I drain the glass and set it down with more force than necessary, the crystal singing against the mahogany surface of my desk. It makes me think of the conference table where I had my wife spread beneath me, crying out my name as she came. The memory sends a wave of heat through my body, and I curse under my breath.
She was supposed to be a contract obligation. A political necessity wrapped in silk and society connections, but nothing more. I was supposed to bed her when duty demanded it, get her pregnant to secure the bloodline, and otherwise maintain the careful distance that keeps men like me alive. Instead, I findmyself replaying the way she looked at me when I was inside her, like she couldn’t quite believe we were finding a way to make this work but wanted to desperately.
The intercom on my desk buzzes, and Viktor’s voice cuts through my brooding. “Boss, the Torrino situation needs your attention. They’ve responded to our proposal.”
“Give me ten minutes,” I say gruffly, clearing my throat and trying to clear my thoughts.
I take ten minutes to get my head straight and forget the way her pussy clung to my cock and the way she challenged me even as she surrendered to the heat between us. It’ll take almost the full ten minutes to become the cold, calculating leader this organization needs instead of the man who recently discovered his wife might be his undoing.
I move back to my desk, trying to focus on the territorial maps spread across its surface. The shipping routes, the protection rackets, and the careful balance of power that keeps theBratvafunctioning all feel distant and unimportant compared to the memory of Zita’s hands fisted in my hair.
My father would kill me if he was still alive. He warned me about letting emotion get to me and make me weak. A flash of my mother’s face comes to me before I quickly suppress the memory.
Papa built his empire on fear and absolute control, and he drilled into me from childhood that emotional attachments were weaknesses to be exploited by enemies. “Love makes you stupid,” he used to say, usually while nursing a fresh bruise from one of his enforcer’s fists, acquired during bareknuckle exchanges in the basement gym. He never allowed sparring. Allfights, even practices, were to be treated like one was fighting to the death. “Love makes you careless, and careless men end up dead.”
He was right about most things. He was ruthless and brutal, but right. So, why does every instinct I have tell me he was wrong about this?
I close my eyes, trying to erase the sensation of Zita’s fingers touching me in the conference room, and then later, when we fucked again in our bedroom. The truth is, she didn’t make me feel weak in that conference room or in bed. She made me feel exposed but not weak. If anything, watching her stand up to Viktor and Dmitri, both of whom could have snapped her neck without breaking a sweat, filled me with something dangerously close to pride.
She refused to bend. Even with a gun pressed to her temple, I suspect Zita Lo Duca would look her executioner in the eye and spit in his face. That kind of courage is rare in this world and rarer still in the women who marry into it. MostBratvawives learn quickly to keep their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves.
To my surprised relief, Zita isn’t most women.
The memory of her voice echoes in my mind as I recall something she said to me weeks ago, shortly after our marriage began.“I want to be your partner.”Not my subordinate, not my decoration, and not even my silent supporter. My partner in every way. The idea terrifies and exhilarates me in equal measure.
I manage to put it all out of my thoughts long enough to meet with Vinny Torrino. We share some mutual interests andboundaries that skirt each other, so we often work together more than we face off. Right now, we’re in a rare standoff over territory, but we agree to take some time to think it over and meet again. Once that’s concluded, he leaves, and I return to my brooding.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts sometime after Vinny’s departure, and I look up to see Zita herself standing in the doorway. Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, and there’s something almost vulnerable about the way she’s standing there, as if she’s not sure of her welcome. “Can I come in?”
I gesture to the chair across from my desk, the same chair she occupied most of yesterday while learning the ins and outs of our operation. “Of course. This is your home too.”
She settles into the chair, crossing her legs at the ankle in a way that draws my attention to the elegant line of her calves. When she catches me looking, color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. “I wanted to thank you for yesterday… Keeping your word to show me everything and promising to treat me like a partner.”
“I meant it.” The words come out gruffer than I intended, betraying how affected I still am by what’s changed between us. “You know about the organization now, but we need to establish some ground rules if this is going to work.”
“What kind of rules?” She seems disappointed.
“Not the kind you’re thinking.” I lean back in my chair, studying her expression. “I’m not talking about silencing you or keeping you locked away. I’m talking about strategy.”
Her posture straightens slightly, and I catch the moment her guard goes back up. It’s fascinating to see how she armorsherself with attitude and defiance. I wonder if she knows how transparent she is to me now, and how easily I can read the emotions that flicker across her features.
“What kind of strategy?”
“One that keeps us both alive.” I pull one of the territorial maps closer, pointing to the various colored sections that represent different family influences. “I covered the basics of our organization yesterday, but this city is a powder keg, Zita. The Federoffs are testing boundaries, the Torrinos are pushing for expanded shipping rights, and half my own men are still questioning whether I’m strong enough to hold my father’s empire together.”
She leans forward, studying the map with genuine interest. “You think my behavior in the conference room made that worse?“
“I think your behavior in the conference room showed them something they weren’t prepared for.” I trace the boundary between Belsky and Federoff territory with my finger. “A leader’s wife who thinks for herself, who questions orders, and who refuses to be intimidated could be an asset or a liability, depending on how we handle it.”
“An asset how?”
There’s hunger in her voice, a desire to understand this world into which she’s been thrust. It’s another mark in her favor, this willingness to learn rather than simply endure.
“Information flows differently around women. Men let their guard down and say things they shouldn’t. A smart woman in the right position can gather intelligence that would take my men weeks to acquire through traditional means.”
Her eyes light up with understanding. “You want me to be a spy?“
“I want you to be my eyes and ears in situations where I can’t be present.” I lean forward, matching her posture. “That means you need to trust me enough to share what you learn, and I need to trust you enough to act on that information.”
