Okay, that might be true. But honestly… who wanted to hear their man went down on women, and they never complained, unlike me? I preferred to never have to imagine him with anyone else.
“Krasavica,” he called from the other side. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean it like that.” Turning around and pressing my forehead on the wood, I wondered if he even understood what he did right now.
Apologized.
Whenever he did something sweet, my mind and body rebelled against it, because he just wasn't that man.
Sweet, caring, understanding. The pakhan of the Bratva… and I had yet to see a bad thing from him. Damian, aka Sociopath, was dark and twisted with a singular desire for revenge while falling in love with his woman. She meant the world to him, but he never changed for her. He stayed the same ruthless man, the one he was before her. Sapphire accepted all his faults and, because of it, their love only grew stronger.
Dominic, based on everything I’d heard so far from various gang members, Connor, even Damian, had no mercy for anyone either and ruled the house with an iron fist.
But I just didn't see it. Where was this man? Why did he hide himself from me? Why instead of barging in here and claiming me, did he stand outside and beg?
This wasn't the Dominic Konstantinov I’d met in the park all those months ago, and deep down I worried I’d never see that Dominic again.
I stepped into the shower stall, expecting him to do something.
Nothing.
Sliding down the cold tile to the floor, I covered my face with my hands and wept, without really understanding what upset me.
Dominic
Papers, penholders, wooden figurines, a vase with fresh roses, all scattered as I smashed them away with my hands, breathing heavily from the rage boiling inside me. Plastering my palms on the table, I leaned on it, hanging my head low, and struggling for the control that seemed to be nonexistent when I dealt with my woman. The bottle of whiskey along with a porcelain glass already lay on the floor, tiny, shiny pieces glistening in the sun while the office smelled like a fucking bar.
Intimate moments with her were the best I’d ever had in my life, yet whenever it was done, I couldn't help but feel like shit for disappointing her and refusing to let her touch me. But how was I supposed to explain to her my inability to do so?
After losing my virginity with Olga, all other encounters pretty much stayed the same. A hard, quick fuck with the woman’s back to me. Looking in their eyes, having an intimate moment, allowing them to use their hands… just the idea made my skin crawl like tiny little ants nipping at me. Once the relief was achieved, the woman could disappear for all I cared.
I never went down on them, never showered their bodies with attention. The only contact, besides fucking, was me fingering them to get them ready, because I didn't want anyone to be in pain.
I had my haunting memories to last me a lifetime.
“Well, good morning to you too, man,” Michael cheered, as he scanned the disaster that my office had become. “I brought coffee.” Passing by the mess, he placed the steaming mug right under my nose. “Trouble in paradise?”
“I’m not in the mood for any jokes, Michael.”
He shrugged. “Okay. Want to talk about it?” I opened my mouth to tell him that no one could help me with this, when it hit me that if anyone could understand my problem, it would only be one person in this world.
My brother.
“No.” Picking up my phone, I dialed his number, but got interrupted when Michael cursed and looked at me worriedly after seeing something on the iPad he held in his hands. “What is it?”
“We have a problem, boss.” He handed the device to me, and the picture of Kiril, one of ourshesterka, a person who supplied the mafia with different information, shoving his dick down the throat of a woman on her knees. Her hands were cuffed and tears slid down her cheeks as she almost chocked on the thing. She couldn't be older than sixteen.
Rage unlike no other built inside me, smoldering everything in its wake with one desire: to destroy the man and end his life in the most painful of ways.
“Call Vitya, Yuri, Dima. Everyone. Cancel all the other meetings.” He nodded and rushed from the office as I opened the cupboard, took out my gun, flipped the safety off, and walked to the exit.
All traces of humanity left me, as my hands twitched to punish the rapist.
He wouldn't face the pakhan of the Bratva.
He’d face Dominic Harrison, the little boy who had been raped and abused for nine years.
Rosa
Resting my head on the car seat, I gazed through the tinted windows of the Jeep that Dominic picked specifically for me as Vlad drove, or tried to, in the busy streets of Moscow. If you thought traffic was insane back in New York, you hadn't seen anything. Sometimes I could spend three hours just getting from the university, so I had food and drink in the small fridge, always ready for me.
