Kissing The Enemy

by Helena Newbury

  I felt his kiss on the top of my head and then he was moving away. I heard frustrated muttering from Mikhail in the living room as Vasiliy collected him: he wouldn’t get to “accidentally” brush my breast or fondle my ass tonight.

  When I heard the front door close behind them, I finally opened my eyes and stared at myself, and that made it real. This is my life. Go back to Moscow? That wasn’t an option. I came to America to make a life here, so that one day my kid sister, Lizaveta, could join me. If I went back to Moscow, we’d both be trapped there forever and, when she finished boarding school and was old enough, she’d be expected to marry a gangster, too.

  Which left Mikhail. A life with a man I hated.

  I felt the heat begin to build behind my eyes. No. I clamped down hard on it before the tears could start. Angelo? A real life, a happy life with someone I liked? That was a fantasy, a fairy tale. Grow up!

  This is your life.

  I quickly stood, grabbed my purse and ran out before I could think anymore. And for the next four hours I smiled sweetly and explained ultra-high-def TVs and asked people if they wanted extended repair plans and I crushed all thoughts of freedom down into the depths.

  The busy store, glowing screens and noise made for a different kind of numbness. Cut off from emotion, the coldly logical part of me started to think, maybe Mikhail won’t be so bad. Maybe I can grow to love him….

  By the time I’d finished my shift and taken the subway home, I’d almost convinced myself. You can convince yourself of anything, if you try hard enough.

  And then, as I reached my house, I saw the icicles. I’d been in too much of a hurry when I left to notice, but now I stopped and stared. Every single one of the long, gleaming spikes was now lying in the yard, shattered into a million glittering pieces. Someone had snapped them off at the root and hurled them down on the frozen ground.

  I closed my eyes. I could see it unfolding in my mind: Mikhail following Vasiliy out of my house. He’d been bitter and resentful because he wouldn’t get to slide a hand up my skirt that night. And so the first beautiful thing he’d seen, he’d destroyed.

  This is your life.

  I stared and stared at the glittering fragments of ice. And something cracked, deep in my soul. A tiny drop of everything I’d been trying to contain seeped out and, when it hit the surface, it ignited like gasoline.

  I ran into the house and grabbed a dress. Angelo had said he’d be there at eight. If I ran, I could just make it in time.

  5

  Angelo

  I nursed a Scotch and waited. Mario, the bar’s aging owner, had said the Russians would be in any time now. Normally, the frustration would have gotten to me. I’m not good at waiting: life’s too short.

  But tonight, I didn’t mind so much. It meant I had time to think about her.

  My overcoat had been around her shoulders for only a few seconds, but I could still smell her scent on the collar and it filled my mind with the cornflower blue of her eyes and the silken sheen of that platinum-blonde hair. I felt my fingers unpinning it, letting it slide down her back in a shining wave. I wanted to feel it against me. I wanted to part it like a curtain to kiss my way down her naked back.

  It was just dark enough, at my table, that if she’d been there I could have pulled her out of her seat and onto my lap. Dark enough that, if she’d been wearing a skirt, I could have hauled it up her thighs and stroked her pussy through her panties, my actions hidden by the table and her thrashing cloaked by the shadows. I could have brought her to silent, panting climax right there, feeling the pleasure roll through her as she trembled against me. And the whole time, I’d whisper in her ear exactly what I’d do to her when I got her back to my place.

  I was itching, aching for this girl. Had been ever since I’d seen her on stage and it had only gotten worse since Central Park. I couldn’t remember ever being this desperate to get a girl into bed. But there was something else, something that worried me. Wrapped around that hot, primal desire to bed her was something else, something lighter and harder to pin down. It slipped away every time I tried to focus on it, but it was there. Whenever I thought about seeing her again, just seeing her, not even spreading her thighs and fucking her or slipping my cock between her lips, I felt...impatient. Tense. Like I couldn’t draw a full, deep breath until I was with her again. What the fuck was that?

