“Wild Thoughts” – DJ Khaled ft Rihanna

The door opens and I'm led into a small, dimly lit room. A man in a suit sits at the lone table, his face cast in shadow. The door clicks shut and he jolts at the sound. Ronan crosses the room and pulls out a chair, gesturing for me to sit before he takes a seat beside me. The man anxiously drags his hand through his graying hair, then adjusts his red silk tie. He looks like any well-presented guy, and yet somehow, sitting across from Ronan, he seems so small and drab.

"Mr. Cole…” The man coughs.

"Ronan, please," he says with a smile that oozes charisma.

“I didn't expect to see you." His face adopts a sheen of sweat as tension draws heavy lines on his brow.

"With such an important task at hand, I thought it prevalent to discuss the terms of our agreement in person." The man nods so sharply I'm afraid his head might fall off. Jesus, this guy is like a dog barking 'how high, how high'.

"The email has been sent," his voice shakes.

"Good. Very, very good." Ronan drums his fingers over the table, his eyes studying the man in a way that makes even me anxious. I can see the man sweating, swallowing. His fear is palpable, swirling through the air like a dense fog. "Now," Ronan says, "the terms. I can make it so that that email goes away forever, however, defy me, and it will resurface.” Ronan's lips curl on each side, the master playing with his puppets. “Prison doesn't suit you, Anton. All you must do is bend to my every whim. After all, that is a small price to pay to be Russia's next Prime Minister.” He pauses, picking an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “Remember, you turn your back on this agreement, and you turn your back on me. And I am not a man you want to have your back to."

Rumors about Ronan Cole run rampant in the criminal world, and his name comes with a very healthy dose of respect, but I had no idea he was pulling political strings. This isn't the way our world works. The legal and the illegal are two different sides of the same coin, together and yet always opposing. The two don't go hand in hand. One may use the other temporarily—cartels may buy off police officers, governments may even work with cartels—but the end game is always the same: to dupe and win. There's something about this that is very different. Ronan is controlling the flow of power itself. He's corrupting the political system that would seek to destroy him, and if you think about it he wouldn't have to bring the law to his side. He could be the law. This is the bigger picture, and as I stand back and watch him, I see it in all its glory. I see what he sees.

The two men stare at each other, and Ronan commands every inch of space in the room as though he's physically impressing his will on everyone in it. Tension winds across the back of my neck, prickling my skin. It riles me, but it terrifies Anton. I can almost see him shrinking into his chair, cowering like the little pet Ronan has turned him into, and this is a man who is to hold power? Ironic that he should be so utterly weak.

Anton nods and Ronan stands without a word, holding out his hand to me. A hypnotic dominance pours from him as our eyes lock. I want him dead, but I can't deny the draw, the fascination that surrounds him. I can't help but respect and crave a man who commands this kind of power like an addiction, like a sickness. He takes my hand and energy hums through me, buzzing over my skin in the form of goosebumps. As soon as I stand, I snatch my hand away from him. Focus. I need to focus. His fingers graze the small of my back as he guides me from the room.

I keep walking, refusing to turn and look at him. Awareness tugs at my mind, every instinct demanding that I adjust my position because, as he said, he is not a man you want to have your back to.

"So tense, little kitty," he laughs.

And for the first time since I met Ronan, I don't say anything. I have no sharp come back, no sarcastic retort. I'm on unstable ground right now, and I need to remind myself why I'm here and who he is—the enemy. Play the prisoner, seduce the devil, and kill him. Simple. There is no room for anything else because I refuse to lose to him.

His hand lands on my shoulder before he spins me around and slams my back against the cold wall. Those blue eyes swim with cruel promises as his hands roam my curves. Soon enough, I’m trapped between his body and the wall. He shoves his leg between my thighs, spreading them apart. I can't breathe. All I can do is feel him...everywhere. He pins my hands above my head, and a smirk pulls at his lips as he inches his mouth close to mine. So close I can taste his breath. "Is something wrong?" he whispers against my lips.

Closing my eyes, I rest the back of my head against the wall. I fight every instinct screaming at me to grind against his hard thigh, to let him fuck his way inside me until he is all I feel. I hate him, and yet that very hate seems to act as an aphrodisiac. I open my eyes, and stare straight back at him. "No."

His tongue skims my lip before he shoves away from me. "Good, girl," he says on a wink before walking off. God, I hate him.

I follow him outside and into the waiting limo. The heaters kick up when the car pulls away from the club, and I watch the snow-covered streets pass by in a blur, thinking of all the ways I could kill him...

"I have some rather unsavory business to handle," he says. I turn to find him staring through his window. "Surely, you won't mind?"

"And there was me believing everything you do is unsavory."

"Refined. Unsavory." He laughs, and I find that deep chuckle sexier than I should. "Mostly one in the same really," he says.

