by LP Lovell
"The email has been sent," his voice shakes.
"Good. Very, very good." Ronan drums his fingers over the table, his eyes studying the man in a way that makes even me anxious. I can see the man sweating, swallowing. His fear is palpable, swirling through the air like a dense fog. "Now," Ronan says, "the terms. I can make it so that that email goes away forever, however, defy me, and it will resurface.” Ronan's lips curl on each side, the master playing with his puppets. “Prison doesn't suit you, Anton. All you must do is bend to my every whim. After all, that is a small price to pay to be Russia's next Prime Minister.” He pauses, picking an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “Remember, you turn your back on this agreement, and you turn your back on me. And I am not a man you want to have your back to."
Rumors about Ronan Cole run rampant in the criminal world, and his name comes with a very healthy dose of respect, but I had no idea he was pulling political strings. This isn't the way our world works. The legal and the illegal are two different sides of the same coin, together and yet always opposing. The two don't go hand in hand. One may use the other temporarily—cartels may buy off police officers, governments may even work with cartels—but the end game is always the same: to dupe and win. There's something about this that is very different. Ronan is controlling the flow of power itself. He's corrupting the political system that would seek to destroy him, and if you think about it he wouldn't have to bring the law to his side. He could be the law. This is the bigger picture, and as I stand back and watch him, I see it in all its glory. I see what he sees.
The two men stare at each other, and Ronan commands every inch of space in the room as though he's physically impressing his will on everyone in it. Tension winds across the back of my neck, prickling my skin. It riles me, but it terrifies Anton. I can almost see him shrinking into his chair, cowering like the little pet Ronan has turned him into, and this is a man who is to hold power? Ironic that he should be so utterly weak.
Anton nods and Ronan stands without a word, holding out his hand to me. A hypnotic dominance pours from him as our eyes lock. I want him dead, but I can't deny the draw, the fascination that surrounds him. I can't help but respect and crave a man who commands this kind of power like an addiction, like a sickness. He takes my hand and energy hums through me, buzzing over my skin in the form of goosebumps. As soon as I stand, I snatch my hand away from him. Focus. I need to focus. His fingers graze the small of my back as he guides me from the room.
I keep walking, refusing to turn and look at him. Awareness tugs at my mind, every instinct demanding that I adjust my position because, as he said, he is not a man you want to have your back to.
"So tense, little kitty," he laughs.
And for the first time since I met Ronan, I don't say anything. I have no sharp come back, no sarcastic retort. I'm on unstable ground right now, and I need to remind myself why I'm here and who he is—the enemy. Play the prisoner, seduce the devil, and kill him. Simple. There is no room for anything else because I refuse to lose to him.
His hand lands on my shoulder before he spins me around and slams my back against the cold wall. Those blue eyes swim with cruel promises as his hands roam my curves. Soon enough, I’m trapped between his body and the wall. He shoves his leg between my thighs, spreading them apart. I can't breathe. All I can do is feel him...everywhere. He pins my hands above my head, and a smirk pulls at his lips as he inches his mouth close to mine. So close I can taste his breath. "Is something wrong?" he whispers against my lips.
Closing my eyes, I rest the back of my head against the wall. I fight every instinct screaming at me to grind against his hard thigh, to let him fuck his way inside me until he is all I feel. I hate him, and yet that very hate seems to act as an aphrodisiac. I open my eyes, and stare straight back at him. "No."
His tongue skims my lip before he shoves away from me. "Good, girl," he says on a wink before walking off. God, I hate him.
I follow him outside and into the waiting limo. The heaters kick up when the car pulls away from the club, and I watch the snow-covered streets pass by in a blur, thinking of all the ways I could kill him...
"I have some rather unsavory business to handle," he says. I turn to find him staring through his window. "Surely, you won't mind?"
"And there was me believing everything you do is unsavory."
"Refined. Unsavory." He laughs, and I find that deep chuckle sexier than I should. "Mostly one in the same really," he says.
