Page 45 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation
But she’s not me. “We’ve been playing players all our lives. Her desperation can be used. After all, we’ll end up owning those shipping routes by the end of this. And as soon as we get in there, with me at the helm, we can see what we want to take as ours. All’s fair in desperate need and blatant opportunity.”
He sighs. “So you think just because this very pretty lass—and I’m sure her looks have nothing to do with it—came to you in desperation she’ll, what? Hand over the keys to the kingdom she doesn’t quite have?”
“I think she’s after something beyond the bratva; although, that’s her main goal.” I pull out the crest and show him. “She stole this and some jewels from Romanov, and those Irish-style flash bombs? I think those were her handiwork, including the one that went off. But I don’t think she did the other one. It was a different style. Took a lot more planning.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the bombs. That’s Romanov business. This whole marriage thing makes me feel like we’re wading into the thick of it.”
“You want to expand our power, right?”
“Yes.” He blows out a stream of smoke.
“So,” I say, “we use her. It’s perfect. She wants this enough that she’ll sign a prenup.”
He holds out his hand and I give it to him.
“I worked with our lawyer to draw it up. It’s airtight. We get a piece of what’s hers. She gets nothing of ours. Not a dime from us or any of our power sources. She keeps her name as part of it; I made it look like a concession. We get to share the routes, share the position of Pakhan—silently, of course—if we choose. But she wants my help for more than this, as I said. And this is what you’ve been looking for. It’s small, but has power, and is coveted by a lot of others. It gives us access, Cal. So much fucking access.”
His jaw is less tight now so I keep going.
“We have joint ownership over those routes,” I say, finishing, “that put us in an enviable position.”
“But we’ll be doing it with the Russians.”
“We have to eventually. Fuck, we already do in a way. This is good, Cal.”
And it is.
Like this, it’s not that much of a move to take the entire bratva.
It’s a nasty little shiver in my blood, my manipulation of Ava.
She fucking despises me, and I don’t know why. But I don’t care. I’ll marry her for twelve months. Fuck it, I’ll even be generous and make it two years if that’s what it takes to snatch her little bratva from her elegant, greedy, liar fingers.
That’s if she turns up to the church. But if I know her—and I think I do—Ava Rose Lombardi Volkov will show because in her mind, I can give her everything she wants.
I sip my Redbreast whiskey, trying not to think about the hot-as-fuck sex we had. Jesus, she’s responsive. If hate does that to her, what the hell does love do?
I can do hate sex. Really fucking well.
Dirty, filthy, hate sex.
“This looks ironclad,” Cal says. “When’s the wedding?”
“Tonight. I thought we’d visit memory lane and have Father Luigi preside. It’ll be fun.” I grin.
Callahan snaps shut the pages of the prenup. “I think you’ve lost your mind.”
“There’s one other thing.” I blow out a breath. “The whole Irish-style bomb?”
“Why am I not going to like this?”
“It reeked of Paddy O’Sullivan.”
Cal downs his drink and takes a drag of his cigarette. “He’s fucking dead, remember?”
“Paddy was Russian.”
“I know.” My brother’s voice is low, savage. “You want to dig into things that don’t concern you?”
