His Queen of Clubs

by Rose, Renee

  * * *

  Vlad

  The girl should be awake by now. I’m not on expert on narcotics, but I’ve seen this concoction used before. I researched how much to give her, and I doubt I guessed far off on her weight.

  I have her bound on the bed in the upstairs loft of my rented townhouse. Mika stands in the doorway, kicking a hacky sack back and forth while I check Alessia’s pulse. It feels weak and erratic. I grip her face and turn it from side to side, trying to make sure she’s not faking it. The way her head lolls tells me she’s not. Her lids flutter open, but all I see are the whites of her eyes, like they’re rolled back in her head.

  A shot of pure alarm makes my heart pound.

  “Alessia. Wake up, printsessa.” I lightly tap her face. “Wake up.”

  Her lips move but I can’t hear what she’s saying.

  “What’s that?”

  “Insulin.” She flops her hand at me and that’s when I see the medical bracelet. It’s rose gold and expensive-looking so I didn’t notice the symbol at first.

  Fuck.

  I flip it over to read what it says.

  Diabetic.

  Double fuck.

  With my phone, I Google what to do in the case of an emergency with a diabetic.

  Fuck. According to the screen, she needs emergency medical care, and I’m not about to surrender her to the local hospital. If the girl dies, she’s absolutely no use to me. And I don’t want her death on my conscience. I already have far too many.

  I disposed of her purse in case they could track her by her phone, but now I’m kicking myself. I shout to Mika to bring me a can of Coke from the kitchen.

  When he brings it, I tell him in terse Russian, “I need you to drive back to the casino and get her purse. I threw it in the trash can outside the elevators and in front of the door where you picked me up. It’s very important—could mean her life. But don’t get caught. Understand?”

  He’s frightened by my tone, but he nods quickly.

  “You can do this, Mika. Call me if you can’t find it.”

  “I’ll find it,” he says, throwing a frightened glance at the girl tied up on the bed.

  “And don’t bring her phone with you! Leave it in the trash. Just the purse and the rest of the contents, okay? Go quickly, now.”

  Mika agrees and dashes off.

  I crack the can and scoop under the girl’s shoulders to prop her against my body. “Drink, zaika.” I attempt to dribble Coke from a can into the mafia princess’s mouth.

  Diabetic.

  I never saw that one coming.

  The Tacones are so perfect, so wealthy. The girl is so beautiful; it’s like I didn’t think something like illness or ill-fate would touch them.

  But of course, sickness is immune to wealth or power or even beauty.

  Fuck. For some reason, her handicap makes it much harder for me to hate her. And I was struggling as it was. It’s hard to hate the beautiful. It’s like someone not liking a puppy or kitten.

  It’s almost hard to believe how perfect her face is. Full, bow-shaped lips, thick, slightly-arched brows, long lashes. Her olive skin is flawless and smooth.

  Alessia’s lids flutter and her lips move against the can. She swallows. “Yes,” she murmurs, acknowledging what I’m trying to do.

  “Good girl.”

  I keep at it for an agonizingly long time. Waking her from her faint, trying to get the sugary substance down her throat to bring her blood sugar levels back up.

  “Mika’s picking up your insulin, printsessa,” I murmur as I dribble more Coke down her throat. “You’re not dying today.”

  She makes a sound as she swallows. She understands me. Knows what’s going on here. Her attempts to open her lids are getting more successful. Her eyes track my face, brows dip.

  “Why?” she rasps.

  “Why kidnap you?” I don’t know why I’m inclined to make conversation with her. She doesn’t deserve any politeness or special handling from me. But it’s like it’s impossible not to answer. “Your brother killed my cell.”

  Her eyes drift closed again.

  I put the can to her lips again. “Drink. You’re no use to me dead.”

  She mumbles something, her full lips wet with the amber liquid. I want to lick the sweetness from them. Bite those lips. Punish her for being a Tacone. For being so beautiful. “What’s that?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I chuckle. “You still have a little fight in you, hmm? Good. I liked wrestling with you back at the casino. Made my dick hard.”

