by Snow, Nicole
It rolled up into his sleeves in hypnotic waves, serpents forever bound to his skin. His shoulders were broad, making him a man sized battering ram. Damn if I didn't slide my hand forward and press against the glass, checking to make sure it didn't budge.
Nothing. If this mountain of a man went manic, maybe I'd be safe.
Maybe.
Then there was his face. Short brown hair topped a powerful, angular jaw, a face made for taking a big bite out of the world and spitting it out however he wanted. He'd done that with human lives, I reminded myself, the whole reason he was here.
He didn't have the eyes of a killer. The gems in his head were the clearest baby blue eyes I'd ever seen. For a man who'd rigged up explosives that killed twenty people, I'd expected them to be glazed with death, glassy and mad.
The burning blue fire around his pupils surprised me, melted me in my seat. It flickered with a conscious, eager energy that was almost as scary as the intensity rippling through the rest of his face. The fire held me, forced me to recognize its strange beauty, calling me to look and marvel. I barely caught a glimpse of the faded scar going up his right cheek that completed the ensemble before I forced myself to look down.
Gazing at him too long was like staring into the sun.
Jesus. What happened? Was I seriously getting hot and bothered by this sick demon who'd rip me limb from limb if he knew who I was?
I didn't understand the illusion in my brain, and it scared me. When I looked up, he was close, and I forced myself to see him for what he was: a giant, a killer, more dangerous than a tiger – now separated by only inches of glass.
The identical chair on his side was small for me, but it looked like a child's seat when he plopped down in it. I swore I heard the legs groaning, ready to bust apart under the heavy, livid muscle piled on it.
That shudder I'd suppressed earlier was back. I barely caught myself before I started shaking in front of him, gripping the little notepad until my knuckles were white. He turned his head slowly, a sly smile pulling at his lips, motioning for the phone next to him.
Of course. There was an identical one on my side.
I ripped the old phone off its receiver and pressed it to my ear, watching as he did the same, slower and more fluidly than me. When Anton's face was level with mine again, that smile was bigger, but it revealed nothing.
I held my breath, waiting for his first word.
“You're Sabrina?” He asked, so much like a king talking down to his subject.
The whole world ended in the thud of my heart. I took a long, jagged, ice cold breath. Hearing my name on his lips brought a sick pleasure humming to my skull, like he'd just whispered some dirty, private secret in rich, smoky baritone.
Jesus, girl. You're losing your shit. Screw your head on and remember why you're here.
Don't blow this. It's your lucky day.
It was hard to obey the voice in my head. But I met his eyes and forced my lips to work.
“Yes. Thank you, sir. Thanks for agreeing to talk to me today.”
“Sir? Nobody's called me that since I was a kid, playing assistant manager at my father's club.” He smiled, this time wider, baring several square white teeth. “You've gotta be fucking with me. Come on. Get on my level. You wanna interview me, or sit there worshiping my dick all day?”
If I'd been drinking something, I would've spat it out. Bastard. He had my attention.
I stood a little taller, hid the red blood raging to my cheeks, and nodded.
“Then cut the shit, Sabrina. Call me Anton and let's get this fucking show on the road. You're here to find out why I blew Club Duce to kingdom come, right?”
“Only if you're ready to tell me,” I said, trying to keep the calmest voice I could.
Good luck. The last couple words ended in a tremor. It didn't help that his eyes stayed on me every damned second, heating my skin like he had x-ray vision, a super villain power to match his evilly long gaze. His eyes started where my middle met the little table and went up, stopping at my face.
He was inspecting me – every inch of me – right through my clothes. Fuck.
Yep. My skin was on fire, roasting in his baby blue beams.
“All right. I'll talk. Let's make this quick, clean, and easy.”
Shit. If I thought I was going to keep my breathing steady, I'd just lost my last chance. I held my breath, reached for my marker, and pressed it to the paper, waiting.
