Page 48

We do it again. Kitchen. Stairs. The studio. My hip catches a table once, and I laugh, sharp and ugly, because I am tired of dignity. He does not pick me up. He waits. I find my feet.

On the third pass I stop in the courtyard and tip my face toward a moon I cannot see.

"If you put powder in my tea again," I say, "I will not forgive it a second time."

"I know."

"If you sign my name while I sleep, I will burn the paper in front of your capos."

"I know that too."

"Good." The wind lifts my hair. "Then we can go to New York when the war calls. Not as your secret. As your wife, I walk the house in the dark without you.

He comes close enough that cinnamon and smoke settle against my mouth. He does not kiss me until I lean in first.

SIXTEEN

GEMMA

Russian men think size equals authority.

It is their biggest flaw and, honestly, the easiest one to exploit.

I lounge across an oversized leather sofa in the penthouse suite overlooking the snow-dusted spires of Red Square, twirling a crystal glass of Beluga vodka between my freshly painted scarlet nails. My bare feet are propped up on a glass coffee table that costs more than an average apartment in Queens. Around my slender throat is a velvet choker that hides a three-inch ceramic garrote wire sewn into the lining.

Across the room, standing before the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, is Victor Reznikov.

Six-foot-seven of pure Bratva muscle. His broad shoulders strain against the black cashmere of his sweater, his massive arms covered in intricate Russian prison tattoos depicting crows, skulls, and Orthodox crosses. He holds an amber tumbler in his left hand, the knuckles of his right still raw and scabbed from beating his own lieutenant to death an hour ago.

He turns to look at me, his icy blue eyes narrowing with that predatory glint that usually makes men reach for their guns and women drop to their knees.

I just take another sip of his vodka and wink at him.

"You're still smiling, Malysha," Victor says, his accent thick and deep, making me shiver in delight. "Most women would be weeping after watching what I did to Ivan."

"Ivan had terrible breath, Victor," I reply in flawless Russian, setting my glass down on the table with a soft clink. "And honestly, his technique with a scalpel was laughable. If you're going to threaten to peel off my skin, you should at least know which nerve clusters cause paralysis. He was slicing like he was filleting a carp."

A low, guttural chuckle rumbles from the Russian's chest as he strides toward me. He moves with a shocking, silent agility for a man his size, each step closing the distance until his massive frame blocks the glow of the chandelier overhead.

He stops at the edge of the sofa, looking down at me with unvarnished hunger.

"You are a psychopath, Gemma Messina."

"And you're a giant with a god complex," I counter smoothly, leaning my head back against the leather cushions and smiling up at him through my lashes. "We match nicely, don't you think?"

Before I can blink, his heavy hand shoots down, wrapping around my throat.

His fingers are massive, easily spanning the width of my neck. He doesn’t squeeze to crush my windpipe; he squeezes just enough to pin my head against the leather, his thumb pressing firmly into the carotid pulse throbbing in my throat. The heat coming off his skin is suffocating, carrying the sharp scent of cedarwood, gun oil, and pure testosterone.

"You think this is a game?" he purrs, leaning down until his lips are an inch from mine. "You let yourself be traded to my house so you could spy on my shipping routes. You let Romeo think you were sacrificing yourself for his blind little pet."

My pulse kicks against his thumb, fast and hard, but not with fear. My body lights up with a dark, electric thrill that makes my thighs clench together.

I slide my hand up his chest, tracing the thick ridge of his clavicle through his cashmere sweater, letting my nails drag lightly over the muscle.

"I didn't let myself be traded to spy, Victor," I whisper, my lips brushing against his bristled jawline. "I came here because Romeo was being boring, playing house in Sicily with his little pet. And because I wanted to see if the terrifying Russian bear was actually worth all the rumors on the street."

Victor's jaw tightens. His blue eyes darken to the color of a bruised winter sky.