Kissing The Enemy (4 page)

I said nothing, just stared resolutely at his reflection.

He squatted down behind me until his face was next to mine. “You are a Malakov,” he said, squeezing my shoulders. “This is your life.”

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s not something you choose, Irina! The family needs you. Even if we didn’t, you can’t have this...
civilian
life you dream of. Even if you turn away from us, other people will never forget who you are. My enemies are your enemies. You need a man like Mikhail to protect you.” He glanced over his shoulder towards the living room, then lowered his voice. “Marry him and you could stay here in New York.”

I stared helplessly up at him. What could I say? That the thought of sharing my life, my
bed
with Mikhail made me want to throw up? That I just didn’t see anything approaching warmth or love when I looked into his eyes, only ugly lust and a hunger for power? That whenever Vasiliy’s back was turned, Mikhail tried to grope me?

There are some things you can’t say to your uncle. I settled for: “I don’t love him.”

Vasiliy just looked at me sadly, as if I was a child who didn’t understand how the world worked. The worst part was, he hadn’t used to be like this. Back in Moscow, he’d been tough but fair...he’d used to smile and joke. Then I announced I was moving to the US and he became...
cold.
Something had changed and I couldn’t figure out what.

The frustration rose inside me, hot and jagged: it wasn’t
fair.
I crossed my arms and glared at myself in the mirror. If I kept looking at Vasiliy, I was going to start crying and a Malakov never shows weakness.

Vasiliy’s hands relaxed on my shoulders and he let out a long sigh, then leaned sideways until his head rested against mine. “
Chyort,
” he cursed. “I wish your mother was here to talk to you.”

I closed my eyes and felt my anger slowly slip away. He was the closest thing to a father I had and he thought he was doing the right thing. “I really
do
need to get to work,” I told him, my eyes still closed.

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.

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.

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 and—

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.”

He was trying not to curse in front of me. In his eyes, I was innocent and he didn’t want to corrupt me. It was almost funny:
innocent? Me?
Imagine his reaction if he knew some of the things I’d seen, thanks to the family business.

What kept me from laughing was how good it felt. No one had ever cared about trying to shield me from things before—even Vasiliy just accepted that violence was part of my world. I’d grown up around tattooed men who’d spent most of their lives in prison: I could probably out-curse Angelo, given the chance...but the fact that he thought of me as innocent made me light up inside in a way I wasn’t expecting. It was almost like glimpsing myself as I would have been if I’d been born into a normal family. I
wanted
to be innocent. And I wanted him to corrupt me.

I told him about Fenbrook Academy and early-morning practice, about dancing the same piece a couple of hundred times, about calluses and stone bruises and climbing stairs on your ass because your feet hurt so much. I told him about transferring from the ballet school in Moscow, skimming over why I’d left. I focused on the good stuff: how I’d always loved America and wanted to come here.

The food arrived and we savored every bite. Talking with him was so...
easy.
I could feel myself relaxing, the layers of ice gradually thinning and cracking. With other men, I had to weigh every word, worried in case it sounded dumb...or sounded too intelligent. With most of the guys Vasiliy introduced me to,
talking
really meant polishing their egos.

Not with Angelo. I got the feeling he hated bullshit more than anything else. And he didn’t talk like a rich person, with all their little games and attempts to score points. He talked about simple pleasures like eating hot dogs at Coney Island and swimming off Sandy Hook Beach. I told him about watching my cousin Luka play ice hockey when the government froze all the paths in Gorky Park, and buying
blinchiki
filled with butter and jam from street stands.

I suddenly caught myself.
This is crazy. I shouldn’t be here.
This whole happy date was an illusion, a soap bubble that would be destroyed as soon as Vasiliy found out about it. But….

I liked him.

It was more than just lust. That was still there: the conversation would slow down every few minutes and we’d just gaze at each other. My eyes slid down the lines of his hard pecs under his white shirt; his eyes skimmed over my bare shoulder and then all the way down the side of my dress, following the shape of my body as if he longed to do the same thing with his palm. But I
liked
him. I liked his confidence and his warmth and his refreshing lack of games.

