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One second, I was leaning over him with my fingers beneath his jacket. Then, his grip tightened, and the room tilted. He drew me over his knee with one quick, controlled movement, using my own momentum against me until my stomach landed over his powerful thigh and my hands caught the arm of the chair.
“What the fuck—”
His palm cracked against my ass, just once.
It stung. A lot.
The sound was startlingly loud in the small room, a hard smack delivered directly over the thin fabric of my costume. Heat bloomed beneath it, sharp enough to steal the rest of the sentence from my mouth.
For one stunned moment, I didn’t move.
No man—no person—had ever done that to me.
He had spanked me.
“Stealing from the owner is a poor career choice,” he said.
Rage hit me faster than embarrassment. I shoved myself off his thigh, twisted free of his grip, and came upright between his knees. My hand moved before I thought better of it, and I slapped him. The blow snapped his head a fraction to the side. Silence followed as his cheek reddened beneath the amber light.
He didn’t flinch.
He didn’t reach for me.
He didn’t even blink.
I looked at the man seated before me, my palm still tingling from the force of the slap, and blurted out, “Who the hell are you?”
He reached for the vodka. For one second, I thought he would finally drink it. Instead, he moved the untouched glass farther away, making space on the table.
“Sergei Morozov.”
I recognized his name.
Everyone who understood anything about the criminal world knew the Morozov brothers, though Sergei was less visible than the others. Maxim appeared at charity dinners and business openings. Aleksei had photographs in art magazines. Nikolai’s face circulated in underground fight footage, and Ivan left a digital trail made mostly of rumors and very frightened cybersecurity professionals.
Sergei was different because almost no photographs of him existed.
Only stories.
His nickname was ‘The Shield.’ He protected his family, even if it meant getting his hands dirty. He was the one who made inconvenient men disappear without producing bodies inconvenient enough to require explanations.
He had been sitting feet from me while I put my ass in his face.
Fucking wonderful.
“You bought Nocturne?” I asked.
“My family bought Nocturne.”
“And that gives you the right to put your hands on me?”
“No.” His answer surprised me. His eyes moved over my face, taking in my anger without any visible concern. “You reaching into my coat gave me the right to stop you,” he continued. “The swat was a warning.”
“A warning?”
“Yes.”
“That I should call a lawyer?”