We drive until the shiny buildings of central Moscow turn to crumbling tower blocks and boarded-up shops. The car slows in front of a building. A metal roller door takes up most of the front, and the sign above the awning has a string of Russian letters blinking beside a neon martini glass.
"This looks like a nice place," I say, wrinkling my nose as the car turns into the parking lot.
"Much like your beloved Juarez." A mocking smile dances over his lips. "Do you feel at home?"
I glare at him. "Juarez is hot, and has decidedly more hookers—"
"Deplorable at best."
"She's a thorn in America's side at least." I glance through the window. "This place..."
"Do you like to hear yourself talk?" He arches a brow as he casually checks his phone.
"You're such a dick." I roll my eyes. "Are we just sitting here, or are we going to get out and start dodging heroin needles?"
The back door to the bar opens, light spilling across the ice-covered sidewalk. A man waves from the doorway and, like clockwork, Ronan's door is opened for him. He steps out and I follow him to the back entrance.
"Stay close," he orders as we step inside.
The aroma of beer, mildew, and urine is distinct. Lovely. The walls are covered with wooden wainscoting, and tacky brass fixtures hang from the ceiling. Pub tables are scattered about with unlit candles in the center. Ronan leads me through the empty bar to the hallway, and into a much larger room.
A row of men dressed in suits sit along the wall, and a thick cloud of smoke lazily drifts through the air. Igor and another of Ronan's guards stand in the middle of the room across from an empty chair. Two disheveled-looking men sit directly in front of them, hands bound and bags covering their heads.
Ronan pulls a cigar from his pocket, making a slow show of lighting it as he takes a seat. One puff, and he braces his elbows on his thighs, staring across the room at the row of men. The silence in the room is deafening. I can practically see them holding their breath, waiting to see what he'll do. I duck my chin and try to hide my smile.
"Kristoff," Ronan says, the smoke slowly seeping through his lips. "Take the bags off."
The man beside Igor steps forward and pulls the bags off their heads. One man appears to be middle-aged, his salt and pepper hair thinning. He stares nervously at the baby-faced man beside him.
Ronan glances at me as he pulls a drag from his cigar. "Do you know what these two men thought they could do?" I lift a brow. Is he serious right now? "They thought they could defy me," he says, shaking his head. "Rebel against my Bratva. Inconceivable, really."
"Dissension is such a disease," I say, placing my hand on Ronan's shoulder. He’s testing me somehow, I know it. Smiling, he grabs my hand and kisses over my knuckles as though he's proud of me. The worst part of it is—I like it.
He lets go of my hand and directs his attention toward the men. "Honestly, Marat," Ronan says, "the most tragic part of it is that you brought your son down with you. Tsk. Tsk." Another pull from his cigar, a cloud of smoke swirling in the air. "You signed Victor's death warrant." Ronan snaps his fingers, and Igor holds out a gun. Marat looks at it, sweat visibly beading his brow. "Which means you get to kill him."
"No," Marat says, snarling. "I won't do it. If you want to kill my boy, do it yourself. Get your hands dirty for once."
"You do understand that if I kill him it will be so much worse." Ronan sighs. "If you love Victor, I'm sure you'll find the humanity in killing him yourself." It's brutal and twisted, but effe
ctive leadership requires swift punishments for those who rise against you. Punish one man properly and few will ever try to defy you again. I know this well.
"You go against the rules, Ronan. You're power hungry. Inhumane. Your father would be disgusted," Marat shouts, his eyes flashing with rage and fear.
"Ah, come now." Ronan throws his head back on a laugh. "We all know what happened to my father." He laughs again, and the men to the side of the room shift uncomfortably. "I'm not an unreasonable man," he says, handing his cigar to Igor and adjusting his cufflinks. "I'll make a deal with you, Marat. Shoot your son now, and your wife and granddaughter live. Don't shoot him and, well..." Ronan takes his cigar back and puffs away with a grin.
Marat's eyes lock on the gun in Igor's hand, and his jaw tenses. "No."
