“So, there were corpses in the meeting room with you while the discussions were ongoing?”
When you put it like that, I guessed it was a little creepy.
My lips twisted. “You’re a child of the Bratva, Camille. I don’t think now is the time to get squeamish.”
My future bride gulped. “I suppose not.”
“This is why you won’t be hearing about business. This isn’t something women need to hear.”
“No,” she confirmed, her head tilting down so that fucking hair of hers drifted around her ears.
I wanted to shove that golden curtain aside and plunder her throat, bite it and mark it.
Fuck.
What was wrong with me?
The sound of horns shattered my concentration, but I saw we could go, so I moved into ‘Drive’ and set off once more. A soft moan escaped her, one that had me shooting her a glance.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, making her hair whip from side to side, before she whispered, “Never mind. What did Father do?”
“He was belligerent and, to be frank, showed a distinct lack of understanding of how our streets are working at the moment.”
Camille swallowed. “Maxim told me—” She broke off. Hesitated.
I didn’t push her.
I hadn’t expected any information from her, but I wasn’t about to shove it aside. We needed all the intel we could get on our allies and enemies alike.
A shaky breath rushed from her lips, but I got the feeling my silence encouraged rather than discouraged her to speak up.
I’d have to work on her self-esteem.
This hesitation shit was going to drive me crazy.
“H-He told me that Father had cysts on his brain that were affecting his judgment. His vision too.”
I hummed under my breath at what would have been very useful to know if she hadn’t just killed him...
I didn’t say that though, just murmured, “I think that fits with what went down.”
The dumb fuck had insisted that his coke supply made him a king in the city, when everyone knew heroin was the gold dust of choice right now.
Thank you, Big Pharma.
You had to love when the legit corporations were the ones who brought a nation to its knees.
Ah, the American dream...
Then there was his refusal to believe in the very real Sparrows.
His level of asshole wasn’t going to be missed.
As I rolled down the quieter streets of Carnegie Hill, finally back in my neighborhood, where the streets hummed with life thanks to expensive restaurants, where the brownstones didn’t even have goddamn bars on the windows because it was that safe, and where I’d seen men wander down the sidewalks manicuring little flower arrangements on the roadside, a sense of warmth filled me.
My life was changing.
I didn’t know if it was for the better, but I had a woman now. My safe neighborhood was going to shelter her, and our future kids.
With that in mind, I thought it best to ease her worries. “Liabilities don’t live long in this world, Camille.”
“No,” she whispered, “I guess not.”
The dark in the cabin encompassed us for a second as I drove down the tunnel into my parking garage, where only a few sidelights illuminated the way, and I murmured once more, “Cunts need to die. You don’t have to tell me jack. But from this night on, remember what you are, and don’t forget it, Camille. Tonight, you’re a Vasov. Tomorrow, you’re an O’Donnelly, and that makes you un-fucking-touchable.”
Tomorrow will be better than today.
Fourteen
Cammie
I stared up at the ceiling of the guest bedroom, still unable to believe that he’d put me in here. Because I wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or a bad one, and because I kept thinking about that glass ornament digging into my father’s skull, the wet splashes, the mushy sounds as the hard object collided with brain matter, I had yet to sleep.
Was it any wonder?
As such, I’d been staring into the void for what felt like forever, and what made it worse was the lack of a phone. There was no scrolling through Insta, no disappearing in vaguebooking. There was just me. And the hard facts of what I’d done.
I’d never hurt anyone before. Not really. When I’d joined the Sinners as a clubwhore, there’d been a few catfights, some behind the scenes, some in front of the brothers who got off on that stuff, but other than that, I’d never done anything worse than rake my nails down someone’s cheek.
Tonight was what nightmares were made of, and I still couldn’t believe I’d done it to be honest. But even as that disbelief filled me, I was aware that I’d do it again to stop Victoria from having to go through what I had.
It just disturbed me that, while I’d saved her from Abramovicz, I hadn’t spared her from Maxim. And then there was how I was at the other side of the hall, right at the opposite end from where Brennan slept.
He’d said he wanted kids, so he meant to visit me at some point... if this was to be my permanent bedroom, that is.
My parents, by the time Victoria had come around, had both slept in separate rooms—
Christ. Both of them were dead now.
Gone.
We were orphaned.
The agony was constant where thoughts of my mother’s death were concerned, and even though I was the direct reason behind my father’s, the pain wasn’t as acute. I didn’t feel like someone was standing on my chest, compressing my lungs... I just felt a surreal sense of bewilderment. Like I wasn’t sure how it happened. Like I didn’t know how I could have done that.
Because I didn’t.
I wasn’t that person.
I wasn’t.
Truly.
Tears burned my eyes, not for the first time, as my brain whirred in a cycle that seemed endless. I wanted to scream out my pain, my grief, but I didn’t want to disturb Brennan. If I did, well, he seemed more than serious about claiming me as his, something that had resonated and filled me with relief when we’d discussed it on the journey to his building, but I didn’t want to push my luck.
A lifetime of dancing on eggshells lay ahead of me, exactly like my mother. If I had a daughter, I wanted so much more than for her to be a pussy with a price tag. A womb for sale. A mother to future mobsters.
