His fingers trail around my throat before his lips tease the corner of my mouth. My pulse pitter patters in my chest, anticipation rising in my stomach, and then he moves away.
"Pack some clothes," he says. The bathroom door closes behind him.
I've been dismissed.
27
Ronan
The ever-present glow of Times Square lights up the night with its electronic haze. Crowds clog the sidewalks. Annoying tourists snap pictures with selfie-sticks while the scent of greasy food wafts through an open doorway of a restaurant. Boris stays a few feet ahead, my guards a few feet behind, as we make our way toward the fluorescent light flickering: Diablo's.
One of the guards walks past me, glancing up at the blinking sign before disappearing through the doorway. I straighten my suit and wrap an arm around Camilla's waist, tugging her close to my side. "Be careful, little kitty," I whisper before ducking inside the club, leaving her outside with Boris and a guard.
Inside, there's only the lull of conversation from the men at the bar and the slow tick and hiss from the radiator. I order a drink before taking a seat at a table in the corner of the room.
There's a small TV hung in the corner of the room, closed captioning for the news station ticking along the bottom. Tension must be high as the political leaders face a war where allies are turned against one another. I grind my teeth. This was not the end game. I was to hold all the power, making my little puppets dance on their shiny strings with the threat of nuclear war. Every step, every launch under my watch was a calculated decision. One to bring the anxieties of other countries high enough to cause them to scramble for weapons. I want power, not the end of the world; that serves me no purpose. I'm not certain what The Horseman wants. The channel is changed to a football game, so I sit watching one of the lonely businessmen at the bar. My pulse thrums with a mixture of agitation and elation, as I wait for Camilla to walk through the door. That primitive alarm of danger must go off in the man's head—the one that tells you someone is watching you, because he glances over at me, a deep wrinkle set between his brows. I lift my glass in a toast and he looks.
The bustle from the street outside wafts in when the door opens for Camilla to slink in. I fight the proud smile tugging at my lips as she moves through the bar, her hips a constant dance of seduction. The men in the room watch her when she takes a seat at the bar and crosses her long legs. Her short dress rides up her thighs, and she doesn't bother to tug it down. Why would she? To Camilla, everything is a game of seduction. Her gaze subtly swings over to me for a brief moment when a drink is placed in front of her, and I smirk. She's playing the game with me right now.
The man next to her shifts, slowly lifting his drink to his lips as his gaze drops to her exposed thigh. She is a siren that could lure any man to his death, including myself. Even though she's mine, as I sit here watching her elegant movements, the way her red lips touch against the glass, I'm possessed by a driving urge to cage her. Mario will be no different, and in the event that Camilla isn't unable to lure him in, I'll just take him by force.
I sip my brandy more than intrigued when a man in a suit approaches her. His suit is cheap, his stature nothing too impressive, and yet he feels he's worthy of my little kitty. I scoff into my glass at the thought. Camilla smiles like a deadly flower, beautiful and alluring before she turns back toward the bar, ignoring him. He retreats most likely about to drown his crushed ego in cheap liquor.
Camilla leans across the bar, grabbing the bartender by his tie and dragging him toward her. His cheeks blush as she places her lips beside his ear. When she releases him, he stumbles back a step before smoothing his hand over his shirt as he rounds the bar and disappears down a hallway. Camilla tips her drink back, smiling. Within a few minutes, the bartender has brought a short, balding man out to the bar, motioning him toward Camilla. Camilla holds out her hand, batting her eyelashes as he leans down to kiss it. A few words are exchanged, a suggestive touch from Camilla, and then he's escorting her down the hallway. How easy it is to trick a man with a beautiful woman. And even easier when he thinks there's the promise of sex.
I take a swig of my brandy, watching the second hand on my watch tick around. After two minutes, I rise from my seat and toss a crumpled twenty-dollar bill onto the table. Boris lurks in the corner of the room, watching to see where they've gone. When I snap my fingers, he moves in front of me and I follow him down the hallway.
There's a man standing outside the last door on the left. His brow wrinkles when his gaze locks with mine. "You can't be back here. Employees only," he says, pushing off from the wall.