  Maybe I was tired. God knows I had enough on my plate.

  Just as I thought it, the Russians arrived. Two big guys, probably ex-military, their bratva tattoos just visible above their shirt collars. They swaggered in like they owned the place.

  I hate Russians...with one recent, platinum-blonde exception. I’ve never understood them: from what I’ve seen, they’re power-crazed and ruthless, without any of the honor of my people.

  And in particular, I hated these two Russians because they were sent by Mikhail Stasevich, the local Russian mob boss. A nasty SOB, but until recently not too much of a problem. Vicious if you backed him into a corner, but he hadn’t had enough money to expand. Then he’d teamed up with Vasiliy Malakov, an old-school bratva boss from Moscow who wanted a New York base through which to move guns. With Vasiliy’s money, Mikhail was trying to take over my turf.

  I’d be damned if I was going to let it happen. My dad fought hard for every foot of this territory and it’ll be Baroni forever. I’d sworn that the day he and my mom died.

  That brought me to the main reason I hated Russians. The one that hit me every single morning, making me tumble out of bed and hit the ground doing push-ups so that I would be ready when I needed to be. The one that made me finger my gun every time I thought about it….

  The one that demanded I kill every last one of them.

  The two Russians hustled Mario into a back room. I silently followed, the rage building in my chest. I reached the back room just in time to see them pressing Mario up against the wall, a knife blade gleaming against his throat.

  “Ten percent,” said the one with the knife in fractured English. “Is good deal. You take it.”

  “No,” I said firmly, announcing my presence. “He won’t.”

  Both of the Russians spun to face me and I saw in their eyes that they recognized me. “Tell Mikhail it ends here,” I said. “This is the start of my territory.” I started walking towards them. “One street over, you shake down whoever the fuck you want. But this? This is Baroni turf. Always has been. Always will be.”

  The two Russians glanced at each other. The one with the knife held it ready, weighing it in his hand. I was a tempting target: two against one, and he’d get to be the big guy who took out a mob boss….

  But that’s not how the game is played. No one—at least, no one smart—wants all-out war and that’s exactly what killing me would bring. So it came down to intimidation. It came down to who had the biggest balls.

  I walked right up to him, until the point of the knife was nicking my suit jacket, and stared him right in the eye. The room was so quiet I could hear his breathing. Show no fear. My father’s voice in my head. Show no weakness. I could hear his hand clenching and unclenching around the handle of the knife and feel the point twisting and scraping against the fabric of my suit. He was as big as me and he probably had fancy military training I didn’t, plus he had his buddy beside him.

  But he didn’t have what I had. He didn’t have the will my dad bred in me, the will to do whatever it takes to maintain control. I’d die to defend my turf and that meant he didn’t scare me. But I scared the shit out of him.

  His eyes flickered and I knew I had him. “Get the fuck out of here,” I told him, my voice barely more than a whisper.

  The guy stepped past me. “This isn’t over,” he muttered. “Mikhail wants this territory. We’ll be back.”

  From behind me, there was the metal click-clack of a shotgun being pumped. “No you won’t,” said a calm, deep voice. Everyone looked up as the man stepped into the room.

  Rico. My sotto capo, my second-in-command and
my best friend since high school. He was in his usual long leather coat, his favorite shotgun cradled in his arms and pointing right at the Russians. He’d been outside in the car, with orders to follow the Russians inside once he’d made sure there were only two of them. Just in case I needed backup.

  The Russians looked at each other again and scowled, but they knew when they were beaten. They slunk past me, the knife disappearing into a pocket. The tension drained out of the room. Mario gave a loud sigh.

  I turned and grinned at Rico. “Thanks.”

  Rico lowered the shotgun. “You would have been fine without me,” he said graciously.

  Maybe. Maybe not. It worried me how cocky and aggressive the Russians were getting. The thought of Rico and that shotgun might just keep them from coming back for a while. And it had felt good to have him watching my back. It always did.

