In my office, I riffle through the desk drawer and find her file. I have shit to do. Plans to make.
But not even the promise of revenge is enough to steer my thoughts in a clearer direction.
I flip the folder open and see Camila’s face staring out. The photo is blown up and grainy, making it clear it was shot from a considerable distance with a powerful telephoto lens.
Maxim got lazy in the lead-up to his wedding. For nearly six years, he’d done his best to keep our spies at bay as best as he could. Maybe he thought the ring on Cami’s finger would keep him safe.
If so, he thought wrong.
I found out eventually. Learned what he was doing and why. And then I waited, and waited, and waited—until it was time to make my move.
While I was waiting, my spies were gathering information. These photos, for instance. I peruse through them. She’d found a job in a library in Chelsea. In this one, she’s pushing a trolley cart piled high with books. Her ass looks fucking delectable in that slim black pencil skirt.
In another, she’s scanning the shelves in search of something. Her face is turned up, and even though only her profile is visible, it captures a serenity that I haven’t seen much since I brought her to the manor.
Her blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun at the back of her head. Loose strands curl on either side of her face. She’s wearing a light white sweater, a green knit skirt that falls past her knees, beige ankle boots with a modest heel.
I flip again. The last one is her alone. She’s seated at the window seat of a little café about fifteen minutes from the library. One hand clasped around a cup of coffee and the other holds a book.
Something jumps out at me. Something I’ve never noticed before. I frown, lean in, look closer. And then I see the title of the book she’s reading: War and Peace.
Tolstoy. A Russian author. One I distinctly remember mentioning the night we met.
It makes me wonder: Have I been in her head the past six years?
If so, her face gives nothing away. She’s lost in the book. Lips pursed in subtle concentration, that blond hair falling in waves around her face again. The tiniest hint of cleavage is the icing on the cock. Enough to send all the blood in my body rushing to my cock.
I’m throbbing hard beneath the desk. And I know instantly that it’s not the kind of erection that I can just will away.
It demands release.
All it took was one picture of the little kiska.
I unzip my pants, free myself, and wrap a hand around my shaft. I can still feel her on my lips. I can taste her on my tongue. Like fucking cinnamon.
I start pumping at my cock, even though it’s not even close to how it feels being inside her. Being with her. This is nothing more than a quick fix, like slapping a bandage over a bullet wound.
And yet I’m surprised by how fast the orgasm comes. It’s savage, tearing through me like a lightning bolt.
But when it’s gone, I’m even hungrier for Cami than I was before.
Frustrated, I grab a couple of tissues and clean myself. I’ve just zipped myself back up when Bogdan bursts into my office without so much as a knock.
“I didn’t say you could come in,” I growl.
“I didn’t know you were in here in the first place,” Bogdan replies unapologetically. “What are you—”
He breaks off when he notices the open file on my desk.
“What’s that out for?”
I close it immediately. “Not your problem.”
“Did I interrupt something?” Bogdan asks with a knowing smile.
I put the file back in the locked drawer and give him the death stare I’d learned from our father. “Sit the fuck down and tell me what you came in here for.”
Still grinning like a loon, Bogdan sits down across from me. “We just had a Maxim sighting.”
I lean in immediately. “Who saw him?”
“Daniil. He was seen in West London, visiting his penthouse apartment. Brought a shit ton of security with him. All heavily armed.”
“So he’s scared.”
“Or angry.”
“Is he still there?”
“In and out,” Bogdan answers. “He was upstairs for an hour at most.”
I frown. “Which means he went in there to retrieve something.”
“My sources have been watching the apartment for days now. I suspect he was planning on moving Camila into the penthouse after their marriage.”
I laugh darkly. “Yeah, well that didn’t work out for him, did it?”
“Do you want to leak the information that you married Camila?”
“No,” I reply firmly. “Let’s save that for later.”
Bogdan nods. “Svetlana is in town. Do we want eyes on her, too?”
I consider that a moment. I don’t consider the woman dangerous. But that’s because I can’t quite separate Svetlana Vorobev from the reclusive woman I used to call my aunt.
I suppose she still is my aunt, in name alone if nothing else.
Just like Maxim remains my cousin.
And we all know how much that counts for—not a fucking thing.
“Put Kirill on her.”
“I’ll let him know. Hopefully, we can establish the tail before she goes underground again.”
“So…” Bogdan says, leaning back in the chair and kicking his feet up on my desk. “How’s the wife?”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He smiles and continues, “I assume that’s why you huffed up here, right? To blow off some steam? Can I suggest couples’ counseling?”
“Where’s Mother?” I ask sharply.
“In the gardens or the library, I don’t know. I don’t keep tabs on her.”
“You should.”
“Not my job.”
“It’s precisely your job.”
“Since when?”
“Since I became the one who decides what your job is.”
He grumbles but doesn’t argue. He’s my brother and my closest confidante. But even Bogdan knows how this shit works.
“Besides,” I add, “don’t pretend like looking after her is a burden. The two of you are close.”
Bogdan nods. He hesitates for a moment like he’s not sure if he wants to say the next piece. Then, in a softer voice, he says, “She wants to connect with you, too, you know. If you’d let her.”
I shake my head. “She doesn’t see me.”
“What does that mean?”
“When she looks at me, I know she’s seeing Papa.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
I shoot him a glare. “Their marriage was—”
“Successful.’
“Is that what you’d call it?”
“She was a good Bratva wife. Papa never had any complaints.”
“He may have respected her,” I say, “but he never loved her. He wasn’t capable of loving anything other than the Bratva.”
“Mama knows you’re not like him.”
“I’m exactly like him,” I growl. I wrench up my sleeve and brandish my scarred arm. “He made sure of that.”
“You are what you choose to be, brother,” Bogdan says quietly.
“Well, I choose to be don.”
“It doesn’t make you weak to choose something else, too.”