Page 88 of Monstrous Urges

Anyway, that’s why I’ve always hated moving. Except this time, for the first time, there’s an odd sort of lifting feeling in my heart as it happens. This time, that whole “starting over” thing feels oddly hopeful and optimistic.

And yes, I fully realize the irony there, given that I’m moving into the house of a Bratva kingpin and potential psychopath who wants me to play his wife.

The only things I ask Fumi to pack up from my apartment back home are a few books, some clothing favorites like the Velvet Guillotine tour t-shirt I love to sleep in, and a couple of framed photos—me and Great-Aunt Florence, the brothers and I, a terrific shot of Fumi and me at her and Gabriel’s wedding.

But from the office, I request a lot.

I mean, I’m not really here as Drazen’s “legal consultant”. And though Fumi and Alistair—and Elsa before she gives birth—are going to be picking up a lot of slack back in New York, I’ve had a lot of my work shipped here for me to tackle from this side of the Atlantic.

Drazen gives me use of one of the several—and there are tons of them—unused rooms of his sprawling mansion; or palazzo, I suppose, since we’re in Italy. The huge, lime-washed room with terra-cotta tiles covered with a gorgeous blue and white area rug opens onto a balcony that looks out over the Tyrrhenian Sea toward Sicily and Corsica.

I mean, there’s worse places to work from home.

When the boxes from Crown and Black arrive, I get to work setting up my new office. I’m also expected to have sit-downs with Yaelle, Drazen’s female guard, who I’ve learned is one of his top underlings.

It’s not lost on me that not a single one of his men comes near me. There’s Milos with his gruff, somewhat leery look. But even he never comes that close, let alone touches me in even the most basic way. Like, not even a handshake.

Actually, I’m fairly sure that the only people who’ve touched me at all—again, even in passing like a handshake or brushing fingers while being handed something—are the only other woman who seems to be on this island…

…and Drazen. Except, he hasn’t touched me at all since that night he chased me through the dark and fucked me like an animal.

The fact that I’m crestfallen that hasn’t happened again since is a good little reminder for me to inquire about Dr. Jesnick’s schedule going forward for virtual sessions.

Over the next week, I settle into a routine. I wake up to find coffee waiting for me next to a pre-selected outfit, including underwear. The first day, I ignored the “suggestion” and put on something else. Drazen met me at the door as I was leaving my bedroom, glanced at me, and told me to change unless I wanted him stripping me at the breakfast table.

Honestly?

Tempting.

But also a little scary.

Most of the mornings, Drazen is there on the little veranda off the kitchen to eat breakfast with me—usually in silence, only punctuated by him taking random business calls or tapping away on his phone.

Terrifying Bratva kingpin he may be, I will say, the guy works. And that’s coming from my workaholic perspective.

As a lawyer, the guy would be insane.

After breakfast, Drazen usually disappears to locations unknown for an undetermined length of time. Part of me sorely wants to ask him where he goes, and what the daily schedule of a mafia king looks like. But on the third day, when he sits down across from me at dinner with blood still on his tattooed knuckles, I decide it’s maybe best not to ask.

During the day, I set up my office and organize the paperwork I’ve been getting from New York. I break for lunch, and I have those meetings with Yaelle, who gives me a crash course in the politics involving Drazen and the Iron Table.

There are, apparently, five seats, occupied by the heads of five Russian Bratva families: Solovyova, Nikolayev, Nikitin, Antonov, and Belov. These are the people I need to impress when I’m “presented” to them soon: the people I need to convince that I’m Annika Brancovich.

Or maybe, it’s just that I need to convince myself that I’m her…

Drazen hasn’t said a word about his business with these people, or why it’s so important for me to impress them. But Yaelle is a way worse poker player than her boss. I haven’t guessed the details yet, but I’m pretty sure this involves a rivalry or dispute between Drazen and Vadik Belov, based purely on the hateful, venomous way Yaelle says the latter’s name.

After that, I eat dinner with Drazen, again, usually in silence. Then he dismisses me—I mean he literally says “you may go”—to my room, where I usually read or catch up on some more work before going to bed.

By day six of this routine, I’m going out of my mind. I do like having a schedule. But compared to the frantic life I have in New York, there’s so many hours of the day where I’m just doing nothing at all that it feels like I’m losing it.

At least I’m not sleepwalking. At least, I don’t think I am.

I’ve been aware the last few days of Drazen’s mood getting blacker and blacker. I have no idea what it’s about, but it seems to be business-related. By the fourth day, he’s glaring into his food as he eats in silence, occasionally checking his phone. By the fifth, he’s even more bitter. The day after that, he’s a downright tyrant, and toxic to be around. So I eat dinner in my room that night and send word to Drazen via Yaelle that I’ve got some work to catch up on.

The following morning, I open my eyes to see an outfit that wakes me up even before I can get into the coffee sitting next to it. An outfit that brings heat to my face and the words “hell fucking no” to my lips: a sheer demi-cup bra with matching sheer thong panties, complete with black thigh-high stockings and towering heels.

That’s all.

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