent women." I wave my hand in the air.

  His cold gaze sets on me while he adjusts his cufflinks. "I already have." He yanks the covers to the floor. "I don't like to be late to a funeral," he says. "It's distasteful."

  "Another funeral..." I flop back on the bed and groan. "For another guy you had killed. I'm sure that's bad juju."

  His blue eyes flicker. "I didn't have him killed."

  "Fine, the man whose death you manipulated into fruition."

  He holds his hands out, wriggling his fingers as he pretends to make a puppet dance on its strings. He laughs. "I was rather pleased with how it all turned out."

  Of course he was. "Let's just stay here," I say, seductively running my fingernail over the scab at the base of my throat. If I can draw a little blood...

  His nostrils flare, jaw ticking violently. His hand lashes out like a snake striking prey, and his fingers wrap ti
ghtly around my throat as he drags me to my knees on the bed. "Don't..." His eyes flick down to on my throat and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. "Get dressed. Now." And without another word, he releases me.

  I smile. Ah, Ronan and his infamous control. One of these days I will break him so entirely that the devil himself will smile and crack out the popcorn.

  "You know, " I trail my finger down his chest and he scowls at me, "I feel an awful lot like your captive right now."

  In true Ronan fashion, he ignores me as he walks toward the closet, yanks a dress from a hanger, then tosses it to the foot of the bed. "Be ready in thirty minutes."

  And with that, he leaves, slamming the door behind him.

  ______

  An hour later, we're in crowded, cold Moscow.

  The car slows to a stop and the driver opens the door. Ronan gets out, fastening his suit jacket before holding his hand out to me. I step onto the sidewalk in front of the same cathedral we were in barely two weeks ago for the Prime Minister's funeral. Crowds line the streets, some clutching flowers, others crying.

  I've never understood patriotism and loyalty to a man you've never met. I have no idea what kind of man or president Nicholi Derevechi was but, in my limited experience, most governments are corrupt in one way or another. Then again... Ronan wanted him dead, which suggests he wasn't willing to dabble with the dark side. Good intentions aren't serving him very well now.

  People bow their heads and cross themselves as we shuffle toward the cathedral doors. Little do they know they need to in Ronan's presence. I loop my hand through Ronan's arm. I instantly notice the heavy security when we walk inside the church. They line the back wall, trying to blend in with their suits, but their eyes constantly shift on the lookout for new threats.

  Ronan leans in by my ear, the clean scent of his cologne drowning out the spicy smell of incense. "The beauty of a President's funeral is that you can get every world leader in one room." He inhales. "Imagine the possibilities."

  I turn as he flashes a smile at someone in a pew. "A little warning would be great this time," I say.

  He presses his hand to the small of my back and guides me to a pew a few rows from the front. With a wry smile, he unfastens my fur coat and slowly slides it over my shoulders. A hush falls around me and I roll my eyes. The only thing worse than wearing red to a funeral is wearing white.

  We take our seats and Ronan places his hand on my thigh. "Closed casket, I see." A slow smirk works over his lips.

  "Crime of passion," I whisper, leaning in to his side. "Messy."

  "One can only hope." He grabs my chin and tilts my head back. "One can only hope..." His lips press to the corner of my mouth and people behind us whisper.

  "Careful, Russian. Your mask is slipping." I nip at his bottom lip before he faces the front.

  The priest steps to the altar and clears his throat before rambling off in Russian. I zone out instantly. I'm Catholic and, while I respect religion, it's hard to pay attention when I don't understand a word of it.

  At some point I must have fallen asleep, again, because I wake up when Ronan shifts slightly. "Amen," Ronan says with a wry smile before pushing to his feet and holding out my coat. I stand, stretching my neck to the side before I slip my arms through the sleeves.

  The streets outside the cathedral are still lined with people when we exit. Photographers shamelessly try to snap pictures of the high-profile attendees while security force them back. It's somber yet chaotic. I keep my face toward the ground in an attempt to look aggrieved as Ronan shoulders past people to the waiting car.

  "Can we drink yet?" I ask.

  He just smiles.

  8

  Ronan

  The funeral was full of pomp and circumstances. Speech upon endless speech praising Nicholi. Such a tragedy, really. The Prime Minister, the President... And don't terrible things always come in threes?

  They do... I smile. Losing myself in my thoughts only to be jarred from my blissful daydream by my phone vibrating in my breast pocket.

  "Yes?" I answer.

  "The replacement for Mr. Thomas has signed the NDA."

  "Very well." The car nudges through the crowded streets of Moscow, following the procession. I do hope this new person won't be a letdown. I don't have the patience for it. "He does understand the consequences of not following through, yes?"

  "I promise, sir," Donovan says, "Henry will please you."

