by Nicole Fox
The kiss. It was war and peace and all those tense times in between.
I take my phone off its charger. I find Lev in received calls and tap on the number.
I could blame it on being sleep-deprived.
I could blame it on trauma.
I could blame it on how long it’s been since I’ve been in a relationship.
But those are all mitigating circumstances and I’m still guilty.
He answers on the first ring. “Hello, Allison.”
“I just wanted to know if you cleaned out your wound,” I say. There’s a pause. It seems to stretch the distance between us.
“Yes. Thank you for calling to check.”
“Well. It’s evidence,” I say.
“Is that the only reason you called?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I also don’t have the money to buy a dress for the gala.”
“I can provide you with any funds you may need.”
“Oh. Okay.” I tug on my hair. “But …”
I let the word drift off. I don’t have any dispute with what he said, so I don’t know why I keep talking.
I wait for him to fill the silence. He doesn’t.
“But I’ve only shopped at, you know, cheap places. Department stores. If I’m your date, I’d assume I need something more elegant. I don’t know where to buy those things.”
Silence. The seconds creep by.
“If there was a question in that statement, I missed it,” he says.
“You’re an asshole,” I say.
“Also not a question.”
“Well, I—I was just thinking that you could show me some places to shop at.” I rub my thighs, the burning sensation from running coming back. “You wouldn’t even need to take me anywhere. You could just give me addresses. But from what I’ve seen in the movies, I don’t think they’ll help me without someone rich by my side, so if you came with me … I could pay you back by doing housekeeping or something like that.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” I ask. “After all that, you’re just going to say okay?”
“I own one of the most profitable vodka companies in the United States, Allison. I don’t have time for people who talk around what they want or people too hesitant to ask for what they need. The meek won’t inherit the earth.”
“I’m not meek.”
“Of course not,” he says. “You would never give up what you wanted because you were too frightened at the idea of chasing it. Good night, Allison.”
“Wait.” I yank my blanket off, sitting up. “You don’t get to say that and just hang up.”
“You called me,” he said, an edge of irritation in his voice. “Tell me why.”
The command hits me like a verdict. Guilty.
“You saved my life,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says.
“And I can’t sleep,” I add.
“Don’t think about what happened tonight. Just forget about it.”
“The problem is that I’m not thinking about that,” I say. I lie down again. I close my eyes, the words that I should and shouldn’t say colliding in my head.
“Tell me,” he says. That dream-like sensation returns. If he asks about it tomorrow, I could pretend they were the words of a woman in a state of shock.
“I’m thinking about what would have happened after the kiss.”
There’s the softest intake of breath. “Nothing. Because you’re a saint.”
“What if I wasn’t?” I ask. There’s a sound of his body shifting against soft material—possibly his bed.
“I would have bent you over the table and fucked you.”
I slide my hand under my pajama shorts and underwear. My fingers dance around my clit.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Oh?”
“No. I would have wanted to thank you for saving my life.”
There are more sounds of him moving on his bed. “Oh?”
“But you’d have to help me.”
“How would I do that?”
“Because I’ve never … um, I’ve never gone down on someone before.”
There’s a small laugh, but it’s not degrading. It’s like he thinks I’m cute. I press my fingers against my clit, my hips rising to meet my hand.
“I could help you with that,” he says, his voice sounding more strained. “I would tell you to get on your knees. To unbutton my pants. To take my cock out.”
My slit is slick with wetness. I’ve always taken forever to become aroused, to the point that the only man I’ve slept with—a high school boyfriend—always fucked me dry. My body has never reacted this way.
“I’d be … impressed,” I say, my voice hitching. “I wouldn’t be certain if I could do it.”
“I would show you. I’d tell you to work on the head first. Just press your tongue against the tip. Look at me while you’re kissing and tasting me.”
“Mmm.” I rub harder, pushing two fingers inside me. My grip on my phone is tight enough that my fingers ache. “I’d love the way you had your hand in my hair.”
“I would guide you to my balls. You’d take each one into your mouth. Your tongue would feel like paradise.”
His breathing is quickening. I can picture him, his cock in his hand, getting himself off on just the thought of me. My heart is beating so fast, I might die here with my hand in my underwear and I wouldn’t mind.
“I’d take you in my mouth,” I whisper. It almost turns into a moan. “I’d try to take as much as I could.”
“I wouldn’t stop you.”
His voice is low, barely audible.
“Lev—” My hand is rubbing so hard against my clit, I’m certain I’m going to be bruised in the morning. “I’d take you in as deep as I could. I’d let my tongue roll under you. When I pulled back, I’d let my tongue play with the tip of your cock before taking you back in.”
“I wouldn’t be able to take your teasing. I’d take your hair in my hands. I would guide you as far as you could take. I wouldn’t be able to control myself. You would look so damn good. I just wouldn’t be able to stop myself.”
