But Natalie...she's the one act I can't control. The wild card, the chaos factor in my meticulously ordered world. She's a virus in my system, corrupting every line of code until all I can see, all I can think about, is her.
I drain my scotch in one burning swallow, relishing the familiar scorch down my throat. It's a poor substitute for the taste I really crave—her skin, her cunt, the salt of her tears as I break her down and rebuild her in my own twisted image.
I close my eyes, letting the memories wash over me. The first time I saw her art, the violent slashes of color that spoke to the darkness coiled in my own soul. The way her scent clung to my skin for days after our first encounter, a taunting reminder of the prize I'd let slip through my fingers.
But not for long. Never for long. Natalie Quinn is mine, even if she doesn't know it yet. Even if she fights me with every last shred of her delectable defiance.
The thought makes my cock twitch, straining against the confines of my tailored slacks. I palm myself through the fabric, biting back a groan at the friction. Christ, the things this woman does to me. The depravities she inspires in my tar-black heart.
I'm hard as a fucking rock, aching with a need that goes beyond the physical. It's a craving for her submission, her surrender. To see those stormy eyes glaze over with broken adoration as I mold her to my will.
But first, the bratva. The game of power and politics, of blood and borrowed time. I have to play my part, maintain the illusion of the ruthless, untouchable don.
Even if every cell in my body is screaming for her. Even if the urge to say fuck it all and storm her crumbling tenement is a living thing, clawing at my guts with talons of white-hot need.
I breathe out hard through my nose, forcing my mind to focus on the task at hand. The bratva are a bear trap waiting to snap shut at the first sign of weakness. They respect strength, brutality, the cold calculus of profit over sentiment.
So that's what I'll give them. I'll smile and nod and make the deals that need to be made. I'll be the merciless bastard they all fear and revere in equal measure.
But all the while, she'll be there. Lurking in the shadowed corners of my mind, the dark itch that can never be scratched. My Natalie, my black obsession.
As the plane ascends, piercing the veil of clouds, I flip open my laptop. A few keystrokes, and there she is. My twisted queen, splayed out in glorious high definition, courtesy of the hidden cameras I'd had installed in her apartment.
She's pacing, a caged lioness, all tousled hair and smudged eyeliner. The oversized t-shirt she wears does little to conceal her lush curves, the ripe swell of her breasts and the mouthwatering curve of her ass.
I lean back, unzipping my fly to ease the painful pressure of my cock. She has no idea I'm watching, no clue that even now, hurtling through the stratosphere, I'm devouring her with my eyes.
My hand curls around my shaft, stroking in time with the restless prowl of her steps. I imagine I'm there with her, pinning her against the wall, forcing her slender legs apart with my knee.
She'd fight me, spit curses like venom even as her body betrayed her, growing slick and hot and so fucking desperate for my touch. I'd make her watch herself in the mirror as I took her, make her see the wanton creature she becomes under my hands, my cock.
A low groan escapes me as I work myself faster, chasing the ghost of her tight, wet heat. On the screen, Natalie pauses, head cocked as if sensing my voyeuristic presence. For a single, suspended heartbeat, her stormy gaze seems to meet mine through the camera.
Then she shakes her head, resuming her pacing. But it's too late. That brief, electric connection is all it takes to push me over the edge.
I come with a muffled curse, spilling hot and thick over my fist. In my mind's eye, I paint her creamy skin with my release, marking her, claiming her as mine in the most primal way possible.
As I catch my breath, stuffing my spent cock back into my trousers, a dark chuckle escapes me. Oh, my sweet Natalie. You thought you could escape me by sending me halfway around the world?
Foolish girl. There is nowhere you can run, nowhere you can hide from the dark desire that binds us. I am your shadow, your twisted self. The answer to every filthy prayer that falls from your cupid's bow lips.
The laptop snaps shut, plunging the cabin into darkness. I lean back, a smile curving my lips like the edge of a blade.
Moscow greets me with a blast of icy air and the acrid stench of diesel. I button my coat against the chill, breathing deep the familiar scents of my youth. Poverty and desperation, the sour reek of too many bodies crammed into too little space.
It's almost enough to make me nostalgic. Almost.
Alonzo falls into step beside me as we stride across the tarmac, his bald head gleaming under the weak Russian sun. He's a bull of a man, all coiled muscle and barely leashed aggression. The perfect blunt instrument for the bloody work ahead.
Our destination is a nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of the city, indistinguishable from a dozen others just like it. But I know better. This is the heart of the bratva's power, the nexus point of their sprawling criminal empire.
The man who greets us at the door is a walking stereotype, all tracksuit and gold chains and cold, assessing eyes. He nods at me, a fractional tilt of the head that speaks volumes in this world of unspoken codes and razor-edged hierarchy.
"Dante Corleone," he says, his accent thick as congealed blood. "The bratva has been expecting you."
I flash him a smile that's all teeth and dark promise. "I'd hate to disappoint."
He leads us through a labyrinth of dank corridors, the air growing colder and more oppressive with each step. I can feel the weight of unseen eyes on my back, the prickling awareness of danger lurking in every shadow.