Page 139 of Dance of Deception

The room goes silent. My fingers stop moving.

Influential Russian friends.

Unmentioned circles.

It’s not exactly a state secret that I socialize with a few Bratva-connected Russians: Roman Nikitin, Bane Antonov, Laz Kislev, Mikhail Javanovic, for example.

But the way he says it stops me cold.

It would appear Santino might have at least an idea about certain nocturnal activities of mine.

Activities involving an underground cathedral, a hound mask, and fighting the guilty…or chasing them through a maze.

I don’t say shit. I just raise a brow. “Is there something you’d like to ask me directly, Santino?”

He meets my gaze without hesitation. Then he smiles a small, knowing smile.

“I’ve spent my life learning to see what most don’t, Carmine. And what most hide.” His voice is quiet, calm. “I don’t think we need to continue this conversation any further, do you?”

I hold his gaze, letting the seconds tick by, until even Santino looks slightly unnerved.

Then I shake my head once.

“No, Santino, I think we’ve covered everything.”

He dips his chin, stands, buttons his jacket, and taps his fingers against the desk twice. “Just food for thought.” Then, smooth as ever, he turns and strides out, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stay still for a moment, processing.

It would appear the Black Court is not as invisible as we like to think. And sooner or later, someone’s going to make the mistake of trying to pull back the mask.

I’m still mulling this over when there’s a knock at the door and three of my capos enter for our scheduled meeting. They file in, taking their places and launching into updates on business, disputes, financials.

I should be listening, but my mind is elsewhere.

Onher.

I shift, pulling my phone from my pocket and discreetly bringing up the security feeds. There she is.

Instantly my blood runs a little hotter, my dick twitching and thickening in my pants.

Lyra is moving naked through the bedroom, her skin covered in the evidence of last night. My bruises. My fingerprints. My fuckingclaim.

I watch her cross the room, her body achingly soft in the morning light. She disappears into the master bathroom, and I switch cameras, swiping the screen with practiced ease.

The feed changes.

She turns the water on, steam curling up immediately. She moves to the mirror, inspecting the bruises on her breasts and her neck. She reaches between her legs, checking the marks I left on her inner thigh, probably feeling a delicious ache from where my cock fucked her into submission last night.

She pulls her hair up, piling it on top of her head before stepping into the bath. The water parts around her, swallowing her inch by inch, the bubbles closing over her, hiding what I want to see.

I barely register the voices of my men anymore. All I see is her.

Her face tightens slightly as she lowers herself fully into the water. She’s sore.

From me.

Heat flares low in my stomach as my fingers clench the phone. I should stop watching. I should focus.

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