Chapter Ten
Chiara
I wake up to the most satisfying feeling, like my whole life has changed and I don’t know if it’s for better or worse. I know what it means to be a woman now, but I learned from the most feared member of the Bratva, a brutal cold-hearted killer.
I stretch out my entire body, down to my toes. I smile brightly as my eyes open, and I see I’m in a hotel room. Remembering why I’m here and who is here with me makes my smile even brighter. I can’t believe I’m not a virgin any longer. And I lost it to Mikhail Ivanovich. Misha.
“Ummmm, Misha,” I mumble, as I roll over. I reach my hand out, to find him on the other side of the bed. Instead I find it empty. “Misha?” I call out, as I sit up and look around. The bathroom door is open, and he’s not in there. Although I’m naked, I climb out of the bed and hurry into the other room, which I ignored last night. It’s cute, but boring, decorated in shades of beige.
But most importantly, it’s as empty as my bed was. His clothes are gone, and so is he. Everything of mine is still here. My purse and my dress lay next to the front door. Nearby are my torn panties. I’m not crazy, I really did sleep with an Ivanovich last night. Didn’t I?
And I want to do it again. I must have lost my mind last night, because I want him to be mine. I grab my things off the floor and head toward the bathroom, and all of it reminds me of him. I throw my things onto the bed where we slept. I grab the shampoo and soap off the counter where we had sex. I turn toward the bathtub where he told me his name. They all hold memories from last night.
I turn on the water in the shower, and I think about my choices as I let it cascade over me. I can’t run. I can’t hide. My father has the perfect leverage. He knows how much I love Guilia, and he knows how far I will go to protect her. Is running off with an Ivanovich really worth sacrificing Guilia’s happiness, or losing my family? Maybe I can carry on an illicit affair after I get married. I mean, they are forcing it on me, why should they expect me to be faithful?
No, I’m not that type of person. I would feel so guilty about it I’d probably end up confessing to Father Patrick. I should be headed to the church right now to confess. But I’m not sure I could trust him to keep my secret. I need to talk to someone I can trust. I definitely could not tell Angelina. She’s so crazy about the Moretti family she’d probably run and tell Frankie immediately. And Guilia can’t keep a secret. And my school friends have no clue what my father does, or even that I’m engaged. I can’t call and unburden myself onto Bea or Paula.
As I step out of the shower, I realize there is only one person I can talk to. I dry off before wrapping the towel around myself, roll my dark hair into a bun, then open my purse to search for a hair band. That’s when I notice the zippered inner pocket is open. I look inside it, dread filling me. It’s empty. I release my hair, and it falls damp and heavy on my shoulders. I search through my wallet, and all my cash and credit cards are there. The cash Mikhail handed me last night is wadded up and still in there. My ring, though, is gone. Did he seduce me to steal my ring?
Frankie will kill me. How in the hell am I going to explain this to him? It’s my engagement ring. I’m not supposed to take it off, like ever. There is absolutely no way that he will ever forgive me. And he had the ring designed especially for me. I can’t just go out and buy another, even if I could afford it.
The ladies at the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary Church will host the Stations of the Cross tonight, and Frankie will be there with me. I can’t show up there without the ring, and I can’t just not show up.
As I’m standing in the hotel room where I had sex for the first time last night, pondering how to lie to my fiancé about it my phone pings, alerting me that I have a text. Only two people text me, my little sister, and my fiancé. My grandparents and my mother always call, and my older sister has basically forgotten I exist since her wedding.
I pull the phone out of my purse, and there’s a text from a number I don’t recognize. There is a picture attached. It must be a wrong number, or maybe a virus. I click the picture anyway, and my heart drops to my stomach. The gorgeous, blue-eyed Russian has sent me a selfie, with his hand on his chin. On his pinkie I see my ring.
I will murder the Bloody Ivanovich with my fucking bare hands. I will wrap my hands around his neck, and squeeze until he can’t breathe and I happily watch the life leave his sparkling baby blues.
Another ping sounds, along with another text in the same conversation thread. Meet me for lunch at noon and you’ll get your ring back. Misha. Following his name is a smiley face emoji and a heart emoji.
He has to know that I’m not going to be seen in public with him. He must realize there’s no way in hell that I’m going to ever go to lunch with him. Besides the fact that someone my father knows might see us and rat me out, my fiancé could see me and literally make me disappear.
I’ll never meet you in public. You know I can’t.
I send the text. Then I tie my hair up. I survey my things from last night. I’m going to have to leave the hotel in the sexy dress I wore to the club last night and no underwear. This is humiliating.
As I get dressed, I expect to receive a return text from him, but I don’t. I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, and touch the counter. I need to forget how good it felt to touch him, and how it felt when he touched me. I need to get my ring, maybe murder him, then forget him.
I grab my purse, head downstairs, drop my keys at the front desk, and step outside, as embarrassed as I’ve ever been in my life. I grab my phone to call a ride share, just as a motorcycle pulls up and stops right in front of me. I try to step back, just as the driver grabs a helmet and thrusts it toward me. I’m not taking that damn helmet.
The driver’s visor flips up, and I see Misha’s pretty face and sparkling eyes appear from behind it. “Get on, Chi,” he orders, almost angrily.
He looks as rough and hard as his reputation implies he is. The leather jacket, the thick boots, it all makes sense seeing him on his preferred mode of transportation. His eyes are so blue inside the dark helmet, it makes me shiver.
I could tell him no. I could run back into the hotel for shelter. But he still has my ring. I sigh as I stare at the damn motorcycle. “I’m wearing a dress, and someone tore my panties off last night,” I remind him, through gritted teeth.