The tears fell at that, because I knew that was unlikely. Just because I wanted it, didn’t make it so. Brennan would want his daughter to marry some Irish Mob general, and that was that.
What say would I have in anything?
I’d just give birth to the baby. I’d just raise it with love. I’d just make it a decent human being. Nothing important in the grand scheme of things.
Flinging myself onto my back, I stared some more at that goddamn ceiling which, thanks to the endless reel of thoughts, was now blurry and I knew that if I carried on like this, I’d go insane. I’d literally lose my mind.
The walls were beginning to close in, and I just—God, I wished Victoria was here. Even though I never wanted her to know what I’d done, I wished she was here, just so I could hug her. Just so I could talk.
I had to, I realized.
Since Brennan had collected me like a lost wallet, he hadn’t pressured me to talk about what had happened tonight, and while I’d been grateful at the time, I knew I had to or I’d go mad.
He’d deposited me in here, told me to make myself comfortable, and then had departed. I’d thought it was for the night, but he’d returned with a pair of his boxers and a shirt for me to sleep in. They scented of him, and I only just realized how nice that scent was.
We were strangers.
And we were going to get married tomorrow.
The day after I murdered my father.
God have mercy on my soul because I’d prefer to tie myself to this stranger for the rest of the days I was granted, than to be at his beck and call again.
I’d done the right thing, even though it wa
s so beyond wrong.
Brennan had made out like, once we were wed, we’d become the underworld’s Jackie-O and JFK, but even he couldn’t protect me from a murder charge, could he? If it ever came out, I was screwed. Literally. I was putting everything on the line by trusting him, but the alternative was to run again. I had no place in West Orange anymore, which meant I’d have to start over, which further meant I’d have to leave Victoria behind which was something I wasn’t willing to do.
In a flurry of movement, I surged out of the bed. My bare feet padded as I rushed out of the bedroom, and down the carpeted hall.
There was little to no illumination—this high up, there wasn’t that much light pollution when you were peering down at humanity rather than looking up at it—and a burst of speed had my feet thudding against the carpet as I moved down the line of doors, shoving them open as I tried to find him.
He was in the middle, on the opposite side of the hall to the room he’d put me in, and I knew that because the scent of him overwhelmed the room.
Bergamot. Lemon.
Like my favorite tea—Russian Earl Grey.
I inhaled deeply, letting those grassy notes sink into me, and I had no idea why, but his essence calmed me.
For all that I felt alone, for all that he was a stranger, he was going to tie himself to me for life.
No divorce, he’d said.
We were stuck with each other.
Thank God.
His room was different than mine, which made sense because his was the master bedroom. There was a slim hall, and an open door revealed a connecting bath. When I made it to the end of that small corridor, I peered out onto his bed.
I couldn’t see much in the dark, but it felt warmer in here than it did in mine. I could see the shadows of furniture, felt carpeting beneath my feet, and knew that my room was for guests and was anonymous, like a hotel room.
This was his place.
He’d bothered to fill his bedroom with home comforts.
“What are you doing, Camille?”
A sharp gasp escaped me at his question. He sounded drowsy, but also like he was aware. Had I awoken him? Maybe that made sense. I’d made some noise rushing through his apartment like a crazy person as I hunted him down, and I figured a guy of his stature would be used to having to sleep with one eye open, but those husky tones of his, dear lord. They sent shivers down my spine.
There was a rumble of warning, a slumberous drawl, and a genuine note of concern within those initial four words, but it was how he said my name.
Like my mother used to say it.
Not like Ca-Meel. But Ca-Me-Ull.
The difference might not seem that much, but to me, it was profound. He said it with a Russian accent, which told me she’d spoken of me. At least, by name.
But at that moment, the weirdness of how this was coming to pass wasn’t what I needed to discuss. The desire to atone, to repent for my sins wasn’t something I needed either.
Every single reason behind why I’d come here disappeared into the wind. I just needed to be in his arms.
To feel his warmth.
To be in this room where it felt cozy and lived in.
To be at his side.
I knew, right then and there, that I couldn’t handle the kind of marriage my mother had. Having affairs that would result in my brutal murder. Being beaten and hiding those bruises. Dealing with jealous mistresses who would call and send photos to me. Being a broodmare until I had a son to take over the mantel before my womb gave out and my health with it.
No.
I needed to make him feel something for me.
I needed to make him need me.
And the only way I knew how to do that was with sex.
It hadn’t worked with Nyx. I’d been and done everything he wanted, but it hadn’t been enough. I had to pray that Brennan was different. That I could more than adequately satisfy him.
Our earlier kiss gave me courage where, before, I might not have dared approach him, but this was still me. I was still useless with my words, so I stayed silent. Instead, with my eyes now adjusted to the darkness, I saw the mound in the bed that told me he was on the right hand side, and I moved over to the left.
As I lifted the blanket and slipped underneath it, he asked, his tone more querulous than annoyed, “What are you doing?”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“And I’ll do because there’s no one else?” He heaved a sigh as I moved under the sheet, making me feel doubly unwanted.
