“Well, it was smart bullshitting.”
“Thanks,” I say softly. “And so was yours, by the way. I mean whatever you actually are going to build there, it better be a casino or a money printing factory. Otherwise, you’ll never dig out of the financial hole making it not toxic anymore will put you into.”
Viktor smiles. “I wasn’t lying.”
I blink in surprise. “What?”
“The home for lost and forgotten children. That’s actually what I will be building there.”
“As a front?”
Viktor chuckles. “I think maybe you’ve seen too many gangster movies, Fiona. But no, not a front. A real home, for real children.”
I want to ask why, but I’m afraid. Why would a man as ruthlessly and legendarily vicious as Viktor Komarov open a… what, an orphanage? I mean, what’s the angle? There’s no profit there. And I very much doubt he has any interest in trying to “rehab his image” or anything like that. So… why?
“Anyways, thank you,” he growls. “For today.” He steps even closer, and my thoughts trail away. He takes another step towards me. I tremble and take a shaky breath. Half of me wants to run screaming from him. The other half wants him to grab me, kiss me, and do whatever he wants to me.
Viktor stops right in front of me, looming over me. His jaw is clenching tight as his hand comes up. He brushes his knuckles lightly over my jaw, making me gasp quietly. He growls low in his chest. He leans closer, and my heart surges. But then suddenly, he pulls back. His hand drops, and he steps away from me.
“There’s more work for that property I’ll be needing you for. But you did well today, Fiona.”
I nod, trying to slow my pulse back down. “Thank you.”
“Take the next few days off. Relax. If you need anything, ask.”
I’m about to be snarky and ask what he’d do if I asked to go home. But I don’t. Not because I’m scared of him or what he’ll say. It’s much worse than that.
I don’t ask because even after less than a day in Viktor’s world, I’m not sure if I even do want to go back to my gilded cage.
8 Viktor
She comes with a gasping moan. Her body arches from the bed, twisting beneath the sheets. She turns to bury her mouth in the pillow, and I grunt. My muscles clench and my cock throbs. My cum sprays from the swollen head, and I sink back into my office chair.
Christ, what is wrong with me? It’s been like this for the last three nights, since she got here. Every night, she gets ready for bed, and I watch her. I grow hard while she undresses or showers. Then she slips into bed and grabs her phone. She might text her friend Zoey a little bit, lying about being in New York. But then, she’s doing research.
On me.
She reads articles about me—the bad headline news, and the tabloids. She scrolls through pictures of me online. And then eventually, she turns out the lights. But then, every time, her hands start exploring. Her moans filter through my computer speakers as I stroke along with her.
Then she goes to sleep, and I’m left wondering what the hell I’m doing.
I know what I could do. We’re in my domain, where I am king. I could waltz in there and take her right now in that bed. Something tells me she’d beg me to, actually. But I don’t. I’ve held back on even being around her since our meeting with Joey. Because Lev is actually right: she does something to me.
She makes me weak. She makes me forget myself, and my firm rules. Her being in my world is making me slip and taking my mind off of business in ways it shouldn’t be.
I’m blurring what should not be blurred. She’s a hostage, not a love interest. She’s collateral, not a girl I should be sniffing around and lusting over. But there’s another problem. This might actually be easier if it was just a matter of lust. Lust is easy to cure, especially when you have money. But I don’t just lust after Fiona. I want her—all of her. It’s not just that she makes my dick hard and my desires run rampant. She makes my heart skip. She awakens something I’ve made sure is dormant inside of me for years.
I shake my head as I watch her sleeping under her sheets. With one last look, I close the laptop, stand, and head to my own bed to sleep.
To sleep, and to dream of the untouchable girl down the hall.
I grunt, hissing through clenched teeth. My muscles coil and flex, sweat dripping down my chest. I thrust with another savage snarl. The bar lifts high, my biceps burning before I lower it back with a clanking sound.
My body aches as I slowly take a deep breath. I sit up on the weight bench, feeling the endorphins pump through my body after my workout. I drink deeply from my water bottle and look up at the mirrored wall across from me. I’m shirtless, my muscles quivering from the brutal weight regiment. My eyes slide over the various tattoos covering my skin.
Some are from when I was young—a lone wolf on the streets. When I crossed over to the US and began to build an empire, it wasn’t long before I, as a Russian, caught the attention of others from my home country in the same line of work—the Bratva. The Russian mafia.
I could say I laughed in their faces and went on to blaze my own path. But that would be a work of fiction. It doesn’t work like that with the Bratva. You want to play the game? They are the game.
