However, I always recognized the look in their eyes when they thought they had scored big.
“Sovietnik,” she murmured. Her accent was thick, so there was no question she was from Russia. When her perfume washed over me, I flinched at how strong it was. What the ever-loving fuck? “I’m here to make you feel better.” She pushed her hair over her shoulder. “Direct order from the Bratva.” Right before her hand touched my six-pack, I grabbed it and pushed it back… to her surprised gasp.
“Get the fuck out of here.” She tugged at her dress, confusion written all over her face. In my old life, I would’ve been gentler, as I used to fucking adore women, but at the moment, my mood wasn’t exactly welcoming.
“But you are out of prison… I’m a gift.” She still insisted, licking her lips and showcasing her more than generous cleavage, but I didn’t give a fuck about it. My mind was trying to make sense of her words.
Then it dawned on me.
The Bratva had several rules, the code everyone lived by, and they were never broken. One of them said that should a member find himself in prison at any point in his life, if he was unmarried, a woman should be delivered to his house or room to give him pleasure for all those lonely years.
Dima was simply following the rules, probably without consulting the pakhan first, because Dominic knew my stance on this.
“I won’t repeat again. Get the fuck out.”
She frowned, opened her mouth to argue once more, but must have seen something in my eyes as she quickly grabbed her jacket from the chair and moved toward the door. With a force she flung it open and stepped through, but not before screeching, “A normal man would want a woman,” and slamming the door shut behind her. Walking to the huge-ass window, which brightened the room with the city lights reflected in it, I rested my arm on the glass as I focused on the flicking lights below.
Oh, she was right.
I did need a woman.
But not any woman.
I needed Vivian, as pathetic as it sounded, and before I would be permanently done with her, I would experience the pleasure of her body one more time. Maybe then the idea of hurting her would be less painful.
With that thought in mind, I removed the towel and moved toward the wardrobe.
Why wait for the inevitable, if all this could be done now?
Vivian
Gazing at my ceiling and counting the ships didn’t help me fall asleep no matter how much I tried. The slight rustle of the curtains flying around the open balcony door unsettled me, creating an awareness in my body that didn’t allow me to relax and drift to la-la land.
Or maybe you are freaking insane.
Giving up on sleep all together, I pushed back the blanket and stood up, groaning loudly at the stiffness in my back. That’s what I got for spending too much time on my back during an expensive photoshoot forVoguemagazine.
But the money was good, and in my position, I was grateful to have a well-paying job that allowed me to be financially independent from anyone. My existence under the piles of lies was hard enough.
The ring of my cell phone snapped me out of my depressing musings, and noticing the caller ID, my face lit up with a smile. He always had the best timing.
“Hi, honey.”
A squeal, and then a loud “Hi, Mama!” greeted me from the other end of the line, and joy rushed through me.
My little boy was the only source of happiness in my life.
“Guess what, Mama?” he asked excitedly as I sat down on my big, fluffy, green chair, enjoying the softness it provided.
“What?”
“I just baked my own cookie.”
I paused for a second at this information, because with my kid, you seriously never knew, and then said, “You did? How so?”
He huffed, clearly exasperated he had to explain so much to me. “Grandma showed me how, and then we baked chocolate cookies together. Mine are better,” he said proudly, and I rubbed my forehead, wondering if this stage would ever pass.
Jake, my son, was a five-year-old with the kindest heart of all. He would bring wounded animals home from his stroll in the woods, help older people on the sidewalk with their groceries—and by that I meant them giving him something light, so he would have a sense of responsibility—and he would always tell stories to whoever listened to lighten the mood.