He frowns as he takes in my dress and my high heels. “Get on, we aren’t going far.” When I shake my head no, he reaches into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out my ring. “Do you want this?” he asks. It sounds more like a threat than a question.
“Yes, of course I want it,” I growl. I reach for the expensive ring, but he shoves it back in his pocket and again offers me the helmet. I take it, reluctantly, and place it on my head as I try to figure out how in the hell to modestly climb onto the motorcycle. I pull down my dress as far as it will stretch, then slide onto the back. The black dress covers my rear, but my bare thighs rub against his jeans covered hips. I shiver from the sensation, and the memories of him being between my legs last night.
“Wrap your arms around me,” he says, before he lowers the visor again. He starts the motorcycle, and drives out onto the street.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Again, I’m having a new and exciting experience with my enemy, the Bloody Ivanovich. The wind whipping past us, and the cars buzzing by, it’s all so exhilarating. He makes my blood rush in my veins. I’ve never felt this kind of excitement about anything, with anyone. Not with anyone but Misha. He makes me feel alive.
The most stimulating part, though, is having my body up against his. My hands grip his flat stomach, and my chest is right against his back. The vibration of the engine under the extremely soft leather seat is exciting every one of my nerve endings, not to mention all of my erogenous zones. I want his fingers inside me, in both holes, while feeling this vibration. I move closer against him, rubbing my most sensitive spot against the thick denim. I moan, but I’m sure he doesn’t hear me. If I was wearing panties, they’d be melted by now.
He leans to the side, and turns into an alley between two buildings. He parks, and places the kickstand on the ground. I get this overwhelming desire to reach my hand down, to find out if he’s as turned on as I am. I want to slide around his body and face him, sitting in his lap, with the crotch of his jeans rubbing against my overly stimulated pussy. I’m so wet I’m sure my dress is soaked, along with his leather seat.
Somehow he easily dismounts the motorcycle with me still on it, then he faces me as he removes the helmet. His hair is a mess, all blonde sweaty spikes. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are flashing. I remove the helmet I’m wearing and he takes it from me and leans toward me. He smells like the city, like the warm spring breeze, the traffic, leather, and something that is distinctly him.
I lick my lips, anticipating his kiss. Before I feel his lips, though, I feel one of his hands on my bare back and the other under my dress. I gasp, and my eyes go wide as saucers. The thought that I shouldn’t want this man is squashed quickly by the look in his eyes, reminding me that he’s a predator at the top of the food chain, and I’m his willing prey.
“You’re so fucking sexy, treasure. I’m going to eat you alive,” he groans. Right before his lips touch mine, I feel his finger delve between my folds, and I gasp as he kisses me. His tongue sweeps past my lips easily, and begins an in and out motion that mirrors his finger. My hands go into his already messy, sweaty hair. The hand that has been caressing my back moves over my shoulder and down to my breast, cupping its weight in his palm. He fingers me deeply and slowly, and when he finds the spot inside me, he moans loudly. My muscles tighten and I suck his tongue in hungrily.
I’m going to come, out here in the open, on the back of his motorcycle. I don’t even care if anyone sees me. I don’t care if his neighbors know. It’s like he feels my orgasm coming from the inside, and pulls away from our passionate kiss to murmur words of encouragement.
“You look so damn good on the back of my bike, baby. I want you to come all over the seat. I want you to mark it as yours,” he says. The intensity of the look in his eyes as he stares into mine brings me closer. But when he orders, “Come for me now,” I lose control. My body responds for him just the way he wants it to, and he gives me a victorious smirk. Then, after he gently withdraws his fingers, he pops them into his mouth. I moan as I watch him do it. He grabs my shoulders and brings me in to his body. “You’re going to make me insane, Chiara. You’re too innocent, too pure, and way too damn sexy for me.”
As he speaks, he picks me up to lift me off the seat. Then he carries me into the rear entrance of what looks like a very neat brownstone. Once we’re inside he continues to carry me, down a hallway, past a very modern looking but small kitchen, to a set of steps. There is no art on the walls, no knickknacks on the table near the door. The walls are a boring, drab brown. The floors are wood. When we arrive at the second floor landing, he carries me down another hallway. As soon as he opens this door I realize we are inside a bedroom.
The walls are the same brown, the bedspread is brown, and the few pieces of furniture in the room are all brown. It’s so clean I swear you could eat off the floors. This absolutely cannot be his place, can it? I mean… the Bloody Ivanovich’s favorite color is brown? Not red or black? That just doesn’t fit.
He places me on the impeccably made bed, and I’m expecting him to join me. Instead, he walks to the door we just came through and locks it, from the inside, with a key. Then he turns slowly, and walks toward me. The key is in one hand, and my ring is in the other.
Holy shit, what is this man doing? Did he think he could show up on a fucking sexy motorcycle, get me all turned on, finger me until I’m ready to do whatever the hell he wanted, and then lock me in his bedroom?
Yea, I guess he did. And it worked like a charm.
“What kind of fucking pervert has the cleanest, brownest bedroom I’ve ever seen, and a bedroom door that locks from the inside?” I ask. I realize I’m lying on the most boring, yet surprisingly soft, comforter, and I try hard to restrain myself from stroking it while he’s watching me.
He gives me the cockiest grin I’ve ever seen, and that’s hard to do because I grew up around mobsters. He balls his fists, and shoves them and their contents into his jeans pockets. I’d love to punch him right in his gorgeous face with its self-satisfied expression.
“What kind of pervert lets a guy finger her and make her come in a busy alley? Anyone could have seen you, princess.” Then he winks. I don’t like the way he says princess, like I’m some entitled privileged asshole.
His vain, conceited ass isn’t leaving this room alive. I’ll take the key and my ring from him after I kill him. It’s going to happen.