Page 25 of Pretty Little Toy

ILYA

After a week with no signs of the Temkin Bratva, I feel as light as air. Work doesn’t hold the same weight and darkness that it has since the day my father was taken to the hospital with a bullet buried in his chest. Without a war, without vengeance constantly on my mind and jam-packing my schedule, my free time has become exponentially more available. And I know just what I want to fill that time with. A certain ballerina whom I’ve left to her own devices during her first week back at school purely because I have a surprise in store for her that I want to fully enjoy now that it’s the weekend.

I was tentative about Bianka crossing the border into Marchetti territory to attend school, especially at the start, but aside from Don Lorenzo’s initial warning during registration, I’ve heard neither hide nor hair of any issues between our respective families, even after I rented an upscale apartment for Bianka just a few blocks from campus to make her commute more bearable.

The seemingly amicable truce has made me brazen enough that I’ve dared to rent an apartment for Whitney as well, not too far from Bianka’s apartment and Rosehill’s campus. That way, she has somewhere nice to stay close to school and I have somewhere to be with her when I don’t feel like taking her to a club.

Tugging on the cuffs of my dress shirt, I head toward the garage and my Lamborghini, ready to pick Whitney up at the time I designated. I don’t usually prefer suits and jackets. They’re too confining for the physical and sometimes dirty work my position requires of me, but tonight, I’m pulling out all the stops. I want to see just how far I can make that girl’s jaw drop, which means dressing to fit the occasion. I can’t wait to fill that pretty little mouth of hers once it’s nice and slack for me. My cock twitches at the thought.

Lifting the fob from the key hook, I open the door into the five-car garage and head toward my sleek blue ride. I’m rolling down the drive a moment later, the motor purring beneath me as I head on my way. In minutes, I round the corner onto Whitney’s street and catch sight of her lithe dancer’s body as she waits by the curb.

Another benefit to getting her an apartment will be avoiding the discomfort of seeing her standing there like a common streetwalker. My woman is most definitely not a call girl. She’s proven that by her tantalizingly tight pussy and intriguing innocence when it comes to sex. I’ve had virgins before, but none quite so fun to educate. And tonight, I’m going to fully teach her a lesson about what it means to let me fuck her.

I need to get myself under control if I’m going to make it as far as the scene I have on my mind all week. If I’m not careful, I might just wind up fucking her in the back of my car, like some teenage boy with more hormones than self-discipline. But I was raised better than that. I know the pay out that comes from delayed pleasure, and it’s far better than the relief of immediate gratification.

That being said, my cock comes to half mast just from the sight of Whitney’s long legs sliding effortlessly into the passenger side of my car. Her creamy thighs are exposed by her hunter-green halter bodycon dress with a keyhole that somehow looks classy and rebellious all at once when paired with her wispy black pixie cut.

“Nice,” I observe as the door glides closed behind her.

“Hello to you too.” She flashes me a cheeky smile, her dark-rimmed eyes flashing with amusement. They flick down to take in my own apparel, and I can see the appreciation in her rich chocolate gaze.

Putting the car in gear, I head north, crossing the invisible boundary line between Shulaya and Marchetti territory a good twenty minutes later as I head toward the heart of Chicago and the best restaurants in town. Anyone who’s not a direct rival of the Marchettis are allowed to dine at the fine establishments that pay into the Italian family’s pockets in exchange for their invaluable patronage. Still, for the most part, I make a practice of supporting the businesses in my own territory. But tonight, my plan is to show Whitney around her new neighborhood.

Whitney doesn’t ask where we’re going–she’s a quick learner after discovering that I like surprising her. Instead, she talks about her week at school, requiring only light prompts as she describes her classes, her teachers, and how the commute is so much more bearable this year when she’s not having to rush back to Englewood for a night shift. Little does she know her commute is about to get significantly more enjoyable.

Pulling into the parking garage, I find a spot and step out of the car. Whitney does the same, this time not waiting for my assistance as she’s clearly grown more comfortable–whether that’s with me or her situation, I can’t tell. We fall into an easy stride as I guide her, my hand on the small of her back, from the garage and around to the front of Ever’s modern facade. Whitney’s eyes glide over the restaurant’s elegant name, oblivious to what she’s in store for.

Opening the front door, I gesture for her to enter first, and she does, her voice dying out as she takes in the chic decor and delectable scent of the Michelin-rated food. Glancing at me, her expression almost looks as though she thinks I might have made a mistake.

“Good evening,” the host greets us, her voice low and formal. “Did you have a reservation with us tonight?”

“It should be under Ilya Popov,” I state, keeping my irritation in check that she wouldn’t just recognize me on sight. I have to remind myself that this isn’t my neighborhood, though I’ve come here on occasion.

But recognition lights her eyes as soon as she hears the name. “Of-Of course, right this way, Mr. Popov.” She gestures us toward a secluded table as she leads the way.

Much better.

A bottle of champagne already sits chilling next to the table, and Whitney and I settle in as the host pops the cork and pours us each a glass. She’s gone a moment later, departing with a polite bow.

“No menus?” Whitney observes, glancing over her shoulder as if the hostess might have forgotten.

I chuckle. “It’s a set menu. I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

Whitney looks baffled. “I’m sure I will.” She sips her champagne. “So, tell me, what’s got you looking like Pat Sajak just before the big vacation giveaway? I thought it might be dinner, but you’re still wearing a smile that tells me this night’s just begun.”

I raise an eyebrow, impressed by Whitney’s ability to read my face and at the same time, clueless as to her reference. “Who’s Pat Sajak?”

Whitney barks a laugh that makes several heads turn in our direction. “The host ofWheel of Fortune?” She says it more like a question than an answer, her eyes widening with disbelief. “I thought everyone knew that.

“I must admit, my lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to idle time in front of the TV.”

“Yeah, but it’sWheel of Fortune. I was under the impression that no one got out of this life without having seen it at least once,” she says, her voice filled with exasperation.

“Well, I’m not dead yet,” I point out.

“I just thought that one normally got checked off the list before people hit ten years old.”

“You seem to have a lot of thoughts on the matter,” I point out, my lips curling with amusement.

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