We drive until the shiny buildings of central Moscow turn to crumbling tower blocks and boarded-up shops. The car slows in front of a building. A metal roller door takes up most of the front, and the sign above the awning has a string of Russian letters blinking beside a neon martini glass.

"This looks like a nice place," I say, wrinkling my nose as the car turns into the parking lot.

"Much like your beloved Juarez." A mocking smile dances over his lips. "Do you feel at home?"

I glare at him. "Juarez is hot, and has decidedly more hookers—"

"Deplorable at best."

"She's a thorn in America's side at least." I glance through the window. "This place..."

"Do you like to hear yourself talk?" He arches a brow as he casually checks his phone.

"You're such a dick." I roll my eyes. "Are we just sitting here, or are we going to get out and start dodging heroin needles?"

The back door to the bar opens, light spilling across the ice-covered sidewalk. A man waves from the doorway and, like clockwork, Ronan's door is opened for him. He steps out and I follow him to the back entrance.

"Stay close," he orders as we step inside.

The aroma of beer, mildew, and urine is distinct. Lovely. The walls are covered with wooden wainscoting, and tacky brass fixtures hang from the ceiling. Pub tables are scattered about with unlit candles in the center. Ronan leads me through the empty bar to the hallway, and into a much larger room.

A row of men dressed in suits sit along the wall, and a thick cloud of smoke lazily drifts through the air. Igor and another of Ronan's guards stand in the middle of the room across from an empty chair. Two disheveled-looking men sit directly in front of them, hands bound and bags covering their heads.

Ronan pulls a cigar from his pocket, making a slow show of lighting it as he takes a seat. One puff, and he braces his elbows on his thighs, staring across the room at the row of men. The silence in the room is deafening. I can practically see them holding their breath, waiting to see what he'll do. I duck my chin and try to hide my smile.

"Kristoff," Ronan says, the smoke slowly seeping through his lips. "Take the bags off."

The man beside Igor steps forward and pulls the bags off their heads. One man appears to be middle-aged, his salt and pepper hair thinning. He stares nervously at the baby-faced man beside him.

Ronan glances at me as he pulls a drag from his cigar. "Do you know what these two men thought they could do?" I lift a brow. Is he serious right now? "They thought they could defy me," he says, shaking his head. "Rebel against my Bratva. Inconceivable, really."

"Dissension is such a disease," I say, placing my hand on Ronan's shoulder. He’s testing me somehow, I know it. Smiling, he grabs my hand and kisses over my knuckles as though he's proud of me. The worst part of it is—I like it.

He lets go of my hand and directs his attention toward the men. "Honestly, Marat," Ronan says, "the most tragic part of it is that you brought your son down with you. Tsk. Tsk." Another pull from his cigar, a cloud of smoke swirling in the air. "You signed Victor's death warrant." Ronan snaps his fingers, and Igor holds out a gun. Marat looks at it, sweat visibly beading his brow. "Which means you get to kill him."

"No," Marat says, snarling. "I won't do it. If you want to kill my boy, do it yourself. Get your hands dirty for once."

"You do understand that if I kill him it will be so much worse." Ronan sighs. "If you love Victor, I'm sure you'll find the humanity in killing him yourself." It's brutal and twisted, but effective leadership requires swift punishments for those who rise against you. Punish one man properly and few will ever try to defy you again. I know this well.

"You go against the rules, Ronan. You're power hungry. Inhumane. Your father would be disgusted," Marat shouts, his eyes flashing with rage and fear.

"Ah, come now." Ronan throws his head back on a laugh. "We all know what happened to my father." He laughs again, and the men to the side of the room shift uncomfortably. "I'm not an unreasonable man," he says, handing his cigar to Igor and adjusting his cufflinks. "I'll make a deal with you, Marat. Shoot your son now, and your wife and granddaughter live. Don't shoot him and, well..." Ronan takes his cigar back and puffs away with a grin.

Marat's eyes lock on the gun in Igor's hand, and his jaw tenses. "No."

"Please, father," his son begs. I guess the granddaughter Ronan is threatening is Victor's child, and he wants her to live. Perhaps I should feel a modicum of sympathy for these men, but I don't. Everyone in this room is tainted. The normal ethics of humanity do not apply here because we all willingly traded our souls for this lifestyle. As for Marat and his son...well, they didn't just sell their soul to the devil, they then tried to overthrow him. Dangerous, dangerous games.

"Tick, tock," Ronan says.

Marat tentatively takes the gun and lifts it in his trembling hand, glaring at Ronan with wild eyes. Suddenly, he aims the gun at Ronan. "Let my son go!" he shouts.

I swear the temperature in the room drops. Everything goes silent, as though time itself stands still. Ronan's jaw ticks, his nostril's flare. Nothing exists outside of Ronan's rage filling every corner of the room. If this bastard gets shot, I'm stuck here with a load of Russian Bratva. Ronan may be the enemy but, in this case, I'd rather be his captive than their play thing.

Well, fuck.