3
Oksana
I stared up into Vasilije’s black eyes and shuddered. Was he saying he wasn’t going to fuck me? I scrambled to find a new angle. No matter how much planning I’d done, so much of tonight had been unknown, and I hadn’t expected to end up here, even though Aleksandar had assured me I would. Vasilije was greedy. He’d go for me as soon as someone else showed interest.
He looked different in person. The angles of his face were sharper, his shoulders broader, and his eyes deeper. I’d studied pictures of him, but in real life he was so much . . . more. More attractive, more imposing, and way more dangerous. I’d barely been able to breathe during the car ride here, and it had little to do with his hand clenched on my throat.
Once he’d staked his claim on me, my panic became less fake.
“Power?” I repeated breathlessly.
His irises were made of the blackest ice possible, and although he smiled and flashed his dimples, the warmth didn’t reach his eyes. His hand gripped my waist, and when I instinctively tried to retreat, his fingers dug in.
“I don’t like to be touched,” I said and shut my eyes tightly. I hadn’t wanted to reveal it, at least not yet, but there was no avoiding it now. I’d wanted to hold onto my cards for as long as possible. If he hadn’t picked me tonight, I was to play the role of Aleksandar’s girlfriend, but my ridiculous plan had worked.
What the hell was I going to do now? My next step was to get close to Vasilije Markovic, and I hadn’t the faintest clue how. Despite what I’d told my father, seduction wasn’t something I believed I could do.
My anxiety was crippling, and his icy cold hand on my waist was debilitating. I drew in a stuttering breath and forced my eyes open. He studied me like I was both grotesque and fascinating in the same instant.
I’d told Vasilije I didn’t like to be touched, so his evil smile widened and his hand slid upward, his palm stopping on my ribcage. His thumb brushed the underside of my breast through my thin sweater and bra, and my skin felt too tight. It was stretched and pulled in a million directions.
“You don’t like to be touched?” His deep voice was throaty. “Why?”
I couldn’t tell him I’d murdered the last man to put his hands on me. “I like my own space,” I said, rushing the words out.
If the devil took human form, he’d look exactly like Vasilije did now. Violently sexual and dangerously persuasive.
“Yeah? Get over it.” He glanced around before settling back on me. “All of this space is mine.”
The cold hand drew away, and my body felt hot in the aftermath.
He toed off his boots and carried my composition notebook under his arm as he went down the hall. He expected me to follow, so I did. It was getting hard to think about anything other than his plans for me, but I forced myself to focus. All of my work was laid down on those pages. They might as well have been written in my blood.
I’d been told Vasilije was nothing more than a good-looking thug. Dimitrije Markovic had two sons, and Luka was the smart one. But my information had been wrong, or at least incomplete. Vasilije might have flunked out of college, but I shouldn’t underestimate him. He’d figured out the drop-off tonight was a setup, he didn’t trust me, and worst of all, he knew the notebook was of value to me. He was far from the dumb mobster-wannabe I’d hoped for.
God, I should have sucked it up and left my notebook behind, rather than just a copy. I didn’t know how long it was going to take to do what I needed to do, and how could I be without my music for that long? I needed it to give me strength.
He led me into a darkened chef’s kitchen, not bothering with the lights. When he opened the fridge, it cast a harsh glow across his body. I begrudgingly admitted the “good looking” label assigned to him was correct. He wore a dark, long-sleeved shirt over jeans and the fabric hugged the lines of his muscular frame. He pushed the sleeves up to bunch at his elbows then pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge, setting it on the counter.
His eyes and hair were both dark, and a day’s worth of scruff shadowed across his jaw. He had ‘resting-asshole face,’ which made a promise he had no problem fulfilling. Hot and smug son-of-a-bitch. It was a look my half-sister Tatiana would chase after, if it wasn’t attached to Goran Markovic’s nephew and second in line to the Serbian crime family.
A bottle opener was dug out of a drawer and the cap popped, dropping noisily to the granite countertop, and I tried not to watch his hands or the way the tendons in his strong forearms moved beneath his skin. Think about what those hands are going to do to you, Oksana.
They might kill me. They certainly would if he found out the truth.
