Page 82 of Inked Adonis

And right now, all my cold, cruel attention is focused on making sure he doesn’t take his billions elsewhere.

“I give you my word that we’ll deliver record profits next quarter. It’s as good as done, Mr. Chernoff.”

“You seem confident, Samuil,” he replies in that thick Russian accent that sounds like granite being crushed. “But this wouldn’t be the first time you’ve promised the moon and I end up holding nothing but losses.”

As a matter of fucking fact, I am confident. I’m also annoyed, exhausted, and fighting a savage urge to slam my laptop closedand go home to Nova. To strip her bare and remind myself what matters beyond these walls of glass and steel and bullshit.

Instead, I grace Chernoff with a nod. “How long have you been doing business with us, Mr. Chernoff?”

“Thirteen years,” he answers.

I already know this. Just like I know his wife’s name is Anya, his mistress’s name is Svetlana, and his dog’s name is fucking Pushkin.

But sometimes, you have to lead a horse to water and practically drown it with your bare hands before it takes a drink.

“And in which of those years did you take losses?”

He squints down at his own notes. “The first five were incredibly rocky, to say the least.”

“And the last eight?”

“A significant improvement. Steady improvement,” he admits.

“Coincidentally, I have been at the helm of this ship for the last eight years.”

Chernoff rocks back in his chair. “Hm. You make a valid point.”

“I understand you’ve been hearing some… let’s be charitable and call it ‘noise’… through the financial grapevine.” I tent my fingers together. “But rest assured, Mr. Chernoff, those rumors are nothing but falsehoods being spread by a disgruntled former client. His interests lie in lining his own pockets at the expense of his colleagues.”

Chernoff clicks his tongue. “Danovic has always been a selfish motherfucker.” Still squinting down his nose at me, he asks, “Did he really go to the Andropovs?”

Even now, that name makes me grimace. But I keep my mask firmly in place as I say, “He’ll regret that choice sooner rather than later.”

The man chuckles, which is a disturbing sound, like a warthog gargling. “Alright, Samuil, I’m convinced. I’m your man, as always. And I’ll ignore any temptresses Andropov Group tries sending to my door.”

At the curious arch of my brow, he explains, “The story is that Lev was swayed by a very beautiful Andropov rep. He said she had the body of a supermodel.”

And the soul of the devil, if I’m guessing her identity correctly.

“If he’s making business decisions with his cock,” I drawl, “I’d rather not have him invest his money in my company.”

We share a hearty laugh at Danovic’s expense, salute once more to our continued business relationship, and then I close my laptop screen and give myself a well-deserved pat on the back.

I’m about to give myself an even more well-deserved short day so I can go home and pin Nova underneath me when my burner phone rings.

The number is unknown, but I don’t need to guess to know who it is. “Boyko,” I growl when I answer. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”

“‘Think’?” the man rasps, his words altered into something eerie and inhuman by a voice modulator. “Or ‘hope’?”

“Your choice. What do you want?”

“Meet me at River North High Rise in half an hour.”

I frown. He’s never a verbose man, but something about his impatience now is prickling my attention. “This is short notice. Why should I agree?”

“Because I’m asking nicely,” he replies without the slightest trace of humor. “We both know I could be harsher if I needed to be.”

“Don’t threaten me,” I spit. “You’re a ghost in the wind. I won’t take you seriously until you tell me what you want.”

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