  I stare through the window at the people passing by. "Please do inform this Mr. Henry of what happened to Mr. Thomas. After all, time is of the essence here. The American elections are but in a few months, and let's not forget...the election for the new Russian president is pending."

  "Yes, sir."

  I disconnect the call and shove the phone back inside my pocket. I won't get my hopes up. After all, it is so hard to find honest criminals to work with these days.

  Several minutes later the car stops in front of the government offices. My door opens and I step out, offering Camilla my hand. The wait staff nod in acknowledgement as we step into the marble lobby. "I always did find it so peculiar that people gather after funerals."

  Camilla's fingers thread through mine. "What are you up to?" she whispers.

  "Oh, now, we wouldn't want to ruin the surprise, would we?"

  She groans. "A surprise is a weekend away, or spontaneous gifts. Not surprise, a bullet just flew past your head and you have brain on your face."

  "Let's not pretend you're a civilized woman, Camilla." I cock a brow at her. She and I both know she is not a woman who wants a weekend away. She craves the chaos, the blood. The absolute carnage. She thrives on it just as I do.

  "I resent that comment." She tosses her hair over her shoulder and walks ahead of me, her hips swaying with every step. Every man's head turns when she passes by. My jaw sets. These men believe they could have her and that causes anger to flare in my chest.

  She stops beside a table draped with a white tablecloth. The Prime Minster of France holds out his hand. I step up behind her just as he lifts her hand to his lips, kissing over her knuckles. "Prime Minister," I say dryly as I slip my arm around Camilla's cinched waist, staking claim.

  He clears his throat as his gaze sets hard and fast on me. "Ronan," he says. He knows I'm a snake in the grass, but he's also a smart man and knows his place, so he simply pulls his chair out and takes a seat.

  "You know Claude?" Camilla says with a wry smile. Ah, how quickly she is on first name terms with world leaders.

  "In order to win a game, you must know each player."

  She holds her hand up. "I don't know why I'm even surprised."

  The first half of the hour is spent in dull conversation, tasteless wine, and hors d'oeuvres. I casually check my watch as I force a laugh at a dry joke. Camilla sits beside me, shifting anxiously every so often as her eyes warily take me in. She expects something, and I do so hope I don't disappoint her. Clearing my throat, I lean in next to her neck and sweep a tendril of hair behind her ear. "You look lovely."

  Suddenly, a muted boom echoes through the room. The floor shakes. Glasses rattle on the tables. Everyone cautiously glances around. Another explosion—a very loud explosion–rocks the building. This time the windows implode and people scream. Chairs topple over as everyone scrambles to their feet. The security team whisks in, shouting for several of the leaders. Someone grabs the Prime Minister, and Camilla is hunkered down beside the table.

  Pushing up from the table, I fight the smile tugging at my lips as I watch them escort so many important people from this room to one of designated safety.

  A police officer scurries in. "Everyone, out!" he shouts, the herd of people rush toward the doors of the dining hall. I offer Camilla my hand and she takes it, rising to her feet with an abundance grace. "Scared little kitty?" I ask with a smirk.

  She makes a show of placing her hands on her hips, glaring at me as a frenzy of people flee around us. "In Mexico, only the drunks don't duck when shit explode
s."

  "I see." I thread my fingers through hers and lead her in the direction of the exit. When we pass one of the security guards, I tug her close to my side. "It will be fine," I say, feigning to console her.

  She squeezes my hand until her nails dig into my knuckles. "No warning," she says under her breath, "...fucking heart attack."

  We file outside and down the concrete steps, all the while she's mumbling to herself. Police sirens wail around us. Ambulances and bomb squads are already here, but it will do those trapped in the safety of the panic bunker little good.

  "What is that?" a stranger in the crowd shouts, pointing at the tiny plume of smoke now rising from the roof of the building. Men in padded suits and helmets rush in, guns at their sides, and I simply pull my cigar from my breast pocket, light it, and take a long drag. Camilla snatches it from my hand and places it to her mouth. The smoke crawls through her red lips like a seductive temptress, and I grip her chin between my fingers. "Let's leave, krasivaya."

  ______

  Later in the evening, I enter my living room, Camilla following behind me. As always, there's a drink and cigar waiting for me.

  One of the servants rushes to the sideboard to pour a glass of vodka as Camilla and I take a seat on the sofa. He hurries across the room and hands the drink to Camilla with a small bow. "Really?" Camilla glares at me when she takes the glass. He turns the television on before handing me the remote.

  "Manners are of the utmost importance," I say with a subtle grin.

  Camilla downs the vodka before crossing the room and snatching the bottle from the cabinet. Arching a brow, she takes a seat next to me again as she turns the bottle up. I watch the tiny bubbles float up the neck and shake my head. "We really must work on your manners," I say before directing my attention to the news.

  "Oh, I don't know, Ronan. I think you like a little savage."

  I ignore her. I know she hates it when I do that.