I mumble in Russian that I don't speak English and his jaw sets. He throws his jacket back, exposing a gun. With a smile, I hold up my palms. Boris grabs him, pressing a gun against his temple while snatching the gun from the man's side.
"Please," the man whimpers.
There's a small whisper of a pop when Boris pulls the trigger. Blood splatters the wall and the man slumps to the floor. I pat Boris on the shoulder as I step over the man's body and open the door to Mario's office. There's not as much as a creak from the hinges, and so I step into the tiny office without a sound. Heat snaps through me at the sight of Camilla sitting on the desk, her back to me and Mario Luca standing between her legs with his face buried in her chest. My pulse thumps in my neck and I loosen my tie, swallowing back the rage tightening my chest.
"Mario, what would your wife think?" I say, lighting a cigar as I close the door. He lifts his face from Camilla's chest, revealing a holster as he moves for his gun. Before he can grab it, Camilla wraps her hand around the back of his neck and grabs his crotch with the other.
"Tsk-tsk," she whispers beside his ear. "I wouldn't."
I move to him and grab his gun, studying it as I puff on my cigar. "Does this make you feel powerful, Mario?" I lift the gun to show it to him, and he stares at me, his cheeks reddening.
Camilla releases him, shoving him back into the chair behind him.
"I'm not an unreasonable man," I say, stepping beside Camilla and leaning against the desk. "I'm really not. So I need you to tell me, Mario. Who is The Horseman?"
He snorts. "If he wanted anyone to know, he'd use his name."
"I have very little patience. I do not play games." I sigh and Camilla scratches her nails over my neck. "I know the money for his missiles is laundered through your account. Either tell me his name or where he lives."
"You might as well kill me," he says, sneering.
With an exaggerated sigh, Camilla slides off the desk and drops into his lap. "Ah, Mario. So negative." She trails her finger over his jaw, bringing her lips to his ear. "We don't want to kill you. Just a name. No one will ever know it was you." His jaw clenches but his eyes darken under the unstoppable force that is Camilla. He wants her and he hates it.
I glance to the side of his desk, taking note of the framed picture of his family. "What a lovely family," I say with a smirk. His nostrils flare and his jaw tenses as he shakes his head.
"No!" He attempts to shove to his feet. Camilla grabs him by the throat, squeezing hard enough that his eyes go wide and he stills in the chair.
"I do so hate to kill children," she says, releasing him as she crosses herself. Mario coughs and rubs at his throat.
"Mario, where do your loyalties lie?" I ask, taking one last drag from my cigar before snubbing it out on his thigh. He groans and curses, his eyes flaming as he stares at me. "Do they lie with The Horseman, or your own flesh and blood?"
"I can't tell you what I don't know!"
"Sweetie, I'm getting bored," Camilla pushes to her feet, opening the desk drawers and rummaging through them.
This annoys me. How stupid does he think I am? "You insult my intelligence, Mario."
Camilla turns around with a letter opener in her hand and a wide grin on her lips. "That's just rude, Mario." She rams the letter opener into his thigh and an agonized scream bubbles from his throat. She turns to me. "This makes me n
ostalgic," she whispers, trailing her fingers down my tie.
I smirk and grab her chin, tilting her head back. "Ah, my krasivaya... a letter opener looks much better in your thigh."
I pull my lighter from my pocket, flicking the flint and waving the flame in front of Mario's face. "Little kitty likes fire. I once watched her douse a bar cloth in kerosene and shove it down a man's throat." I grin. "Suffocating on flames must be one of the most terrible ways to go." I hand the lighter to her and her face lights up like a child on Christmas. "Imagine how much fun she could have with your family, and be certain, I'd make you watch." My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out with a satisfied smile. "Well." I turn the phone so he can see the screen. "One of my men just sent your address and they're waiting for me to give the word..." I push off the desk and lean close to him. "Tell me where to find him."
"I don't know!" he blurts, his voice edging on hysteria. "I just deliver money in cash once a week!"
"Where!"
