Kissing The Enemy (8 page)

O
ne second
and my brain just failed to process.
It can’t be. Of course it isn’t.

Two seconds and I realized it was true.

Three seconds and I knew I’d been staring too long. Vasiliy or Mikhail would notice, they’d guess and then Angelo would be dead. But I couldn’t stop staring into those brown and amber eyes, my face threatening to crumple at any second. My tears would seal his fate. Already, Yuri was frowning at me. He’d guarded our family for years, knew me maybe even better than Vasiliy. If he guessed….

A life as a Malakov saved me. I’d had years to perfect hiding my emotions. I shook my head and looked away. “I want no part of your...
business.”

Next to me, Vasiliy bristled. He hates it when I distance myself from the family, especially in public, but he didn’t comment. On my other side, Mikhail wasn’t so polite. His hand tightened on my wrist, clammy and unpleasant. “
Behave,”
he hissed, as if to a child.

It was exactly the wrong thing to say to me. “I’m going to get a drink,” I told him coldly. I was desperate to get out of there before I lost it. The anger and hurt were blossoming inside me, silent explosions that made me tremble. Already, I couldn’t look Angelo in the eye.

Mikhail leaned down to me. “You are supposed to be my date
tonight!
”
he hissed, outraged. “Act like it!” He jerked my wrist, pulling me closer.

I pulled away. His fingers dug hard enough into my wrist that I knew he’d leave bruises, but I gritted my teeth and
yanked.
My wrist tore free of his grasp and then I was stalking away across the room, my anger hiding what was really going on inside my head. I heard Mikhail take a single step to follow me but then he stopped: I imagined Vasiliy putting an arm across his chest to block him.
Let her go.

I found a door that led to the garden. Despite the cold, a few people were out there smoking. I pushed past them and into the darkness, shoes crunching on the snow-covered grass, trying to lose myself amongst the bushes and trees. The air was freezing, that sharp sort of cold that slashes right to your bones. But at least it cooled my eyes.
Don’t cry, don’t cry.

A banker. I’d thought he was a banker.
Loans. Insurance.
The same sort of euphemisms Vasiliy sometimes used. How could I not have seen it? Now I knew why something about him had seemed familiar. He was a gangster.
He’s just like them!

And yet he’d seemed so utterly different. Even now, the thought of him made my chest tighten. I hated him...but I still liked him. That made the anger bubbling up inside me burn like acid.
Chyort,
I cursed.
You stupid, weak fool!

This was all my fault. I’d known, back in Central Park, that seeing an American was impossible. But I’d tried to ignore who I was...and so fate had reminded me.

A hand on my shoulder, spinning me around. I cried out, expecting Mikhail...but it was Angelo who suddenly loomed over me.

The anger suddenly exploded. My arm was swinging before I was even aware of it. My hand cracked across his face with a noise like a gunshot. Then I instinctively tensed, ready for his fist.

“Okay.” His voice was a low rumble. “I deserved that.”

I stood there panting, staring up into his eyes, my body slowly relaxing as I realized he wasn’t going to hit me. I’d been around Russian men for so long, I’d just assumed he’d swing at me. But as I looked into those dark, amber-flecked eyes, I didn’t see even a hint of that casual, brutal violence that came so easily to Mikhail. All I saw was pain. Pain that he’d hurt
me.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I blurted.

He just stared at me for a long time, rubbing his hand across the cheek I’d hit. “Because I couldn’t stand losing you,” he said at last.

He’d lied to me before and I told myself I shouldn’t trust him again. But listening to him, there wasn’t even a shred of doubt in my mind: he was telling the truth. I remembered the look on his face outside Fenbrook: he hadn’t wanted to lie. He’d
had
to.

I shook my head. “This can’t happen! You’re our enemy!”

He was between me and the house. I pushed past him, my arms hugging myself against the cold. But his big hand took hold of my bare upper arm as I passed. It wasn’t anything like Mikhail’s cruel grip. It was firm but gentle—I could have pulled out of it if I’d wanted to. But the warmth throbbing into me felt incredible. I stopped walking and we stood there facing away from each other. I had to fight the urge to turn back to him. If I did that, I might do something stupid.

“I’m not
your
enemy,” he said softly.

My stomach knotted. “You know it doesn’t work like that. I’m a Malakov.”

The hand on my arm pulled, a gentle pressure towing me backward until I stood in front of him again. I wanted to resist but my feet seemed to move by themselves. Then I was looking up at him, his big, muscled form blocking out the star-filled sky. When he spoke, each word was a deep growl edged in fire, burning down into my soul. “I don’t fucking care.”

I swallowed. I knew it was true. This man wasn’t afraid of anyone: not even Vasiliy. He would move mountains to possess me. He’d start a goddamn war.

But he’s a gangster.
“I don’t want this life,” I told him, my voice bitter. “I walked away from all this.” And I took a step back, intending to get some space between us and then walk around him, back to the mansion.