My pussy throbs harder than my heart, faster and faster, until the orgasm hits me like a storm. Incoherent noises slip out of me. My body arches off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure slams me. I’m taken away by a tsunami of unrestrained bliss.
Lev makes a noise between a growl and a groan. It’s almost enough to get me off again. I listen to his labored breathing, a provocative lullaby.
I close my eyes. My heart slows down. Sleep starts to take hold of me. At some point, Lev tells me to have sweet dreams.
And I do.
10
Allison
The Harrington bloodline is made of fighters. My grandfather, my uncle, and my dad all served in the Marines. My grandfather was a state trooper and my dad is the chief of police. My uncle is a firefighter. My mother was a nurse before becoming a homemaker.
We were made to be on the frontlines.
So, I can practically feel the disappointment of generations past when I’m terrified as I drive up to Lev’s mansion. If I were afraid because he’d killed someone, it would be a sensible reaction. But after my hormones got the best of me last night, I’ve strongly considered leaving the city and never returning.
If the universe cared about me, Lev would be hidden away in his mansion and I’d have time to calm my nerves. But he’s outside, taking paper bags out of the back of a cherry-red car. The vehicle that was a casualty last night is nowhere in sight.
He turns as I park, a paper bag in each arm. His sturdy frame makes my legs a bit unsteady as I step out of my car. The way he holds the bags near his waist focuses my attention on his groin. I force myself to concentrate on a willow tree in his yard instead.
“I assumed you’d be here later,” he says.
“It’s 7:00,” I say. “That’s our time.”
“Yes,
but it was a late night,” he says.
I flush. “I don’t need much sleep.”
“Close the trunk,” he says. I shut the trunk and follow him into the mansion. As he walks to the back of the house, I focus on the walls, the floor, the recessed lighting—anything other than his body. There’s a memory of tasting him which doesn’t exist but desperately wants to.
He sets the bags down on the kitchen counter. He starts taking items out of the bag—milk, powdered milk, sweetened condensed milk.
“I didn’t think you’d be the type to get your own groceries,” I say.
“I usually don’t.” He moves to the other bag. He pulls out cinnamon sticks, powdered cinnamon, nutmeg, and black cardamom. “But I wanted to get some specific items and I didn’t want to risk someone missing something or getting the wrong product.”
He takes out a honey bottle shaped like a honeypot. He pulls out four tea tins and folds up the paper bags, setting them between two canisters on the counter.
I check the tea tins. They’re different brands of chai tea.
“You remembered what I told you about the cinnamon chai tea.” I touch my cheeks as heat rushes into them again. “That’s incredibly kind of you.”
“It’s for our con,” he says matter-of-factly, like I’m the idiot for not realizing that. He puts the various types of milk into the refrigerator. “Just a part of the plan. Nothing more.”
“I’ve known a lot of people for over six months—I’ve known Julia over a year—and she doesn’t even know about the chai tea. We could have invented any story.” I shrug. “It’s just nice that you remembered what I said to you.”
“That was the point of questioning each other.”
As he moves to grab the tea tins, his elbow bumps into my arm. His hand immediately caresses where we collided, an automatic apologetic gesture, before continuing what he’s doing. It’s the smallest detail, one he probably barely even notices himself doing, but it’s a kindness I doubt he’s ever granted anybody else.
Except me.
A song starts to play—crunching guitars and heavy bass. He stops putting the spices away and takes his cell phone out of his pocket. When he taps on the screen and puts it up to his ear, the song ends.
“Ilya,” he says. His eyes shift back and forth as he listens. He quickly glances at me before handing me the black cardamom and walking down the hall.
The indication is clear: do not leave the kitchen.
But thoughts of the Harrington bloodline are still top of mind. I’m a frontline girl. Not a wallflower relegated to the sidelines.
So I wait just a few seconds before following him down the hallway.
I stop right before the den’s entrance.
“They’re desperate,” Lev’s voice retorts. “The Colosimos know they can’t overpower us. Duilio was competent enough—with some help—but his son is being controlled by his emotions and letting it cloud his judgment. He’d rather let the family die in his rage than forfeit and rebuild strong enough to strike back later.”
The Colosimos.
I know who the Colosimos are. When I was little, the Colosimo Mafia was the boogeyman in Manhattan, the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, and Staten Island. My dad used to be haunted by the violence they committed. There was one incident where the girlfriend of a Mafia member was raped and worked with the police to arrest the rapist. Dad believed they must have begun to suspect that she was feeding the police information about them—which, as far as he knew, was not the case. The girlfriend’s neighbors reported hearing screams from her house. When the police arrived at her residence, they found her dead with several gashes, broken bones, mutilated, with a rat stapled to a section of her body that was not disclosed to the media.
Several streets where there was a heavy Mafia presence didn’t report a single crime for over two years.