  Her eyes fly back open, pupils narrowing in fear as soon as they land on my face.

  I give her a wicked smile.

  She blinks several times, but it seems to take too much effort to keep her eyes open, because they roll back and she slides back into a faint.

  Oops.

  The adrenaline spike she got from my taunt probably wiped her out.

  I’m a sicker fuck than I thought because even with her passed out I want to fuck her.

  Hard.

  Rough.

  I want to ride the mafia princess until she screams and begs me to let her come.

  It seems to take forever, but finally I hear Mika’s footsteps racing up the stairs.

  “I got it,” he says in Russian, holding the pink purse. “No one saw me.”

  “Good job.”

  I dump the contents on the bed. Lipstick, wallet. A syringe and bottle of insulin falls out, along with a test kit and a piece of paper with hand-written instructions taped to it. If unconscious, administer glucagon. The glucagon is in a red kit labeled with the same black Sharpie. Instructions inside have me mix the powder with saline in the syringe. As I work, I bark orders at Mika. “Check the bag for an electronic trace. It could be something small and thin, like a watch battery.”

  I follow the instructions and pinch the skin of her belly, jabbing the into the fat layer and slowly pushing down the plunger on the syringe of insulin.

  I check my watch. How long will it take? How long does she have before her body shuts down completely? I don’t know enough about diabetes to know what I’m dealing with here.

  “Nothing,” Mika reports.

  I search through everything on the bed. The contents appear to be innocuous.

  “Give it to me.” I hold my hand out for the purse. Nothing changes in the boy’s face—the kid is always stoic as fuck, but somehow I know I’ve offended him. “I trust you, Mika, I just want to double-check.” I point to the stuff on the bed. “You double-check my work here.”

  The boy nods and moves to the bed, picking up and looking over everything the way I had.

  He’s not a good kid. I’m not sure he even has a moral compass. I’ve seen him beat boys twice his size on the street for no reason at all. He’s dangerous as hell.

  But like a feral dog who finds someone to feed him, he’s bonded to me. He’ll do whatever the fuck I say without question. Kidnap a woman and tie her up on a bed? No problem.

  Drive a car to the enemy’s lair? Whatever you say, boss.

  And as much as I know I’m doing him a disservice, I don’t trust him with anyone else. I know he’s broken. His bitch of a mother made sure of that… Junior Tacone completed it when he orphaned the kid from his bratva. I have little to offer, but at least I will give him his dignity and the skills to survive.

  Alessia stirs. Her eyes open.

  Thank fuck.

  She groans and rolls to her side. “I’m going to puke.”

  It takes me a moment to translate the word puke, but the look on her face helps. “Mika, hand me the trash can,” I order in Russian.

  Mika moves quickly, his intelligence and reflexes perfectly honed for emergencies. The kid has probably been through too many to count. A girl puking is nothing compared to what he’s seen.

  I get there just in time for her to lose her lunch in the wastebasket.

  Mika makes a sound of disgust.

  “You can go,” I dismiss him.

/>   It’s not because I want to be alone with the girl.

  Yeah, right.

  I want to strip the girl bare and tie her up to this bed. Taunt her with my cock and record her pleading.

  Instead I get a wet washcloth and bring it to her. And because her hands are tied, I wipe her mouth with it.

  She glares at me. We’re close. I loom over her, checking to see if there’s anywhere else to clean. Her focus falls to my tattooed knuckles, follows the ink on my forearms, stops at the bulge of my biceps.

  She swallows.

  I sprout a chub. Does she find my strength attractive? The way her pupils dilate makes me think she does. But then, who knows if she’s ever been close to a man who wasn’t her brother before.

  “You could’ve killed me,” she accuses.

  I allow one corner of my lips to lift in a humorless grin. “I still can, printsessa.”

  I watch a ripple of fear run through her and she attempts to scoot up to sitting without the use of her hands. I let her struggle, enjoying the way her fuchsia dress rides up her ripe thighs. Her legs are long, lean and strong, her calves shapely. Somehow the heels are still on.