He leveled a gaze in my direction, and my anxiety increased tenfold. His stare was carnal and indecent. I should have been happy, but it was terrifying. It drifted slowly down my body, lingering first at my breasts, and then down to my hips. I already felt naked and exposed, which was sure to come soon.
The beer was Osterhägen, which was ironic. It was my father’s favorite brand.
Vasilije drank a long sip, and then motioned to the hallway, carrying his beer and my notebook with him as he went. The Markovic house was elegant and classically decorated. It wasn’t gaudy. The luxury was refined and understated. Another unexpected thing from him. I’d heard the Serbians loved to show off. They flaunted their mafia money, most of it made off the backs of my people.
We reached the entryway that led to several parts of the house. There was a home office to my left, a large dining room to my right, and a living room before us, with a staircase leading upward. My body seized as I noticed the black beauty sitting beneath a picture window. In the moonlight, the Steinway grand piano was utterly breathtaking.
Sheet music rested on the rack, and my heart thudded faster. “Do you play?”
Could I find common ground with him?
Vasilije turned to stone. “Fuck, no. That thing hasn’t been touched in years.” My hope deflated, but his reaction was . . . strange. He acted like the piano wasn’t anything of importance, but it was just that.
An act.
When he guided me to the bottom of a staircase, my heart plummeted all the way to my toes.
Fear grew in me with every carpeted step I climbed beside him. My stomach churned with bile. If I threw up, he’d cast me out, and months of planning would be gone. I couldn’t fail at this. I pressed my lips together and fought against my nerves. It was just sex. There were worse men I could fuck than Vasilije Markovic, I told myself.
We reached the landing at the top of the stairs, and he took my elbow, turning me to my right. His cold, dominating grip forced me down the hall and to the doorway at the end of it, where he pushed a door open and flipped on the lights.
The back wall was gray stone. An unmade platform bed was centered beneath it. The room was stylish, matching the rest of the house, and not what I’d expected of a twenty-four-year-old boy. He closed the door behind us, pulled out his phone, and set it on a charging dock on a nearby dresser. Then he yanked open a drawer and dropped my notebook inside.
Off came the holster. He made a show of removing the magazine from his gun and emptying the round from the chamber. Was I supposed to be impressed? Konstantine had shown me how to do that, and faster, too. The Glock was put on top of my notebook and the drawer was shut, but I didn’t feel safer. He was stronger and faster, and I assumed he could kill me without a weapon if he wanted.
“The bathroom is through there.” He flung a hand to the doorway to my left. “Go take a shower.”
Like I was unclean.
I scurried through the doorway and shut the bathroom door behind me, gripping the doorknob and leaning against the frame for support. I was so fucking stupid. I’d volunteered for this. I’d asked for it. But now that the moment was here, and I wasn’t ready.
The bathroom looked like it had been lifted from the pages of a magazine. It was all soothing colors and sophisticated fixtures. The large glass shower had a seat in it, and I started the water, stalling for time so I could regroup.
I kept an elastic band on my wrist since I knew the day was going to be long, and drew my hair back, twisting it into a bun. I wasn’t about to get my hair wet. It’d take hours to dry without a hairdryer, but I needed to get under the water to keep up my lie.
My traveling hadn’t started in Kazan, Russia; it’d started in an affluent south side suburb this morning. I’d hung out in baggage claim at O’Hare for hours, inserting myself with the other girls who’d come in.
Shit, Oksana. Pull yourself together.
One spoiled little rich boy I could handle. That was what I’d told my father, and I would make myself believe it. Our families had been battling for control of Chicago for years, and getting inside a Markovic house was a huge advantage to Sergey Petrov.
Too bad for him my real goal didn’t align with his.
I stripped and got under the shower, letting the scorching water beat down on me and steam the glass. My body was a tool. I’d use it to bring the Serbian mafia prince in the next room to his knees.
The pep talk I was giving myself died when the bathroom door swung open and a dark figure appeared beyond the fogged glass. What the hell was he doing? It was unlikely he could see me, but I covered my nakedness with my hands and moved to the corner of the shower.
The figure stooped for a moment, then disappeared, pulling the door closed behind him. Dread lined my stomach, making me feel heavy. When I shut off the shower and pushed the door open, it confirmed my suspicions.
Vasilije had taken my clothes.