Page 11 of Dark Truths

He kisses the crown of my head, returning my hug with a tight squeeze. “Love you too, cuz.”

After Dominic leaves, I clean up after dinner, save the leftovers for tomorrow, and start the dishwasher before heading to the master suite to shower off the ocean. The shower delivers warm water from opposite sides of the tile space, along with a rainfall shower head in the center, creating a soothing downpour. For a moment, I stand there, enjoying the warm water cascade down my naked body, feeling my skin grow flush with heat. It feels nearly as good as the ocean water did.

I raise my hands, cupping my breasts first before sliding them up to my neck and into my hair, giving the strands a firm tug, closing my eyes at the sensation. Ever since my visit to thePlayground, I can’t get the damn night out of my head. Nothing I do helps. And I’ve tried several things. My poor vibrator has had the batteries changed twice now from my need to feel something. Anything similar to that night. The show was tempting, the atmosphere intoxicating, and it woke something in me I can’t quite put into words.

Releasing my hair, my hands move down, pinching my nipples before skirting down my stomach before finally reaching the apex between my thighs. It’s not my hands, I feel. But his. My blue-eyed hero who lives in the shadows. I imagine it’s his fingers entering me, his thumb circling the bundle of nerves already sensitive and eager. I imagine everywhere the water falls it is his touch, his lips, his tongue.

My orgasm gathers at the base of my spine, the familiar tightening and sensation building. I chase the feeling, pumping my fingers faster, brushing against the spot inside me that makes me jerk each time as my thumb works my clit quicker. I raise my other hand to my breast and pinch my nipple, needing the little bit of pain to send me over the edge. When my orgasm crashes over me, the shower water does little to muffle my cry.

But it’s not enough.

I want more.

I crave more.

A terrible but necessary idea forms. I have to go back to thePlayground. Against his orders, but I’m desperate.

I need Dimitri Volkov.

6

Dimitri

I've just started pouring a glass of vodka soda when I hear shouting come from the hall. The voices grow louder until the office door bursts open and Igor storms in, followed by Sergei.

I raise my eyes to the pair of brothers, noticing the vomit decorating the front of Igor’s suit seconds before the rancid smell of fish and stomach acid reaches my nostrils. I bury my nose in my glass and take a deep sip to combat the sick stench.

“That little bitch! She threw up all over me like a fucking child,” Igor hisses as he shrugs his soiled jacket off and tosses it to the floor. He won’t even bother having it dry cleaned because to him, it’s as good as trash now. Wasteful, but when you have the amount of money the Mikailhov’s do, it won’t even make a dent in the bank account.

“You need to get on the phone with that O’Leary bastard right now and make sure the girl is healthy. I don’t need a sick wife.”

“You also don’t need a wife who’s three times younger than you,” I voice, knowing I’m very well poking an angry bear, butI’m in a foul enough mood as it is over this marriage, and I haven’t exactly been silent about it either.

Igor swings at me, his face quickly growing red in anger. He knows better than to lay a hand on me, so he points a fat finger at me instead. “Watch yourself, Volkov.”

I catch Sergei’s disapproving look and raise a brow sarcastically in Igor’s direction before I take another long sip of my drink, having had my fun.

“I’ll speak with Patrick, brother. But I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Dinner must not have agreed with her,” Sergei says, trying to reason with his irate brother.

Good luck with that. Sergei may be the Pakhan and leader of the Bratva, but Igor is the more dangerous of the two brothers. The man lives in a constant state of anger. He’s like a bomb, ready to go off at any time.

“Well, she’ll need to get used to it.” Igor huffs. “Perhaps you should tell Patrick to have his cooks prepare only Russian cuisine for the girl from here on out.”

The girl has a name. Rosaleen O’Leary. The youngest daughter of Patrick O’Leary, boss of Miami’s Irish mob, and the third and last member of the High Table. From my research, he lost his wife and only son in a car accident a little over ten years ago. Rosaleen was the only survivor. The rumor is that he couldn’t bear the sight of his daughter, whose resemblance to his late wife was striking, so he sent Rosaleen overseas to live with his brother. That’s where she’s been for the last ten years until he struck up an alliance with Sergei to marry the girl to Igor. From what I know of the arrangement, Patrick is getting a large amount of money from the deal. It seems the Irish have some debts to settle. Most likely because of the Triads interfering with their import business. No product coming in means no product to sell, which means no money. All of which is bad for business.

“If I’m to get the girl pregnant with a Mikailhov heir, she’ll need to be on a proper Russian diet.”

Poor girl. I wish there was something I could do for her, but my hands are tied. Just like how they are with every innocent man and woman we hire to work off their debts in our sex clubs. And just like they are when I’m forced to sentence a man to death for going against the Bratva. I’m confident that one day, when I stand before God to answer for my life choices, my path won’t end at the pearly gates, but a fiery pit instead.

As if my night could not get any worse.

Now I’m being forced to listen to Julio Reyes, the new cartel leader, ramble on about the advantages of distributing our new product in his clubs and why he’s a better choice than the local motorcycle gang. To be honest, I don’t plan on using either. It’s bad enough I’m responsible for the drugs coming in, the least I can do is control its distribution in the city.

“We can guarantee an increase of demand by twenty percent within the first three months and another five percent each month thereafter,” Julio continues.

Oh, will you look here. It seems someone went to business school. “And what will you put up as collateral for your guarantee if you fail to meet it?” I counter, reminding him I’m not some fool that numbers and big words can persuade.

Julio pales a shade and visibly swallows against his nerves. “Collateral?”

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