“It was a simple job. We were gonna decapitate the Ligiottis in one strike, finish this little war going on between their fucked up family and mine. Gioulio and his boys were gonna be there. Our intel was always good, never failed us before – until that night. The old bastard decided to host a big dinner party for his biggest, best clients. We ended up with a buncha dead businessmen, a couple fucks on the city council and the school board, some Naperville high rollers. No Italians, though – unless you count the bartender, who was supposedly a distant cousin or something.”
Distant was right. I heard about Raphael getting killed in the attack, but Uncle Gioulio wouldn't let me attend his funeral. Too dangerous, he said, and why did I want to waste my day on a second cousin I'd only met three times at reunions anyway?
That was before Anton was singled out on the security footage, backing the explosive into the club's loading dock. The danger faded everyday after he was arrested, and soon my Uncle wasn't handing out constant warnings. If only he knew I'd gone right into the tiger's den.
“So, you slipped up?” I asked, tapping the marker on my notepad. Wasn't much good for writing anyway, and I was too glued to his rough face to remember to move it.
“Yep. Me and my brothers fucked up bad. Worst mistake we ever made, short of giving the go ahead plastered after our last bash. We were drunk and naked. Took turns on every one of those bitches just flown in from Europe. I fucked them deep, Sabrina. Took my time railing 'em, feeling my balls bouncing on their asses, gave 'em a hello and welcome to America they'll never forget. Damned good thing too, considering where I'm at now. Last hot piece of pussy I might ever have.”
I blinked. The fire his eyes kindled on my skin became an inferno. I shook my head, wondering what the hell just happened.
He's talking about sex. Fucking. Trying to throw you off.
“Um, you want to say that again?”
Anton threw his big head back and laughed, fixing his gemstone eyes on me when he came back down. “What? You think all this fucking and killing makes me a bad man, don't you? I'm waiting. You gonna call me on my shit, or just lay down and take it like those Latvian whores?”
Bastard! He was testing me after all, making me sort the truth from fiction. And, so far, I'd been too frozen in his bad boy good looks to be anything more than a toy.
I bit my tongue, pumped my hips to get myself an inch closer to the glass. “Tell me about your regrets, Anton. You killed twenty people, many of them highly respected in their community...”
“Regrets are for civvy fucks, Sabrina. Not outlaws. When Ivankovs go to war, they don't regret shit. You think my grandpa regretted cutting German throats out at Stalingrad? He personally killed a hundred men defending his country, his family. You can check the records if you think I'm bullshitting, though record keeping in the motherland has always been shit, and I never learned the language.”
I didn't answer. The smile was gone, and now he looked truly serious. His fists hit the table on his side, rocking the wood between us, deafeningly loud with the steel chain slapping wood.
I jumped. I gasped. The second I caught myself, I wanted to hate him for making me crack, but I was too busy fighting the dizzy tingle pure adrenaline pumped into my blood.
He was too good at this. The very second I'd tried to take back a little control, he'd ripped it away from me, and now the ball was in his court again.
“You're a shit interviewer, Sabrina. Look at you,” he said quietly, almost a whisper, voice filled with disgust. “I've got this whole fucking thing by the balls. I
'm asking the questions. I'm steering you like a bitch on a leash. When I got your note asking for this shit, I thought I'd get a young, plucky, hot little thing who's hungry for my story. I was ready. Instead, I've got some chick who can barely talk because she's too fucking busy trying to put out the fire in her pussy.”
Asshole! It was my turn to curl fists.
Criminal or not, Ivankov or not, nobody talked to me that way. There was more truth in his words than I wanted to acknowledge, sure – plenty to leave me ashamed for the next ten years – but there was no way I was walking out of here after letting him walk all over me.
“You're an animal, Anton. That's why you're in this cage. I'm a professional. I'm a free woman. I don't think you're ready to tell me any story at all today. This is all just a big joke to you. Guess I can't blame you – prison gets boring, right?” I slapped my notepad shut and stood, pushing in the chair.
His eyes widened. He looked...surprised, as if he couldn't believe I was the one ending this crap instead of letting him screw with me a second longer.