He followed me. Two quick strides and he’d pressed me back against a tree, his body tight against mine. Suddenly, I realized how cold I was...how much I needed the warm hardness of his chest against my breasts.
But I can’t! This is crazy! Remember who he is!

I put my palms on his chest to push him back.

He captured my wrists and pulled them up above my head, pinning them to the tree. He leaned in, his eyes searching mine. “You say you don’t want this,” he said. “Fine. You tell me straight, Irina. Tell me right now that you never want to see me again and I’m gone. No one ever has to know what happened.”

He was giving me an out. All I had to do was say the words. I drew on everything Vasiliy had taught me, dragging up layer after layer of impenetrable Malakov ice to shield me.
Just say the words.

But whenever I looked at him, the heat was like a blowtorch. It seared through the ice like it wasn’t there. I had to look away.
I can say it if I look away—

He released my wrists with one hand and captured my chin. He turned my head so that I had to look at him. “But you know what I think, Irina?”

I stared at him, my heart thundering.

“I think you need this as much as I do.”

I didn’t answer. And that was all the answer he needed. He leaned down, one big hand still holding my wrists tight against the rough trunk of the tree. He moved more gently than I would have thought possible, given his size. His lips brushed mine—

Don’t! Don’t let him—
I felt both of us teetering on the brink of a bottomless ravine. We both knew it was wrong. We both knew how much danger this would bring and it wasn’t that we didn’t care. It was that we were utterly helpless to resist.

My lips parted...and I was lost. Our tongues touched and my own groan of need was matched by his. The kiss took hold of me, my whole body moving in time with the soft rhythm of his lips. Above my head, my hands tightened into fists at how good it felt. The pleasure rippled down my body, blossoming and spreading, pushing back the cold. The kiss was slow and romantic, but edged with molten heat.

I broke away, breathless. “I need to get back,” I told him, my voice throaty.

He squeezed my wrists for a second, reluctant to release me...then let me go. My skin glowed warm where he’d held me and the cold air didn’t seem to make it fade. “I’ll call you,” he told me.

I swallowed...and nodded.

As I went to step past him again, he caught my arm. “Mikhail,” he growled. “Are you...
with
him?”

I shook my head. “Vasiliy wants me to marry him,” I said. “I came with him to the party, to keep Vasiliy happy. But I don’t feel anything for him.”

Angelo gave me a slow nod. “He ever grabs you like that again, I’ll kill him.”

I nodded. And then I was away, walking quickly through the night, praying the freezing air would cool my face. I tried to slow my breathing, to make my face its usual cold, indifferent mask. I needed to control my emotions more than ever.

I was a Malakov. But I was kissing the enemy.

T
he sand squished
between my toes, the surf tugging at my ankles as it rolled in and out. Irina hadn’t seen me yet. She was looking out to sea, watching the sun sink below the horizon.

I took two running steps towards her and scooped her up into my arms. She yelped and then giggled, the sound like music. I carried her out into the waves, the water breaking over her smooth tan thighs and making them gleam. Beneath her turquoise swimsuit, her breasts were perfect, lush swells... I could feel my cock hardening in my trunks. I didn’t give a shit who was watching from the beach, as soon as we got out into deeper water, that swimsuit was coming off.

My phone rang.

I waded for another step or so, frowning and looking around for the source of the noise, and then the sunset dissolved into dawn and I was lying in my bed, the sheets tangled around me. There was a sudden cold emptiness where Irina’s warm, wet body had been a second before.

Fuck!

I never dreamed. Nightmares, now and again, about my folks. But not idyllic, Technicolor visions like
that.
Jesus, I could still smell the salt water and feel the wet strands of her hair against my neck.

I groped and found my phone.
“What?”
I snarled.

“Sorry, boss,” said Rico meekly. “Got a call. The Saints want you to come in.”

I cursed under my breath and closed my eyes. My day had started badly and it was about to get worse.

* * *

T
he Saints
. Six old school
Cosa Nostra
guys who run New York, Boston, and a good amount of the surrounding area. The streets answer to me but I answer to them.

We’d never gotten on well. They’d never respected me, only grudgingly accepting me when I’d taken over from my dad. It didn’t help that I was one of the youngest bosses
around and none of The Saints were under sixty.

Sometimes, going to see them was okay. When things were going well, they’d break out the good Scotch and cigars and gently praise me. But I knew this wasn’t going to be one of those times: they’d summoned me too abruptly.

The meetings were always in the big, dark mansion owned by “Saint” Nicholas Vici. Old Nicky wasn’t so much the leader as the spokesperson—the six guys seemed to always agree on everything, like they were a fucking hive mind. When I walked into the room, they were all sitting around one side of the big oak table, like always, with a single chair facing them for me. Like I was a kid facing off against the Principal and five teachers.

“This thing with the Russian,” Nicky said before I’d even sat down. “It’s a problem.”