"A warehouse in Brooklyn. "
I close my eyes on a groan, my teeth clenching. "There are a hundred warehouses in Brooklyn."
"I'll give you the address, but it didn't come from me. Please. He'll kill me."
"Very well." I take a pad and pen from the desk and toss it at him. "And make it legible." The man scribbles an address on the paper, his hand visibly shaking. I take it from him and read over the address scrawled in blue ink. "When?" I ask.
"Four PM. Every Friday."
Tomorrow is Friday, as luck would have it, which means I must only tolerate this city for a mere twenty-four hours. I type out a text instructing my men to take one of the children as collateral. "You'll make the drop as usual." I arch a brow. "I've just had one of your children taken. You breathe a word to anyone that you have seen me, that I am looking for The Horseman, and your family will be killed."
"If I tell him I told you this, I'm dead," he says, his voice trembling. "Please don't hurt my children. They're innocent."
"Ah," I smile, folding the paper up and tucking it safely inside my pocket. "Pleading for the life of innocents is music to my ears."
"Well, this is disappointing," Camilla says, stepping to my side and tucking the lighter into her bra. I lift a brow at her, but she ignores me, readjusting my tie.
I nod at Boris when we step into the hall. He and both guards fall in step behind us. The whoosh of the subway underneath and crowds of men in suits sweeps us up when we step onto the sidewalk. The thick air nearly suffocates me and I reach for Camilla's hand.
"Where are we going now?" she asks.
"To my penthouse." Throngs of people surround the limo parked at the side of the street. I shoo the crowd away as Boris opens the door.
Camilla flashes a wry smile at me as we climb inside. "You have a penthouse in a city you detest?"
"I never said I detest it."
She raises her eyebrows. "You didn't have to. It's everything you abhor in one place, Ronan."
My little kitty is so observant.
28
Camilla
I walk into Ronan's New York penthouse and have to pick my jaw up off the floor. It's stunning. Clean, white marble, a spiral stairwell that leads to an upper level. The huge living space is surrounded by floor to ceiling windows giving with a perfect view of Central Park and the massive skyscrapers reaching to the sky behind it.
I press my palm to the glass as I take in the beautiful city. The heaving, choked sobs of a child pull me from my admiration and I frown, turning in the direction of the awful sound. One of Ronan's men descends the stairs with a small girl thrown over his shoulder. He reaches the bottom step and puts the child down, stepping away as though she burned him.
She can be no older than four with a head of dark ringlets sticking up in every direction. She sniffs, rubbing her little fists in her eyes.
“Don’t cry, pequeno,” I say softly. She lowers her hands and glances at me shyly. I walk toward her and drop to a crouch. “What’s your name?”
“Rosie,” she says through tears.
“Hi Rosie. I’m Camilla.” I swipe my thumbs beneath her eyes, wiping away her tears. I know why Ronan has her. I’ve ordered children taken and even killed for their parent’s sins, but it’s not something I relish. I would never admit it, but children are somewhat of a weakness for me. Perhaps that’s why I so easily order them used when needed. I’m aware of my weakness and therefore I over compensate.
“I want my mommy,” Rosie says, hiccupping on a sob.
“Ah, pequeno, you’ll be back with her soon. I promise I’ll look after you until then.” I smile at her and she rushes to me, throwing herself into my arms. I hold her close and stand up, turning right into Ronan. He lifts a brow, his gaze dropping to the child before lifting back to my face. Her small arms clutch at my neck, fingers fisting my hair.
“We need to get you something to eat,” I say, brushing past Ronan. I set Rosie on a stool at the breakfast bar and make her some toast. She watches my every move. When Boris walks in, the girl audibly whimpers and I turn on him. "Out!" I snap.
His eyes go wide and he hesitates for a second before I lift a brow, sending him scampering from the room. I place the toast in front of her and she takes a small bite before her eyes fill with tears again. I need something to distract her with. I rummage through the drawers until I find a piece of paper and a pen. "Rosie, why don't you draw me a picture of a mermaid?" I push the pen and paper towards her and bend over the breakfast bar, bracing my folded arms on the top. She takes the pen and starts drawing, quietly scribbling away.
