Then, yesterday, she showed up at my office, looking like an untouchable ice princess in that blue dress, and asked me out on a date. She couldn’t have surprised me more, and nothing surprises me much these days, at least not in a pleasant way.
My wife gave me a glimpse of how things would’ve been if I hadn’t killed her father and accidentally murdered her mother. If I’m honest with myself, I’ll admit that I like it. A lot. Maybe a little too much. I like how we are as a family—her, Noah, and me. I love how she submits to me in bed while simultaneously challenging me and standing up to me when she deems it necessary.
From the first time I laid eyes on her, I knew I was going to make her mine. Her moans and writhing body beneath mine were my single-minded goals. So I claimed her, disregarding any obstacles and not considering any price too high. I paid for her in blood and hatred. I sacrificed more than I could bear.
But from the first time I slipped my hand under her skirt and laid her out like a sacrifice on her bed, those goals I’d set with so much scheming, so utterly sure of myself and my infallible control, became my drug. Tatiana Teszner, without realizing, turned the tables on me by becoming an addiction I can never cure.
Said addiction is fast spiraling down a deep, dark, dangerous pit. The physical has long since ceased being the part I relish the most. Yes, I can never get enough of her body. I don’t think I ever will. It’s a weakness I accepted a long time ago. But I’ve come to value her unconditional trust even more. It’s not a gift I ever expected from her, not after how I’d used her and what I’d done. And this weakness should terrify me to my core. Because now that I’ve tasted the sweetness of her loyalty and affection, I’m not sure if I can give it up.
I’m starting to wonder if Sav wasn’t right. Leander is as good as dead. I’m enjoying watching his slow decay. His life has become one big misery. The debtors and bratva he still owes money are closing in like sharks in blood-infested waters. It’s only a matter of time before they make an example of him, and a good example requires that he suffers. Slow torture always sends a stronger message than a quick bullet.
If I could let that be enough, I could let the search for the necklace go. I could live the life I’m discovering with Tatiana. It’s a good life, better than any part of my life has been before. The only parts that mattered were the parts with her in them. The last few days made me realize that I’ve never been truly happy, and like any addict who does the label justice, now that I’ve gotten a taste of the better stuff, I want more.
My life perspective is changing. I’m more focused on my family, especially now that Noah is there, and less on chasing shallow achievements. I have more money than I can use in ten lifetimes. I don’t need more companies or clubs. The reason I’m fighting the wars I do has shifted.
Before, money and power were everything. Now, protecting my family comes first. Money and power are just instruments in obtaining that purpose. My fierce ambition, the risks I take with my life, the blood I spill… I’m not doing it for myself any longer. Those sacrifices aren’t only for the men who fight loyally by my side. They’re for something a lot worthier, for the family I go home to, for the family who is my home.
More and more, I don’t want Tatiana to remember. Selfishly, I want her to live in oblivion so that she’ll continue to give me the soft, sweet side of her she’s been withholding from me since the night she ran away, a young woman wounded, pregnant, and alone. I don’t want her to remember the horrors of the torture and betrayal she suffered. How lonely and frightened she must’ve been.
Yes, it’s better that she never remembers, but my reasons for wanting that aren’t pure. I want to believe in the illusion of us. I want to own the happiness that’s within my grasp. Kent has been accusing me of losing focus. He thinks I’m not as invested in finding the necklace as I used to be.
If that’s the case, it’s because all my energy is going into tracking the people who hurt and without a doubt would’ve killed my wife. Whatever they did to her—what we did to her—was so traumatic that her mind blocked out those events. I want to find the persons behind her kidnapping and eliminate every one of them so that they can never touch her again. To protect Tatiana’s identity, I have to find Naomi Foster before anyone else does.
Yet it feels as if the web is closing in on me, as if I’m losing control, and I never lose control. Except when it comes to her. To one woman. To the girl I claimed as mine.
It’s a good thing Joni Stein died of a heart attack last week. The sick old bastard heard about Tatiana’s return. He didn’t say who’d told him when he called me for news about her, but it didn’t take much to figure it out. Of course Leander informed him. The coward no doubt thought he could get Stein’s protection in the name of a contract that had been broken years ago.
Tatiana was never Stein’s fucking business. If old age and a lifestyle of excess hadn’t taken care of him, I would’ve gone to his house and driven a knife through his fat, liver-stained belly. He had the nerve to threaten me with telling her the truth. He should’ve known that had already branded him as a dead man.
“We should vote on it,” my lawyer says.
The men turn their heads to me, waiting for my decision.
“That won’t be necessary.” I stand. “The profit sharing is fair.” I close the file in front of me. “I accept the terms.”
We shake on it. Each man congratulates me on a successful negotiation before taking his leave.
I’m halfway through the queue when Penelope opens the door. She waves me over with an apologetic smile.
Excusing myself, I walk to where my assistant is waiting in the hallway.
“There’s a woman on the phone. She said she needed to speak to you urgently, but she wouldn’t say why or give me her name. She sounds kind of looney. I was going to blow her off.” She lowers her voice. “But then she said the matter concerned Tatiana. She didn’t say Mrs. Morici or your wife. She used her first name. Do you want to take the call?”
A nerve pinches between my shoulder blades like when I get a bad feeling about something. “Put her through to my office.”
Penelope hurries away to execute the command.
In my office, I close the door for privacy and pick up the receiver on my desk. “How can I help you?”
“Dante Morici?”
I still, having a good idea who the woman on the other end of the line is. “Where did you get this number?”
When I think she might’ve been involved in Tatiana’s kidnapping, anger boils up inside me. Cruel anticipation follows in the wake of the fury because if she is who I think she is, she’s going to lead me to the men who attacked my convoy and kidnapped my wife.
She scoffs. “It wasn’t hard to look up.”
No, my office number is listed. I just wanted confirmation that she doesn’t have my cell phone number, which I only share with a handful of people. That means whoever she’s working with either doesn’t have it or didn’t give it to her. I’m guessing both scenarios would apply.