  I embraced Mario and told him not to worry and to call me if the Russians were dumb enough to shake him down again. Then I strolled out to the car with Rico.

  Rico knows as much about the business as I do and he handles a ton of the day-to-day shit I don’t have time for. My guys respect him like no one else. If we weren’t such good friends, I’d be watching my back, expecting a coup.

  “You want me to drop you at Cafe Auben?” Rico asked. He knows my routine.

  I nodded.

  “I’ll join you.”

  I hesitated. Normally I loved spending time with my buddy, but I was hoping—praying—that Irina would show up.

  I didn’t even need to say anything—that’s how well Rico knows me. He glanced across at me, saw my expression and his jaw dropped. “Wait. Are you meeting someone? Do you have a date?!”

  I shrugged, embarrassed. But I couldn’t stop a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

  He started driving, staring out through the windshield in silence.

  “What?” I asked at last.

  “I’m just trying to figure out when you last went on a date. I’m back three....no, four years.”

  I elbowed him in the guts. But he was probably right. I didn’t go on dates: I met a woman, fucked her once or twice and moved on. I didn’t have time for fucking romance.

  But Irina? I had time for her.

  I still couldn’t get my head around her being Russian. She had zero in common with the Russian thugs I battled every day—it was difficult to accept they were from the same country. Although I‘d be lying if I said there wasn’t a little part of me that loved the thought of seducing one of their countrywomen. Da, comrade, see how you like that.

  “So who is she?” asked Rico. “Hot?” He was grinning, now, practically bouncing in his seat in excitement. Which was kind of funny because Rico’s as big as I am, solid muscle, and the car was creaking on its springs.

  “Of course she’s hot,” I told him. “What the fuck do you think?” Again, I couldn’t help grinning. Which was crazy: I didn’t want people—even Rico—thinking their boss was turning soft. But something about her made me feel...I don’t know, lighter.

  Lighter....and hotter than I’d ever been for any woman. I really hoped she showed up because, if she didn’t, I was going to have to track her down all over again. I wasn’t giving up on her any more than I’d give up on my dad’s territory.

  6

  Irina

  I walked slowly up to the cafe, heels crunching in the snow. Warm light spilled out through the big plate glass windows, making the sidewalk gleam gold. I stayed back in the shadows. I wanted to see if he was there before I—

  There. I caught my breath as I saw him. God, the man had presence. He sat right in the middle of the cafe, completely unfazed at sitting alone. He didn’t read the menu or tap at his phone in an attempt to look busy. He just gazed around, utterly relaxed.

  He hadn’t ordered anything yet. He’s waiting for me. I felt my heart start to race.

  Every eye in the place was drawn to him, especially the women. I could see women on dates surreptitiously glancing at him over their dates’ shoulders and two waitresses giggling and blushing in the corner as they sneaked looks at him. I hated them immediately. He’s mine! And then flushed because that was nuts: I’d barely met him. He wasn’t mine.

  Then he turned and saw me through the glass. Our eyes locked.

  And I realized I was his.

  It was freezing, out on the street, but I lit up from within with a violent heat that made me audibly gasp. It was as if I was an ice sculpture and someone had poured lava into the center of me, making me glow red, yellow and white even as it melted me completely. The warmth radiated out, hit my skin and made me flush, then contracted back in and twisted down to my groin.

  I was his. His gaze felt like it was going to pull me right through the window. Like no one else in the world mattered or even existed. Like he’d fight through a thousand men to get to me.

  And he wanted me right now. He wanted me on the table in front of him, my ass thumping down on the table as he hauled my dress up my thighs, my legs kicking either side of him as he tore off my panties and rammed himself inside me.

  I didn’t think I looked special. I’d had to get ready in a hurry, quickly adding a touch more make-up and scrambling into the little black dress. I’d left my hair loose, hanging straight down my back. And most of me was covered by the thick black coat that reached down to my thighs. But I’d never seen desire as strong as I saw in his eyes. I. Was. His.