The fear of the Colosimos faded, but not because of time. Less than five years ago, the top players in the Colosimo family began showing up murdered and whispers of a Russian Bratva taking over the Colosimo territory began filling the streets. People were grateful—only because it meant that, if they were killed, it would be quick instead of the torture that the Colosimos preferred. The Bratva wasn’t any more innocent than the Colosimos but they weren’t cats that played with their food.
They were Dobermans that went for the throat and ripped it out.
Lev is Russian and proud of his Russian heritage. He lives with a suspicious amount of luxury. His first thought when he saw a dead body at his club was to use it to his advantage. Someone tried to kill him. He killed someone without showing the slightest remorse. He kept a gun on him in the most innocuous situation.
He’s a Doberman—no room remains for doubt.
I need to protect my throat. I slip quietly away from the den.
Fifteen minutes later, Lev returns to the kitchen and we head to the car, not discussing his phone call. Sitting in the passenger side of Lev’s car feels like a terrible metaphor. I’m just riding along. I have no control over what direction we go. I could bail now, but I’d only hurt myself and other people who are behind me.
I fiddle with my bag. It’s nearly ready to fall apart.
He glances over at me. “You’re going to need a new bag for the gala.”
I nod. “Sure. Are you in the Bratva?”
His hand twitches on the wheel, the car swerving slightly. It’s enough to send a chill down my spine.
“How is that related to your bag?” he asks.
“It’s not. I just need to know the truth.”
“You need to be focusing on the gala,” he says. “That’s what’s important right now.”
“No. It’s not.” I turn, so my body is fully facing him, the seat belt digging into my shoulder. “We’re going to be married, so I have the right to know the truth about my husband.”
He raises his eyebrow. “That may be the first time you’ve accepted what’s going to happen. Good.”
“Don’t get too happy about it. I still want an answer to my question.”
He keeps his eyes on the road, only shifting them to check for other cars. I stare at him, waiting. In the window behind him, I can see we’re entering a sophisticated part of the city, where there’s less traffic and the architecture is clean and modern. The silence blisters in my ears, tension building in my chest.
He’s just going to ignore me. He’s not going to answer, which answers my question in its own way, but it’s also a reminder that I’m even more powerless in this relationship than I had thought. I could run to my father about my suspicions, but before he could find anything to arrest Lev, I’d be found with a bullet in my head.
I also led him straight to Julia. I couldn’t force her to go into hiding with me when her job is everything to her.
He stops at a red light and turns to me. “Yes.”
He locks eyes with me. He must see the fear in mine, no matter how hard I try to blink it away.
“Are you actually … in it or do you only help them through your business?”
“It’s better if you don’t know any more than that.” He presses on the gas. My body lurches forward. I hadn’t even noticed the change in the light or the traffic, but we don’t crash and die, which could be a blessing, or maybe not so much. Maybe that’d be the easy way out. “You’re the one who worships the law. If you don’t know anything, you have plausible deniability and since we’re not married yet, we’re not protected by spousal privilege. That would mean if you took the stand, you’d either have to tell the truth on the stand or perjure yourself. Neither option would end well for you.”
“You suddenly care about the law now?” I turn back toward the road and press my fingers against my temple. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Then don’t believe it.”
I watch a pair of young women laughing with each other as they carry shopping bags. They cling to each other’s arms as they try to not fall from laughing so hard.
If I’d ignored Jeff
rey Douglas, my life could have remained that simple. It’s just another moment where my moral compass led me straight to my own ruin.
“Once we’re married,” I say, “you’ll have to tell me the truth.”
“It’s your trial,” he says. His foot is jiggling now. I’ve never seen him nervous.
“Maybe you’re antsy because you’re lying to me.”
“No. I’m not antsy. I’m usually working out right now, so I have a lot of pent-up energy.”
“Oh.”
I’d forgotten about his exercise regimen. It should have occurred to me that he’d always have a busy schedule and my request would interrupt it. It’s hard to relate the man who is taking time to go shopping with me with the man I saw kill someone yesterday. The man I now know for sure is part of the Bratva—fairly high up, I suspect.
My bag vibrates. I pull out my phone. It’s a text from my mother.
Haven’t heard from you in a while :) text me so I know you’re alive. Love you!!
I text back. Everything is going good. I love you.
I put my phone back in my bag. I glance at Lev. His leg is no longer jiggling.
“Who’s texting you?” he asks.
“It’s not my father, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say. “It’s just my mom checking up on me. You can read it when we park if you want.”
“It’s fine.”
I swallow, the tension in the car making me feel claustrophobic.
“Do you ever hear from your mother?” I ask. He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything more as he parks the car.
I look out the window. The sign in front of the shop says Renovate.
Renovate Boutique is designed like a beehive. The center room is hexagonal with several displays showing dresses, shoes, bags, and jewelry. The walls are covered with hanging dresses, each wall showing different colors like a spectrum. There are several rooms surrounding the center room, which from what I’ve seen in one of the dressing rooms, are all hexagonal too.
