Page 188 of Sin & Sapphire

“Baldino’s,” Valentin commanded from the back seat, as if I hadn’t grown up in Yorkfield and didn’t know the best place to get an Italian dessert.

“Rinaldi’s has better cannoli,” I answered.

“She needs a full meal first,” Valentin said firmly. “And she’ll just binge on pastries if we take her to a café.”

“Baldino’s, please,” Ana said softly. Valentin’s fingers strayed down her body to raise her dress and stroke along the inside of her thigh.

She whined, and I wished I had a better view of what was going on behind me.

“Is that what you want?” Valentin asked again.

“She said Baldino’s,” Angelo interjected. “Why are we still debating this?”

Ana moaned, and Valentin brought an absolutely dripping finger to his lips and licked her arousal off it.

“What Ana wants, Ana gets,” Valentin affirmed.

And if that wasn’t the truth, I didn’t know what was.

71

ALEKSANDR

Even in theheat of a humid Yorkfield summer, my knee ached, a constant reminder of everything I’d lost—everything that had been taken from me. The elite of Yorkfield danced around me, beautiful and untouchable, politicians mingling with the mafia, scions of business rubbing elbows with musicians and sports stars.

And hockey coaches like me.

I smiled ruefully as the bride whirled around the dance floor, the train of her dress elegantly draped over her arm as one of her husbands drew a joyful laugh out of her. Love shone out of their eyes, even as one husband teasingly stole her from another.

Young love.

I scoffed. Angelo Costa and Valentin Rochefort were as old as me, but the affection and tenderness shining out of their eyes transformed them into youths.

Envy, insidious and ugly, wound through me. Sixteen years after an injury cost me my NHL career and left me rotting on the bench, I’d transformed Yorkfield U’s struggling hockey team into a championship-winning program, turning the spoiled whelps they handed me as freshmen into top draft picks by the time they graduated. Winning was everything, had been everything, but faced with the disgustingly sentimental love of the Costa polycule, I found myself wondering if perhaps there was more.

Ana Costa, apparently, was a fan of mine. She said she couldn’t imagine getting married without me there. We’d never spoken, but I let the lie stand without comment. Otherwise, I’d have to admit I knew the real reason she’d invited me—Dmitri Lebedev.

Cousin.

Brother-in-arms.

Betrayer.

Bratva.

I’d successfully ignored his attempts at reconciliation for ten years but couldn’t ignore an invitation from one of the ruling mafia families in Yorkfield.

Dmitri’s gaze fell upon me, an icy blue that reminded me of our shared childhood in Russia. Before immigrating. Before the NHL. Before losing everything, only for him to snatch my revenge away from me unless I joined him in the bratva.

I refused to acknowledge him, instead letting my gaze wander over the festivities.

A flash of red hair caught my eye, a curly braid hanging long as a woman with hips that begged for me to dig my fingers into them quietly refreshed the glasses behind the bar. I couldn’t see her face, but I didn’t need to. I wanted her.

A quick fuck in a closet wouldn’t even come close to scratching my itch for tying a woman up and edging her, teaching her how beautiful submission could be, and yet, I couldn’t tear my gaze away.

She bent over, and Christ, her pants molded to the round shape of her ass, begging me to drop to my knees and mark the soft flesh with my teeth.

“Coach Novikov?” a sweet voice said beside me.

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