"Please, father," his son begs. I guess the granddaughter Ronan is threatening is Victor's child, and he wants her to live. Perhaps I should feel a modicum of sympathy for these men, but I don't. Everyone in this room is tainted. The normal ethics of humanity do not apply here because we all willingly traded our souls for this lifestyle. As for Marat and his son...well, they didn't just sell their soul to the devil, they then tried to overthrow him. Dangerous, dangerous games.
"Tick, tock," Ronan says.
Marat tentatively takes the gun and lifts it in his trembling hand, glaring at Ronan with wild eyes. Suddenly, he aims the gun at Ronan. "Let my son go!" he shouts.
I swear the temperature in the room drops. Everything goes silent, as though time itself stands still. Ronan's jaw ticks, his nostril's flare. Nothing exists outside of Ronan's rage filling every corner of the room. If this bastard gets shot, I'm stuck here with a load of Russian Bratva. Ronan may be the enemy but, in this case, I'd rather be his captive than their play thing.
Well, fuck.
Chapter 12
Ronan
“Click Click Boom” – Saliva
Click. Click. Click. Guns cock all around me, and the room brims with a crackling tension. Marat angles the gun, and I hold up my hand on a smile. "Wait!" I say. Marat's eyes widen, the tremor in his hand grows more violent. Sweat trickles down his temples. "Pull the trigger Marat. Go ahead," I dare before I take a long drag from my cigar.
"Ronan," Camilla says with a hiss.
"Yes, Krasivaya?" I direct my attention at her, my hand still raised at my guards.
"Kill him," she says through clenched teeth. Her eyes flick nervously to Marat.
"I don't get my hands dirty." I shrug. "It's a rule I strictly abide by."
She drags her hand through her hair. "Not the time." Oh, she’s worried…interesting.
There's the distinct click of the hammer releasing, and I turn back to Marat with a displeased frown. The gun was empty. It was all just a game for my entertainment, a little psychological torture if you will. Of course, Igor was going to shoot them both, but now...
"Do you really think I would hand you a loaded gun?" I ask Marat. Adrenaline-laced blood pulses through my jugular. Red distorts my vision. I can handle many things, but this—I cannot. How dare such a man point a gun at me when I am granting him a mercy? Slowly, I push up from my chair and step toward Marat, pacing in front of him. The feral beast inside me begs to slice his throat. It screams for bloodshed and violence. But I will not give into that craving because I would like it too much. This is business, and yet...I glance over my shoulder at Camilla, and curiosity dances around my screaming demons. She's so unhinged. So uncontrolled. I would never in my wildest dreams predict what this little hellhound would do, so maybe I should unleash her.
"Kill them," I say, stubbing my cigar out on Marat's cheek, a pained hiss leaving his lips. "Make it savage, Krasivaya."
I cross the room and take a seat. Camilla's heels click over the concrete floor, and she stops in front of Marat. My gaze drifts over her curves as I wait, as I think of all the possibilities.
"I'll need a few things from the bar," She turns to face me, and I nod. "Igor,” she says on her way out of the room, “be a doll and make sure Marat gets a good show, would you?"
Igor grabs Marat and forces him to his knees in front of his son. The room is silent apart from Victor's muffled sobs. Seconds later, Camilla steps through the doorway carrying a kerosene candle from the bar and a dirty dish towel. Her hips sway with each step as she crosses the room. My chest tightens with anticipation when she stops in front of me. Her eyes gleam, and she slowly leans over, placing one hand on my thigh as the other trails the lapel of my coat. Smirking, she grabs the lighter from my breast pocket, flips the lid, and flicks the flint. The flame dances between us, and I catch a spark of madness in her exotic eyes. She's like an artist staring at a blank canvas while envisioning all the beautiful possibilities. With a flick of her wrist, she snaps the lighter closed, snuffing out the flame before turning away.
Victor whimpers when Camilla steps in front of him. She unscrews the top of the candle before dumping the oil onto one end of the towel. How promising!
"I do love fire," she says, lifting the rag to Victor's face. He clamps his mouth shut and she circles behind him, dragging the towel over his cheek. "The power, the way it decimates and cleanses everything it touches." She kicks the back of his legs, and he drops to his knees in front of Marat with a grunt. "It's almost spiritual," she says and grabs Victor's hair, yanking his head back and pinching his nose.