I wasn’t sure what I’d expected in all honesty. I mean, I’d strong-armed the man into marriage. What more did I want from him?
But the truth was, he was the only person I had right now.
Which was so beyond depressing, so beyond illuminating that I huddled onto my side.
I’d chosen a life where I was a whore rather than work.
I’d chosen a life where I ran away from my responsibilities.
I’d chosen a life where my sisters didn’t know me and only called me for gyno issues because it was too embarrassing to go to the ER.
And how did I fix all that?
By tying myself to a man in the most lowdown way possible.
Despair suffocated me as I reached for him, needing to fill the empty hole inside me—not the one that was between my legs, but the one in my chest cavity.
I needed to escape. I needed to be free from these thoughts.
I pressed my hand to his chest, encountering bare skin and more of that scent that seemed to seep from his sheets, but his fingers caught mine. He held me firmly, resolutely. In a way that told me not to press him.
But what alternative did I have?
I needed him more than he needed me, and that was a balance I had to rectify.
“Camille, it’s late.”
I swallowed. “So?”
“You just murdered your father,” he said wryly. “This is reaction setting in, and I’m pretty sure that you’re going to regret this in the morning.”
“This time tomorrow night, you’ll be my husband. Are you saying you won’t consummate our marriage because of what I did?”
Another sigh gusted from his lips. “There’s no right or wrong answer here, is there? If I take advantage of what you’re offering, I’m a piece of shit. If I don’t take advantage, you’re probably going to think I’m not interested.” His hand shoved mine deeper beneath the covers. “There, satisfied?” He was hard.
There was a god.
“I will be soon,” I rasped, trying to sound seductive and failing. Could I do nothing right?
He grunted as I shaped him, my fingers sliding over his thick length. It was strange for him to be smooth, for his dick to be unlike Nyx’s. I’d had precious little experience with anyone other than him, and his shaft was so studded with metal I was pretty sure he couldn’t go anywhere near one of those detectors people used to find buried treasure in their backyards without setting off alarms.
“You don’t want this,” he said, his voice wooden. That wasn’t what I needed.
I needed him to be desperate.
Hungry.
For me.
God, just for me.
As if that was even doable.
My eyes shuttered to a close as I moved nearer to him, not stopping until I shifted one leg over his hips, before I reared up, pinning him in place as I rocked onto my knees. When I was straddling him, I pressed my pussy against his hardness, wishing I was wet, wishing that I wanted this as I started to shimmy my hips, dragging his length along mine.
Most men would have lain back and taken what I was offering.
This was the first lesson Brennan gave me that taught me he was not like most men.
Though my sight had adjusted, the room was still couched in shadows, a thick gloom that made it hard to see anything other than a blur beneath me. I didn’t expect his hands to snatch at mine, didn’t anticipate him twisting us around so that he was on top of me and I beneath him.
&nb
sp; For a second, relief soared inside me, like a firework display on July Fourth—my cup truly runneth over. Then, he moved off me. Shifting to the side so his weight no longer covered me.
A disappointed moan rushed from my lips, the mewling sound so piteous that it was no wonder he didn’t want me.
Would he cancel the wedding now?
I needed him more than ever, but I’d fucked up by being the worst seductress.
I tried to reach for him, but before I could, he jerked my hands to the point of discomfort then raised them overhead. When he pinned them in place, he pressed his knee between mine then, with his spare hand, pinched the sparse flesh of my thigh and wordlessly encouraged me to part my legs.
A shaken breath escaped me, one loaded with hope until his hand pressed against my core, and he slipped his fingers through the boxer briefs I wore.
When he encountered dryness, chalky flesh that was proof I wasn’t the least bit aroused, he rasped, “Just as I thought.”
I imagined he’d back off, tell me to get out of his room, but he didn’t. His fingers stayed exactly where they were, but his mouth whispered along my jaw as he trailed his lips up from my chin to my ear.
“W-What did you think?”
His tongue flickered out to lash at my earlobe, making me gulp as he whispered, “If you’re not wet, then why are you in here, acting like a slut?”
The word, to anyone else, would have been an insult.
Years ago, it would have been to me too, but I’d been a clubwhore, and I’d been called names a thousand times worse than that.
“If you think you can tie me to you through your cunt, you need to learn that I’m not like most men.” He patted my pussy. “You have a problem with sex?”
I blinked at that, shaking my head quickly. “N-No, of course not.”
The tips of his fingers unerringly found my clit, which had tremors rushing down my spine as he didn’t just rub it like it was a magic button he expected to press so that I’d miraculously orgasm, but he caressed it with a gentleness I didn’t foresee.
He wasn’t careful, just considerate. Touching it in a way that I would, that had memories of the few times I’d ever masturbated surging to the fore. My hips shifted down, my butt digging into the bed and I spread my legs a little wider so that I felt the pull of the muscles where thigh met groin. He carried on, and on. Fingering me like he didn’t have a care about time slipping out of our grasp, but I felt his dick digging into me so I knew that wasn’t true.
Filthy Sex: The Five Points’ Mob Collection: Four Page 15
