Granted, Maksim and I agreed from the beginning that as long as we're discreet, we can have affairs. After all, this is a marriage only on paper. A contract with an expiration date stamped months from now. A business arrangement that ends the moment I've served my purpose and he's achieved his goals.
But getting involved with men my husband sees as brothers? Men who live in the same house, share the same loyalties, bleed for each other without hesitation?
That crosses lines I didn't even know existed.
And then there's the other problem. The bigger problem that keeps surfacing every time I let myself think too clearly.
What does this attraction mean for my operations? For Eryan Nis? For the women depending on me to stay focused and functional?
I can't afford distractions. Can't afford to let desire compromise judgment. Can't afford to care about three men who live in a world built on violence I'm trying to dismantle one stolen shipment at a time.
Except I do care.
That's the terrifying part. The part that wakes me up at night with my heart racing and my hands shaking. I care what happens to them. Care if they're safe. Care in ways that make my carefully constructed emotional armor feel like tissue paper.
Share.
The image materializes before I can stop it.
All three of them. Hands on my skin, mouths tasting, bodies pressed close. Being the center of their combined attention, their desire, their focus. Maksim's controlled precision. Zakhar's quiet intensity. Alexei's reckless heat. All of it directed at me, surrounding me, consuming me until I can't tell where I end and they begin.
My pulse accelerates. My skin feels too hot despite the SUV's climate control.
"We're going into foreign territory tonight."
Maksim's voice cuts through my thoughts. Sharp. Precise. Demanding attention.
I turn to look at him. He's staring straight ahead, jaw tight, expression unreadable in the flash of passing streetlights. The city slides by beyond tinted windows. Chicago at night, all neons and shadows.
"What do you mean?" I ask, though I know exactly where we're going.
Ramiz Krasniqi's house. Albanian Mafia. My father's creditor. The man whose debt started this entire arrangement, who holds enough leverage to make the Severyns negotiate instead of simply eliminating the problem.
"This isn't one of your society dinners," Maksim says, and there's an edge to his voice I don't like. Condescension wrapped in concern. "You need to be more cautious tonight. Don't be your usual self."
The words land wrong. Sharp and patronizing, like he's talking to a child who doesn't understand danger.
I bristle instantly, every defense mechanism snapping to attention.
"What exactly do you mean by that?"
He finally looks at me. His blue eyes are cold in the dim light. Calculating. The warmth I sometimes glimpse buried deep beneath the ice is completely absent tonight, replaced by the particular expression he wears when he's three moves ahead in a game I don't realize we're playing.
"Ramiz Krasniqi is old-fashioned," Maksim says, each word deliberate. "A misogynist who believes women are ornamental. To be seen, not heard. Decoration, not participants. When we arrive, the men will gather to conduct business. The women will—" He pauses, makes air quotes with his fingers, mockery dripping from the gesture. "gossip."
The air quotes make my teeth clench.
"If he's such a horrible man," I say, keeping my voice level despite the anger building in my chest, "why does the Severyn Bratva have business with him at all?"
"We don't." His tone is clipped. Final. The verbal equivalent of a door slamming shut. "Your dear father did. And that's why we're in this predicament. Ramiz sees our interference in your father's debt as overreach. As the Severyns stepping into Albanian territory without permission or cause. He's not pleased. And when Ramiz isn't pleased, there are ripples through Chicago's underground ecosystem that need to be carefully managed before they become waves."
I let a smile curve my lips. Sharp. Cutting. The kind of smile I use when I want to draw blood without lifting a weapon.
"So the mighty Severyn Bratva isn't powerful enough to stand up to one barbarian?"
Maksim moves fast.
His hand shoots out, grabs my chin. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to demand my complete attention. His fingersare warm against my skin, and I feel the contact like electricity racing down my spine. Forces me to look directly at him, to meet blue eyes that have gone from cold to blazing in the space of a heartbeat.
