just as gorgeous as she was in the flesh. One arm was
wrapped around a kid who might be a younger sister.
And her other arm….
Her other arm was wrapped around the waist of a
silver-haired man in his sixties. A man I knew very well.
“Irina,” I asked, fighting to keep my voice level. “What’s
your last name?”
She stared up at me in confusion. “Malakov.” She
glanced at the photo and then my horrified expression.
Her voice went tight and cold. “Vasiliy is my uncle.”
The picture slid from my fingers. I heard the glass break
as it hit the floor.
I got up off the bed, stumbling a little. It felt as if the
whole room was spinning.
Irina’s eyes narrowed in anger. “What?” she snapped.
She tugged her dress down over her thighs. “So what?”
Seeing her mad made me chest ache. Ruining
everything we’d been building towards cut me
deep...but I couldn’t speak, couldn’t even reassure her
that it was okay—my mind was whirling too fast.
And telling her it was okay would have been a lie
anyway, because it most certainly was not fucking okay.
She was Vasiliy Malakov’s niece.
My body seemed to move by itself. I saw myself grab
my coat and head down the stairs to the front door and
then I was away, off into the night.
8
Angelo
I had no idea where I was. I had no idea where I was
going. I just walked.
It wasn’t the best neighborhood, but I’d been in worse.
Plus, if anyone got any ideas about messing with the
guy in the nice suit, they’d change their minds when
they got a look at my expression.
Vasiliy Malakov. I’d been about to fuck the niece of my
sworn enemy. One of the most dangerous men in
Russia and, since he partnered with Mikhail, one of the
biggest crime bosses in New York.
I’d known he had at least one kid—Luka, who’d pretty
much taken over from his dad back in Moscow. I’d had
no idea he had a niece, or that she was right here in
New York.
My mind darted through images of Irina: on stage at the
ballet, frozen in midair with those long legs akimbo;
glaring at me in Central Park, eyes full of suspicion;
standing outside the restaurant watching me through
the glass, her blonde hair gleaming in the streetlights….
And finally, in my arms, looking up at me and begging
me to kiss her. I wanted her. I needed her.
You must never, ever see her again. The leaden truth of
it slammed into me so hard that I stopped dead in the
middle of the sidewalk. Don’t see her. Don’t call her.
Just pretend it never happened. She clearly had no idea
I was Cosa Nostra—we’d both been as clueless as each
other. As long as I disappeared into the night and never
saw her again, she never needed to find out. She’d write
me off as just some asshole who’d walked out on her.
That thought stabbed deep into my chest.
But the consequences, if it had gone any further, would
have been unthinkable. When Vasiliy found out, it would
have tipped our two sides into full-on gang war...hell,
he’d probably have put a hit out on me. My own people
would have lost all faith in me. How can you trust your
leader when he’s literally in bed with the enemy? And
my bosses—the aging pack of old-school Cosa Nostra
who oversaw New York—they would have gone fucking
apeshit. They hated the Russians even more than me. I
would have been busted down to errand boy or just
shot in the head.
I took a deep breath. I felt as if I’d stepped on a fucking
land mine and heard the sickening click. Now I had to
back away, very carefully, and pray it didn’t go off.
Being a leader is about making sacrifices. I couldn’t risk
everything I’d built. Not even for her.
* * *
By the time I got to my apartment, it was the early
hours. I tried to sleep, but I just lay there staring at the
ceiling, trying to get Irina out of my head. I could see
her lying there on her bed, looking up at me with raw
lust in her eyes. God, I wanted her so much. I finally
gave up on sleep, got up and drove to work.
I run most of the business from the backroom of a big,
sprawling bar called Underground, right in the heart of
my territory. A hundred years ago, when immigrants—a
lot of them Italian—dug out the first subway, it was
where they used to go after their shift to shake the rock
dust out of their hair and sink a cold one. It’s a busy
place: even when it’s too early for customers, some of
my guys are there. There’s always coffee in the pot and
music playing. Being there always makes me feel better.
Not today, though. I was in a lousy mood. What the
fuck was wrong with me? It had been months since I’d
been with a woman—I just hadn’t had time. Now I’d
met one and lost her. So what? Back to the status quo.
Two days ago, I hadn’t even known Irina existed.
So why was it bothering me so much?
More people arrived and the business of the day started
rolling in: decisions to be made, problems to be solved.
I sat back in my big leather chair and called people in
one by one. A nightclub owner needed an extension on
his loan after a fire: I gave it to him. Two of my guys
were short on their collection runs: I leaned forward,
voice low, and put the fear of God into them, telling
them to hit their totals tomorrow or else. Some morons
from a local motorcycle club had started dealing meth
on our turf: I sent a car full of guys to remind them
where the boundaries were. Just a typical morning, but
I was grouchy and irritable, yelling more than I should
have done. I knew better. Ruling isn’t about screaming
at people: calm and determined gets you a hell of a lot
further. What’s wrong with me?
Then Rico arrived with more bad news. Some guys from
Mikhail and Vasiliy’s gang had visited an Italian-owned
bar. They’d smashed the windows and scared off the
customers.
It had happened only a few hours after Rico and I had
stood up to the Russians. They were sending a
message: go quietly or we’ll destroy you.
I’d been nursing a cup of coffee in the hope it’d make
me feel better. I suddenly snapped and hurled it across
the room to smash against the wall. “Goddammit!” I
yelled.
Rico blinked at me. “Easy,” he said gently. “We’ve had it
worse. We’ll figure it out.”
I stared at him. Rico’s always so dependable. I love the
guy. For a second, I even considered telling him about
Irina. I knew he’d back me up in my decision, tell me
that staying away from her was the only sensible thing
to do.
Thing is, I didn’t know if I wanted to be backed up. And
just that tiny admission released the brakes on
something that had been building all day. All the
longing, all my lust for her, started to coalesce,
shrinking but concentrating, going from a hot, painful
cloud that filled me to a tiny, hard point of light that sat
right at my core. A seed.
No. No, don’t even think about it.
A seed that I could feel starting to grow.
“Give me some space,” I growled. “I gotta make a
phone call.”
Rico nodded and left, closing the door behind him. I
grabbed my phone.
Don’t do it, Angelo. Don’t you fucking do it!
I’d gotten her number from her during dinner. I told
myself I was just going to end things like a gentleman,
to make some excuse so she didn’t think it was her