Page 189 of Sin & Sapphire

“Ana,” I said with a smile, pushing my chair back so I could greet the bride, and holding back my curse as she blocked the redhead from my view. “Congratulations,” I murmured, air kissing her cheeks as her husbands looked on.

Her husbands might be brutal, violent, thugs, but I’d grown up in the bratva and cut my teeth in the NHL. They didn’t intimidate me.

“Thank you for coming,” Ana said, her green eyes bright and her cheeks flushed, a picture of new love.

God, I envied her. And them. But love like theirs wasn’t my future, not now, not ever. That would require liking people. Meeting people. A woman who accepted my kinks and my need for control. A relationship of longer than a few nights. I might deride the puck bunnies my players fucked, but I wasn’t looking for anything permanent either.

A flash of red caught my attention again. Fuck, I had to know who that woman was.

One of the bartenders hollered at her, and I shoved my chair back, determined to intervene, possessive, obsessed, ready to throw her over my shoulder, carry her back to my lair like a fucking caveman, and tie her up so I could edge her until she screamed for my cock.

The woman stood up straight, and her braid swung across her back, perfect for wrapping around my fist as I pounded into her hot, wet cunt. When she turned to give the bartender a piece of her mind, she revealed her profile—pale skin, an adorable stripe of freckles over her cheeks, and the greenest fucking eyes I’d ever seen.

My heart stopped then started again, sending fury crackling through my veins like wild electricity.

Eva fucking Jackson.

The daughter of the man who’d ended my NHL career.

She dared show her face in public and display that glorious ass where anyone could fucking see it, infuriating me with my misplaced possessiveness even as she tempted me into sin.

I sat back in my seat, the movement catching Dmitri’s eye. His gaze slid from me to Eva and back again, and he smirked as he raised his glass in a mocking toast.

I didn’t bother acknowledging him, just watched Eva charm the previously furious bartender. He melted as she cajoled him until he ruffled her hair, and that was fucking enough. Dmitri didn’t get me an invitation because he wanted to talk. He wanted me to see her. Hate her.Destroyher.

And worse, he knew I’d take the bait. How could I resist?

Eva Jackson wasmine. Mine to turn into the instrument of my revenge against her father. Mine to punish. Mine toruin.

And I was going todestroyher.

72

VALENTIN

Ana Costa was my wife.Mywife. Angelo Costa was my husband. As was the Russo whelp. And for the first time in my life, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. Our wedding had been beautiful, my wife was beautiful, and watching the entire criminal world of Yorkfield turn out to support Ana was an unexpected delight.

Luca married her legally, allowing him to take over the Costa empire. I’d married Angelo legally, remembering how hard it’d been to get into Ana’s hospital room. I couldn’t bear for fucking bureaucrats to keep me from Angelo if he was ever seriously hurt.

Then we’d used the same lawyer as Luca’s sisters to draw up airtight contracts binding the four of us together so tightly we’d never untangle ourselves.

Exactly how we wanted it.

“Tu as l’air contente,” my mother said, interrupting my thoughts. You look happy.

“I’m so fucking lucky,” I told her, watching Ana and Angelo twirl around the dance floor, the curve of her belly in no way hindering her graceful movement. Six months pregnant, and she glowed with joy. Fucking gorgeous.

“Elle te fait du bien,” Maman continued. She’s good for you. “You’re relaxed.”

Was I? Luca swept Ana out of Angelo’s arms, and the sound of my wife’s laughter rang out, beautiful and carefree.

Maman kissed my forehead. “And your in-laws are fucking crazy.”

I grinned up at the woman who’d raised me, who’d sold her body and sacrificed everything to send me across the Sahara and on a boat to France, who I could never pay back for everything she’d done for me.

“I love her, and if that means tolerating the Russos?—”

“And the Costas,” she said dryly.

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