  This is nuts! He’s an American! I should walk away…. But I knew I was kidding myself. The lust in Angelo’s eyes was so strong it was almost frightening...but it was nothing compared to the deep, hot ache that was my body’s response. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  He got up out of his seat. I caught my breath as I neared him and he reached for me. I wasn’t sure what he was going to do: embrace me, kiss my cheek...a full-on kiss on the lips?

  His hands landed on my upper arms and he traced down them to my hands as he drew me closer. I could feel the heat of him throbbing into me—I hadn’t realized how cold I’d gotten, standing outside on the street. “You’re freezing again,” he told me. His big hands closed around my smaller ones, engulfing them, and the warmth crept up my arms, soaking into my chest.

  I swallowed and the room seemed to tilt and spin. I could feel the layers of ice fracturing and splitting, devastated by his heat. He drew me even closer, our bodies less than an inch apart. I had to tilt my head back to look at him and, as soon as I looked up into those brown eyes, I was lost. God, he was gorgeous. I wanted to brush my fingers through that gleaming black hair, slide my palms over his curving pecs. With his overcoat off, his suit jacket could open a little more and I had a better view of those mysterious tattoos beneath his shirt. I couldn’t make out any detail but they were big, covering the whole top part of his chest.

  He squeezed my hands, his thumbs slowly caressing my knuckles as if to show me what he wanted to do with every inch of my body, later on.

  “I’m very glad you came,” he said at last. That rich purr of a voice resonated through my body but there was a stress behind it, too, and he squeezed my hands just a little on the very and the glad while staring deep into my eyes. Those words don’t describe it, his eyes said. They’re just the best I can do.

  When he finally released me, it was with great reluctance. I could feel the tension in his body—as if he was barely managing to restrain himself from just grabbing me and kissing the hell out of me.

  I stripped off my coat and sat down. He pulled my chair back for me. That was a first, too. Did all Italian-American men go to manners school? As he helped me slide my chair under the table I could feel the strength in him, the way he made me and the chair just float. He put his hands on my shoulders for a second, thumbs brushing the back of my neck, and everything seemed to stop. I could feel the pent-up tension in him again, all the more palpable because I couldn’t see him. He was hovering on the very brink of control. He wanted to throw me forward so I was bent over the table, pull up my dress a
nd—

  I heard him take a long, slow breath and then his hands lifted and he came around the table. When he sat, his eyes were blazing, almost angry with lust, as if he cursed me for having this effect on him. But I’m not doing anything!

  I had to look at the menu just to break the tension. As soon as we were ready to order, he summoned a waitress. Not called. Summoned. He only had to lift his head an inch and glance in her direction and she scurried over, ignoring everyone else. She’d either been eying him up since he walked in or it was just something about him that commanded attention—maybe both. She was my age, pretty with long, dark hair and a white fitted blouse that showed off a lot of cleavage. I braced myself for his inevitable flirting.

  But he barely glanced at her as we ordered, his eyes fixed on me. And when she did a flirty little giggle and asked if there’d be anything else, he just dismissed her, politely but with great finality, and leaned in to me as if to say, I’m with this woman. Don’t bother us again.

  I’d never experienced that before. Russian men—at least the ones I’d met—never considered themselves taken or off-limits until they were married. And the other women knew it: make the mistake of leaving your date for a few minutes and you’d come back to find another woman perched on his knee. You had to fight viciously to keep him—literally, with some women handing out brutal beatings in nightclub toilets if they thought you were competing for “their” man. The aim of the game was to keep your man interested for long enough to coax him up the aisle, at which point he was yours...except for the mistress in some discreet apartment somewhere, plus the hookers he’d fuck while away on business.

  Angelo had only just met me, but he looked at me like I was the only woman in the world.

  “Tell me about dancing,” he said as soon as the waitress was gone. “How do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Float. And spin around on your toes and shi—stuff.”