He’s too good to be true.
There were distant alarm bells in my head: something familiar about him. But that made no sense: he was so different to the Russian guys I knew.

He told me about growing up right there in New York, with scarcely enough money to eat. How things had slowly improved as his dad worked his way up the business and how Angelo had followed in his footsteps, eventually taking over his dad’s position when he died.

“What is it you do?” I asked.

He opened his mouth to speak, pride in his eyes. As if he knew I’d be impressed. I suddenly knew what it was going to be: he was in banking, and it was going to be some place I’d heard of, some place that would make my jaw drop.
I’m a vice-president at Goldman Sachs.
That would explain the money and the confidence. It was weird, because he didn’t
sound
like some Harvard-educated guy from a rich family. He sounded blue-collar and proud of it.

But at the last minute, he seemed to change his mind. The pride faded from his eyes. “Y’know. Just business. Loans. Insurance.”

I frowned. I could tell he was downplaying it. Why?

No matter. I realized I’d dodged a bullet—if we got onto the subject of jobs, he might ask what my folks did, and then we’d get onto my family. I didn’t want to go there.

He poured the last of the wine and, as the final heavy red drop fell into my glass, I felt it begin. He didn’t say anything, but the question started to form in the air between us. The end of the meal was here:
what now?

This is where I’d normally say something, like, “Wow, I’m really tired,” or “I have an early rehearsal tomorrow,” just to start clueing the guy in to the fact that
no
, I wasn’t going home with him. Even if I liked the guy, I wouldn’t have sex on a first date.

But I stayed silent. I let the question grow and grow.
What are you doing, Irina?
My heart started thumping. I’d already come on a date with him when I knew this couldn’t go anywhere. I had to come to my senses and end it now.

But the thought of seeing that broad, muscled chest without the shirt, of running my fingers down his bare abs….

The waitress asked if we wanted dessert. We both agreed we didn’t. I asked for the check and he caught my eye. And we both
knew,
and, immediately, things changed. His gazes had felt like soft caresses but now they turned firm and direct: I could almost feel his hands as they slid up my sides and over my back, could feel the touch of his lips on the upper slopes of my breasts.

I went to speak, but it was suddenly difficult to get air. Part of me still couldn’t believe I was about to do this on a first date. But I didn’t want it to end.

“Would you like to come back to mine?” I asked. My house felt safer: familiar territory, plus Rachel would be there, just in case all my instincts were wrong and he was an axe murderer.

A smile slowly spread across his face, eyes twinkling with a mixture of joy and raw, hot lust.

He stood behind me to slip my coat on and, when it was wrapped around me, he stopped like that for a second, holding the edges tightly together in front of me so that the coat hugged me. As if, now that he was embracing me, he couldn’t bear to let me go.

Then we were stepping out into the freezing night air. I looked up the street one way then the other for a cab. As I turned back to him, he stepped right up close to me, so close that his leg slipped between mine. I blinked up at him: we were so close, I had to tilt my head right back.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since I first saw you,” he said. “Time’s up.”

I had time to open my mouth in astonishment. Then he was kissing me.

He didn’t just bring his lips down to mine: he scooped an arm under the small of my back and lifted me, bringing me to him. By the time our lips touched, my toes were only just scraping the icy sidewalk.

His first touch was gentle, just a graze of his lips against mine. But I had a hand on his arm and I could feel how his whole body had gone hard with barely-restrained lust. He was fighting to go slow, forcing himself to taste me first before consuming me completely. I could feel the power of him, even in that brief touch, and it made me go weak.

His second touch was a flick of his tongue across my lips, sampling my softness. The pleasure crackled out from each millimeter he touched, rocketing its way down my body. I came alive in his arms, writhing and arching, my breasts pushing against his chest. I grabbed his other arm in my free hand and clung to him, my mind spinning. I
needed
more.
Now.
My whole body was throbbing, pulsing to the rhythm he’d started.