He thrashes about as she hovers over him with a sadistic smile. Finally, he gasps for breath and Camilla crams the towel inside his mouth. He grunts and groans, fighting against her as she forces it deeper. She flips the lighter open with a click, the flame sparking to life over the end of the cloth. His eyes widen and he flops onto his back, flailing wildly as the small blue flame creeps over the material. I anxiously watch, waiting for the fire to meet the kerosene, and suddenly a bright red flame flashes to life. Camilla continues to hold his nose, forcing him to inhale the flames licking around his face. Fascination swims in her eyes for a moment, and when she seems bored with it all, she releases him.
She's so ruthless. So utterly savage that my heart leaps in my chest.
A morbid symphony fills the room as Marat's sobs mix with Victor's muffled screams. Camilla turns her attention to Marat, stroking her finger over his cheek. "Shhh," she says, as she circles behind him. Cupping his jaw, she slides her hand around the back of his head before violently snapping his neck to the side. And my, the crack that echoes around the room... Marat's body topples to the floor with a thud, and then she walks away with a smile.
Depravity swirls around her like an angry storm. She is magnificent.
She flippantly waves her hand in Victor's direction. "That one will take a while to die. Might want to shoot him if you have somewhere to be."
I fight to contain myself as I turn to the group of men on the side of the room. "Gentlemen, just a reminder as to why you should not rebel against me. The consequences are dire." With a clap of my hand, I push up from my chair. "Well, that's enough excitement for one night. Igor, shoot him."
There's the quick bang of gunfire, and then I leave the building with Camilla at my side.
Chapter 13
Camilla
“River of Fire” – In This Moment
The smell of charred skin lifts from my coat when we step outside, and I can't pretend I don't relish in it. I like fire—too much. I once feared it, but it cleansed me, molded me, created what I am today.
Ronan holds the car door open for me—so he can open doors—and I slide across the seat, thinking about what just happened. That punishment is one I reserve for those who have wronged or betrayed me in the worst way. Inhaling flames until they scorch your lungs and suffocate you must be a horrible way to go.
I didn't know those men, and they did nothing to me, but they served a purpose: to get to Ronan Cole. Ronan has a weakness for violence and a hunger for retribution. I can see it in his eyes: the need, the drive so much like my own. But unlike me, he keeps his under lock and key, suppressed beneath
that fine veneer of his.
He asked me to exact a punishment, to be brutal, and so I unleashed the worst parts of myself. I allowed my addiction to the most basic form of human power—taking another person's life— to consume me. For him. To get to him. I want to feed his weakness so that I become it; unhinging all his darkest secrets until he's ripe for the picking. I want to destroy Ronan Cole, but I also want to embrace his depravity. His darkness reaches out to mine, and they blend and swirl together in a void of our own making. I could so easily be the monster he wants me to be. After all, it's not exactly hard, I am my papa's daughter.
The dark night creeps past the window, and I turn to glance at Ronan. The blue glow from the phone in his hand casts shadows across his face. "Would you like to come to dinner with me tomorrow evening?" he asks before he looks up from the phone.
I frown. "What?"
"Would you like to join me for dinner tomorrow? I'm only asking to be polite, you really have no choice in the matter."
"You know," I roll my eyes, "you could have pretended not to be a dick for two point five seconds."
"Why pretend?"
"You're right," I sigh. This is perfect. I'll take any opportunity to get closer, but I can't make it too easy. "Why do you want me to go?"
His finger brushes my cheek. "You'll make me the envy of so many men at the dinner. I do like to be envied..."
"And there was me thinking you were above such things, Russian."
"Appearances are everything."
"What's in it for me?" I bite my lip.
"Pretending you have a choice in the matter."
I lift a brow. I'll go to learn more about him. Knowledge is, after all, power. "Fine. Where are we going?"
"Moscow."
"Not like I have any other offers," I mumble.