Shit!
I froze, my ass hovering above my chair. Then I told myself not to be stupid. If they knew about Irina, I would have been hauled in here at gunpoint. “I can handle Vasiliy,” I told them. “
And
Mikhail.”

“Doesn’t seem like it. We hear he’s stolen Heinwell away from you, now? And his people smashed up a restaurant? That’s
public,
Angelo. That sorta shit brings the press and the cops. Everyone starts thinking you can’t defend your turf.”

My hands tightened into fists. “I’ve been holding that turf for years. The Russians aren’t a problem.”

“Really?” Nicky reached behind him and plucked something off the floor. “Then how the fuck do you explain
this?”

He hurled it at me and I only caught it a second before it hit me in the face. When I lowered it, I saw Nicky smirking at me. The bastard had never liked me. He’d never liked my dad, for that matter. The only reason he hadn’t replaced me was that I did too good of a job.

I turned the thing over in my hands. A handbag with shining metal buckles and the designer logo picked out in those little crystals women go nuts for.

“You
do
know about this?” asked Nicky. “I mean, you’re on top of it?”

I had no fucking idea what the handbag was supposed to mean. Rico was standing by the door and, when I glanced over at him, he gave me a pained look.
Shit!
There was something he hadn’t told me.

Vincenzo, a guy in his eighties with a face as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, took pity on me. “Vasiliy and Mikhail are flooding New York with these things,” he told me. “Better quality than what our guys on the street are selling. Almost as good as the real thing. And not just handbags. Jeans. Jackets. Fancy shoes.”

Nicky glared at him—he’d obviously been enjoying having me at a disadvantage. But I could see now why they were pissed. Counterfeit goods brought in millions in New York alone. “I’ll take care of it,” I told them.

Nicky leaned forward. “No fucking mercy, Angelo.
Crush
these sons of bitches. Every last one of them.”

“Send ‘em back to Siberia in boxes,” grunted Taavetti. He was one of the oldest and needed an oxygen cylinder, these days. “Only good Russian’s a dead Russian.”

“Except for the women,” said Nicky. “So many good-lookin’ blondes. And they all come over here eager to open their legs and earn some US dollars. They breed ‘em to be whores.” He laughed: a long, filthy laugh, his head thrown back. Then he looked at me and scowled. “What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

I was sitting there stony-faced, staring at him like a dog that’s about to go for his master’s throat.

“You ain’t gone soft on the Russians have you, Angelo?” Nicky asked, his smile disappearing. “Your old man was never soft on them.”

I was already mad. Now the rage boiled over. I jumped to my feet, slammed my palms down on the edge of the table and glared at them. “I’ll deal with the fucking Russians, okay? The fake goods
and
the territory! They want a war, I’ll give them a war!” The Saints went quiet and I strode from the room, Rico falling in behind me.

As I left, I heard Vincenzo mutter, “A war? Come on, no one wants a war.” And then Nicky told him not to be a pussy.

“You knew about that, the handbag thing?” I asked as I got into the car. Rico’s guilty expression told me he had. “Why the fuck didn’t you warn me? You got my back or not?” I slammed my door.

Rico shook his head. “Sorry. It came up yesterday morning, while you were out on your...errand.”

Shit.
I missed it because I was outside Fenbrook Academy with Irina’s breast in my hand.
What’s the matter with me?
This isn’t a job you can do half-assed. This is a job you give your life to. I sighed. “Don’t worry about it,” I muttered.

Rico put his foot down and Nicky’s mansion quickly fell away behind us. But the problems remained: I stared at the handbag on my lap, turning it over and over in my hands.

“I could get some guys together,” said Rico. “Go to some markets where they’re selling that stuff and smash them up.”

I shook my head. “That’d be like stamping on roaches. We gotta hit them at source.” I examined the seams. The thing really was well made, far better than the crap our guys sold. “Vasiliy and Mikhail have to be getting this stuff into the country somehow. Probably through the docks. We’re going to find out when the next shipment’s coming in.” I pulled out my phone and dialed Peterson, the little prick I’d threatened to push through a window.

“And then what?” asked Rico.

“And then we’re going to steal it.”

* * *

W
e were in luck
: there was a container coming in at nine that night. Peterson, his voice high and tight with fear, was only too happy to give us all the details. At eight-thirty, Rico and I pulled into the docks in a rental car, followed by another car carrying five of my best men. It was a moonless night and it was snowing again, the big flakes only visible when they passed through the beams of the security lights. We parked in the thick, black shadows between two shipping containers. The Russians wouldn’t even know we were there.

Rico took the men to prepare the ambush. That left me sitting alone in the car with the heater on and the snow falling all around me. It was completely silent, a warm little cocoon.

I hadn’t stopped thinking about her all day. Now, I couldn’t think of anything else.
Fuck it.
I had thirty minutes to kill.

I called Irina.