  She licks her lips and my boner grows. “I need to check my blood sugar.”

  * * *

  Alessia

  “This?” The Russian picks up the tester kit. I blink, getting a better look at him now that I can focus. He has sandy blond hair, piercing blue eyes and multiple scars on his stubbled jaw. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt that stretches over his bulging muscles and his arms and fingers are covered in tattoos.

  Unfortunately, I find his look sexy. He’s the modern James Dean bad boy. Or the street version of actor Jeremy Renner.

  I’m both terrified and turned on by him at the same time. Maybe it was just feeling all that raw masculine strength when he grabbed me. Maybe my hormones are on full blast after watching two of my siblings tie the knot.

  My captor cocks his head and raises a stern brow.

  “Yes, that. Untie me.”

  “Oh, zaika. Let’s get one thing straight right now. You’re not giving the orders here.”

  I shouldn’t find his thick accent sexy, either, but I do.

  I give it right back to him, arching my own brow. “You need me alive. That means keeping my blood sugar stable. So untie my hands and let me test my glucose.”

  “Nyet.”

  Such a final-sounding word, the Russian no.

  He examines the glucose meter, figuring out how it works while I watch without offering any help. He’s not a dumb man, though. He picks up the lancet. “From your finger, I presume?”

  I don’t answer.

  He grips my bound wrists and tugs one of the fingers away from the rest. His touch isn’t cruel, but I choose this moment to make my dissatisfaction known, and I use both hands to punch him in the nose.

  Well, punch is a loose description. I can’t really punch with my wrists bound, nor can I wind up to make it effective. I sort of knew that before I tried, but figured it was still worth it as an act of defiance.

  A signal of war.

  I don’t break his nose. I don’t even make it bleed. Cristo, I’m not even sure I hurt him, but he reacts quickly, swiping my hands down and pinning them to the mattress, effectively dropping me to my side. He looms over me, eyes glittering.

  Oh fuck.

  Is he excited?

  Too late, I remember his warning that he was turned on by wrestling me.

  And my foolish body reacts, heat pooling between my legs as if this is some kind of mating ritual, and not a brutal kidnapping.

  All right, maybe not that brutal.

  “Don’t hit, zaika. You won’t like the punishment.”

  Why does the word punishment get my feminine parts tingly?

  I lick my lips. “What is it?” I shouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking, but I do.

  His smile is wicked. He removes one of my pink pumps and tosses it to the floor. “Strike me again, and you lose your clothing privileges. The dress comes off, printsessa.” He removes the other shoe. I become distinctly aware of my damp panties and the fact that there’s only a thin piece of fabric between my pussy and those rough hands.

  A slow throb starts between my legs, my nipples tighten. Fearing a hard blush come on, I speak quickly to distract myself and him. “What is zaika?”

  His feral smile returns. “Bunny. Now give me your finger like a good girl.”

  I lift my middle finger.

  His eyes glitter, like he loves my challenge. A ripple of sexual tension hits me full blast when he holds it and jabs the tip with the lancet, then squeezes a drop of blood onto the test strip. He inserts it into the meter and turns the screen to show me the readout.

  “Still too low,” I tell him. “I need insulin.”

  He picks up a hypodermic needle and a bottle of insulin. Once more, he figures out how it works and fills the needle. “Where?”

  This time I definitely flush. “You can give it in my arm.”

  His eyes narrow as he recognizes my discomfort. “Where do you usually take it?”

  I lift my chin. “None of your business.”

  One corner of his mouth lifts. “Your ass?” he guesses.

  “My belly!” I snap.

  His eyes gleam and he reaches for the hem of my dress. “What, zaika? You’re afraid I’ll see your pink panties?”

  Heat flushes up my neck to my ears as he slowly drags the hem up, exposing my thighs, then my panties, to my belly button.

  He runs the back of one knuckle across the front of my panties, sending tremors down my inner thighs. “You think I didn’t already see these pretty things when you were in my trunk? Or tied up on my bed?”

  My stomach flips. Oh Santa Maria. This is his bed? I am so screwed.