“You gotta be shitting me, babe. You're giving up now? Just when I was ready to get to the good stuff?”
“Start talking,” I hissed into the phone.
The metal felt like it was scalding hot against my ear. But it was just my own blood, heated to boiling point, all the fear and nasty heat he sparked beneath my skin.
“Okay. I'm not as hard as my gramps. I'll tell you that much. Prison's rough. You're right – it's boring as all fuck. My old man brought us over here when we were just kids. Guess me and my brothers have been in the US of A too long to be as cold as our Siberian forefathers. You wanna hear about my regrets? Just one.” He held up a pointer finger.
I waited. Fighting off another round of shaking knees, I slid back into my seat, pressing the phone so tight to my ear I thought I'd leave a permanent imprint there.
“I'm listening. What is it?”
“I regret ever responding to that fucking note in the pretty pink envelope. You're young and beautiful, Sabrina. You ought to be writing about fashion and eccentric artists. Shit, maybe slipping on some pretty lingerie and posing for the magazines for some side cash. Not spending a bright autumn day chasing down monsters in this fucking place. Go home.”
I stopped, stared, and felt my nostrils flare. Before I could say anything, he slammed his phone into the wall and shuffled up. He never looked back once as he walked to the door, slow and steady, moving like a stuffed orange tiger who'd just had a good meal.
You can guess who. Ugh.
He never looked back, not even when I smashed my phone down and ran a trembling hand across my face. I had to fight every urge to pick the phone up and begin smashing it to bits against the wall.
This asshole frustrated me in all the wrong ways – mentally, physically, sexually. Admitting that last one made me want to try to break through that glass slab myself so I could follow and strangle him.
No, no, no, this couldn't be happening. God damn.
I'd lost my story and my pride in one blow. I certainly wasn't going to write about how I'd just gotten completely owned by the twisted asshole who'd demolished my Uncle's best bar and lounge to become the biggest terrorist in Chicago's recent history.
I spun, flustered, fighting down the lump in my throat. Charlie the Warden was already standing there with the door open, an apologetic look on his face. I didn't care about making a scene. I hurled the unused notepad into the little waste bin on my way out, stomping past him so quickly I didn't care about the dark, cruel eyes in the dingy cells ogling me as I marched to the exit.
I sat in the Silver Pear downtown, enjoying my second martini on the house. Free drinks at the family's bars were the only perks I allowed myself for being a Ligiotti girl – not counting the fat trust fund dear old dad left me before he ODed one cold winter night half a decade ago.
I was his legacy. I wanted to make him proud, and Uncle Gioulio too. The interview was supposed to do that, and I'd fucking blown it.
The glory would have to wait while I licked my wounds and regrouped. Right now, all I was concerned about was dousing my belly in as much alcohol as I could get without falling off my chair.
My heels rubbed together, close to starting a fire beneath the leather booth, but it wasn't half as hot as the ridiculous furnace beating in my belly. I dreaded the call from Richard the blogger. Just dreaded it.
Not only would I have to tactfully admit I'd bombed the one story good enough to get me an in with his wildly popular blog, but I knew I'd feel the failure all over again. I couldn't just swallow the humiliation and move on.
Nobody treated me like Anton did – nobody! Sure, growing up a second generation crime princess made me as entitled as they come. But Anton Ivankov had knocked me to the floor as a journalist and wiped his feet on me.
Shallow, angry sips slid down my throat. I wished I'd ordered something stronger. If I wanted to be brutally honest – and I did – the bastard stirred up more than humiliation.
The coarse, filthy way he'd talked was burned into my head, like he'd pulsed those words against my skin with his rough lips. He was masculine power personified, stuffed into a bright orange jumpsuit. I couldn't remember the last man who'd really made me ache, pulsed a sultry tension through my core, folding everything inward.
Probably because there wasn't one. Anton had done the unthinkable, and it was just my luck that he was the one man on planet earth who was totally off limits.
Maybe being twenty-two and a virgin does crazy things to the mind.