I spend the rest of the evening watching Rosie until she starts to yawn, rubbing at her eyes. Scooping her up from the sofa, I carry her into one of the spare bedrooms. The enormous double bed swallows up her tiny frame and she stares up at me with wide eyes. "Don't leave me," she says.
I smile. "I won't."
"Daddy tells me a story at bed time."
This is pushing it, but she looks at me with so much innocence. "Okay. Once upon a time, there was a princess called Rosie..."
______
I jolt awake when fingers brush my cheek. Blinking my eyes open, I look at the shadowy figure bearing over me. The dim glow of the New York City lights play over the angles of Ronan's face.
"Krasivaya." His rough voice makes me shiver as I push up from the chair. I crack my neck from side to side, trying to get rid of some of the stiffness.
"What time is it?" I groan.
"Eleven."
I glance at Rosie, starfished in the massive bed. How can someone so small take up so much space?
He offers his hand and I take it, allowing him to pull me to my feet. "Did I miss anything?" I ask.
"No."
Ah, Ronan Cole. A man of so very few words. I glance at the child again. "I should probably stay in here with her."
A deep wrinkle sets between his brows. "Stay with the child? Why would you?"
I roll my eyes. "Because she's scared and your men are brutes." He stares blankly at me as though he can't comprehend why I would be worried about a child. "She's. A. Child, Ronan," I say slowly, shaking my head. I don't know why I bother. "Go to bed," I say against his lips. He threads his fingers through mine and pulls me toward the door. "Ronan," I hiss, trying to keep my voice down. "What is wrong with you?"
"There is nothing wrong with me," he says, studying me as though I've grown an extra head. "You’re the one who is acting odd. Watching a child..." He tugs for me to follow, but I don't move. "Very well, I'll have one of the guards watch her."
"The guards will scare her." I sigh in exasperation.
"It is either a guard she wakes up to or alone. You sleep in my bed, little kitty. Nowhere else."
I inhale a deep breath. There are some arguments that are not worth having with Ronan. I might love him and he might love me, but Ronan Cole is lacking in basic humanity. I will not win this fight.
"Okay, but they have to wake me as soon as she wakes."
"Ver
y well." He pulls me from the room, instructing one of his men to keep watch over the child.
As soon as the bedroom door closes, he spins and presses me up against it. His lips crash over mine, a violent storm on a warm summer’s evening. He tastes of sin and pleasure and everything I want and crave.
His fingers fist my hair, yanking my head to the side before his lips meet my neck. I tremble in his hold as he touches me like a man starved, pulling me away from the door and backing me towards the bed. My legs bump against the mattress and he spins me, pressing his hand between my shoulder blades until I'm bent over the bed. My breath hitches when he yanks my dress up, and drags my underwear down. Fingers trail along the inside of my thigh and he kicks my legs apart before sinking two fingers deep inside me. A choked moan slips past my lips and he laughs.
"Ah, always so wet for me."
His fingers move in and out leisurely, but it's not what I crave from him. I want his brutality. "Ronan, harder," I demand.
His hand shifts and I still when I feel his thumb push against my ass. "Careful what you wish for."
I bite my lip, trembling with need. His fingers thrust in deep once more and his thumb pushes into my ass with a sting. In seconds, I'm coming, breaking apart around his clever fingers and crying out his name.
He pulls away from me and my head falls forward as I hear the clink of his belt buckle and the rustle of clothing. "Get on the bed." I shift onto the bed on my hands and knees and he settles behind me. He spits on my ass and I almost groan at how dirty it is. His cock nudges against me, promising such filthy things. I want to roll in squalor with him.
"I want you to give me your ass, little kitty," he says.
Relaxing, I push back against him, relishing in the low hiss that slips between his lips as he slides inside me. I'm so full, utterly owned by him in this moment, and then he starts to move, fucking me mercilessly as my fingers fist the sheets beneath me. His hand dips between my legs, his fingers sliding across my clit, stroking and teasing until my body feels like a ticking bomb just waiting to go off.
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