  Maybe the full reality of my situation finally hits me. Maybe good sense returns and fear sets in, but for whatever reason, my eyes suddenly fill with tears. I look away, blinking. Pissed that he saw he got to me.

  He pinches a small place of flesh on my belly and injects me, then cups my jaw. “Don’t cry. It you behave, you won’t get hurt. It’s your brothers I want to punish, not you.”

  I meet his eyes, surprised at the sudden change in his demeanor.

  He drops my chin and walks away, giving me his back.

  I close my eyes, blocking out the sight of him. Of this room.

  Of my new prison.

  Chapter 3

  Vlad

  “Wait.”

  Shit. I need to get away from this woman. She’s too much of a temptation. I could look at her face all day and never grow tired of it. She’s that beautiful. And her beauty does stupid things to me. Like make me want to be nice.

  And there’s no fucking place for nice here.

  Worse, I don’t just want to look at her face. I want to bite those lips, fuck that mouth, watch her eyes roll back in her head when I pound her hard.

  And I’m not going to do any of those things.

  I don’t rape women.

  I may not trust women. I may think they are manipulative liars who want to lure you into their lair and eat your heart out. But I still wouldn’t take what wasn’t offered.

  I may make the little mafia princess think I’m going to, but I wouldn’t do it.

  “What?” I don’t bother turning around.

  “I have to pee. And I’m hungry.”

  Fuck. I rotate and pin her with a hard stare.

  A blush creeps up her neck. She may pretend to be tough—and I love it when she does—but I know the truth. She’s afraid of me.

  And a little turned on.

  “Okay, printsessa. Get up.”

  She raises her brows and attempts to shimmy toward the end of the bed.

  I watch for a moment, because it’s so fucking hot the way her dress rides up and I sure as hell want to see those pink panties again.

  When she finally makes it to the edge of the bed, I walk over and untie her ankles.

>   “Go.” I lift her to her feet and slap her ass, hard enough to be a warning.

  She squeaks and scuttles forward, then turns and holds out her bound wrists to me. “What about these?”

  I shake my head. “Make do. Bathroom is there. Leave door open.” Her nearness thickens my accent, makes me drop the article before door.

  “Fuck you,” she mutters as she moves away.

  I smack her ass again.

  Damn if she doesn’t toss her long thick hair and swish her hips as she crosses the room to the bathroom.

  Adorable.

  The girl is seriously something.

  Definitely my lucky day. The Tacones couldn’t have given me a better gift than their beautiful, fresh-faced sister.

  I go still, a prickle racing across my skin as a thought occurs to me.

  No.

  It’s a terrible idea.

  I lift my eyes to Alessia, who compromised, leaving the door open six inches. Good. She knows I’ll carry out my threatened punishment.

  I return to my terrible idea. Could I?

  Probably not.

  Should I?

  Definitely not.

  My burner phone buzzes. It’s Victor, my pakhan. The papa, or big boss of our bratva. The one who sent me away after Sabina pulled her tricks. He’s the only one who has this number, seeing as how it’s a new phone.

  “Da, Pakhan.”

  “Come back. Zima’s dead,” he says in Russian.

  Zima’s the reason Victor ordered me to leave. Zima wanted me dead. Victor wouldn’t allow it. As the derzhatel obschaka—the bookkeeper of the organization—I’m too valuable to him. Or maybe it was out of respect for my mother, his long-time mistress. Either way, I was banished. Sent with the brigadier Ivan to set up a cell in Chicago. A shit job, and one I’m totally over-qualified for. So I let Ivan have his fun and kept working on my laundering schemes.

  The toilet flushes from the bathroom.

  My heart pounds with the audacity of my idea.

  “Da. I’ll come right away. As soon as I get the paperwork in order to bring my new bride. I’m taking the Tacone girl as my own. They’ll pay me to keep her alive and well. It’s the very best revenge.”

  Victor doesn’t speak for a moment. Marriage is forbidden as part of the thieves’ Code of Conduct, but one that involves revenge on an enemy is a different situation.