No boys had the balls to ask me out in school. Word travels fast when you're a dead mobster's daughter, a living crime lord's niece, and you get chauffeured to prep school everyday by two big Roman bulldogs who'd knock some gangly kid's teeth out if he even looked at me the wrong way.
Well, fuck them. I didn't want a coward. And screw the goofy frat boys I'd been tempted to have a quick, drunken tryst with in college. They obviously hadn't tempted me enough.
I was holding out for a man. One who could pull my hair, drag me up to his level, and fuck me into the mattress until I couldn't remember my own name. Anton offered it all, if only he wasn't behind bars.
Unfortunately, it seemed like all the real men lived in the blackest corners of the underworld. Darker than anything I'd experienced. And that made me sad because it called me to tip-toe into them, go to all the places my father never wanted me to visit, into the shadows I'd determined to avoid.
My head was spinning. I was still hot, crazed, and slightly wet, no matter how much I drank.
Bastard! He'd gotten underneath my skin, into my blood, crawled up inside me when I wasn't looking.
That call with Richard didn't seem apocalyptic anymore. No, what really worried me was a freak possibility of a second interview with Anton.
If he could leave these kinda scorch marks on me in a taunting half hour session, what would he do next?
Nightfall.
I took the call from Richard and talked it up like a triumph. It wasn't just saving face – it was keeping my face from getting peeled off in the cutthroat world of weekly features and ad-driven exclusives.
He only sounded half-convinced. Too bad. I'd find some way to make this thing a win. I had to.
First, though, I had a two block walk home to my little condo, and then a few more shots of whiskey before I passed out early.
Anton came to me in the sleek, cozy darkness when I laid down. My brain wouldn't let go of his feral energy. He leaped into my bed, pushed between my legs. I reached down to bat his hands away, but he just jerked them up above my head in his huge fists, growling as he smashed them into the pillow.
“Stop fucking fighting me, babe. This is what you want. Your pretty mouth can tell all the lies it wants, but your pussy's all truth. Shit, I've always wondered what an Italian girl feels like.” He hovered over my lips, breathing hot breath, one bite away from getting his teeth on my tender flesh. “Do you fuck like your family does busines
s? Sneaky? Sloppy? Merciless? Or are you gonna drain my balls like an Ivankov's girl, fuck me like it's the only time you're ever gonna have a dick this good in you?”
I tried to let out a scream, but he smashed his lips to mine. A bomb went off in my belly. Before I knew what was happening, my legs trembled. I couldn't feel anything except the fire between them, a rising fire he controlled.
“What's the matter? Haven't you ever been fucked before?” Rearing up, Anton's dark eyes flashed. He rocked his hips against me knowingly, raking my throat with his stubble.
To my horror, my hips rose to meet his. I grunted, throwing my weight into it, grinding my sopping wet panties on his cock.
It was all he needed. With another growl, he reached down, ripped them down to my knees, and shifted his weight until he was totally on top of me. His icy eyes glowed with the same playful fire during the interview, and then he tugged on a zipper, shoving down his pants.
His cock pressed against my folds. So damned big, harder and hotter than anything I imagined.
No! It's going to hurt me. It's going to rip me apart.
No time to dwell on those thoughts. He covered my mouth, giving me a wink like he knew how to read my mind. Guess he did since he was a figment of my own lust.
“No!” I screamed it through his fingers, and it came out like a feeble whisper.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he said, rubbing his length against my clit, harder with every word. “You fucking asked for this, babe. Now I'm gonna deliver exactly what you're hankering for. You want it hard and rough. And if you don't, you sure as fuck will after this.”
His cruel blue eyes froze me with fire as he pulled back. Then his hips slammed down, throttled against me, tearing me open for him. I arched my back and –
“Fuck!” I bolted up, hurling the heavy blanket off me.
Crazy, crazy dream. It was like he was really there, truer than any nightmare. I was burning up a second ago, but now I was freezing cold. Folding my arms, I felt the clammy heat on my skin, wondering why I was so damned cold.
