She’s still here.
That should piss me off. I’ve never had a woman spend the night in my bed.
Truth be told, I’ve never had one in my bed at all.
Lyra’s presence in it come morning should cause a tremor in the control I exude over my life and turn the monster inside me into a demon.
Shocker beyond shocker: it doesn’t.
I like having her here. I like watching her sleep. In fact, watching my wife sleep might be my newest obsession.
My eyes slide over her bare body as she curls next to me, sunlight playing across her skin. Across the marks I left there last night, like ink on a once-pristine page.
Fingerprints blooming across her thighs, bite marks at her throat, shadows of my grip staining her ribs. A masterpiece in black and blue.
She’s covered in me. But not covered by a sheet. I pulled that off the second I woke up. Yes, my new favorite pastime might be watching her sleep. But I prefer to take in that view unobstructed.
My gaze lingers on her closed eyes; on the way her lips purse just slightly as she sleeps. I pull my eyes lower, over her body, across the taut pink points of her nipples, over her athletic body toned from years of dancing.
Her calloused toes. Her strong legs.
…The way I catch just enough of a glisten on her pink pussy to make me wonder what she’s dreaming about.
It’d better fucking be me.
I reach over and drag my fingertip up her slit. She murmurs quietly in her sleep, shifting.
Opening her legs a little more.
Greedy fucking girl.
I slip my finger into her, stroking in and out shallowly. I don’t want to wake her up, but I do want a morning taste of her. Which is exactly what I get when I pull my finger back and wrap my lips around it.
Fucking delicious.
I reach for her again, stroking my finger into her wet pussy and coating it with her glistening arousal again before I lick it clean and sink back against the pillows.
I should feel satisfied.
I don’t.
I lift my hand, flexing my fingers. The knuckles are raw from last night; from the satisfying crunch of bone under my fists, when my body welcomed the violence like an old friend.
I should be at peace after what I did to Marcus Chen. After wiping his existence from the world. Instead, I want more. More vengeance. More violence.
I only ever feel this way with family. That’s how it’s always been. My blood is my blood. My circle is small, unbreakable. My rage and extreme protectiveness are for them and no one else.
So why the fuck do I feel it with her?
If the way I’ve lived my entire life up until now is any indication, I should be done with her. That’s the way I operate: I take, I use, I walk away.
But she’s still here. And the thought of her anywhere else—in someone else’s hands or bed—sends twisting ugliness crawling down my spine.
I shift, running a hand through my hair, exhaling slow. The control is familiar. But the need to keep her, protect her, and destroy anything that even looks at her wrong—that’s new.
New, insatiable, and fucking savage.
I start to catalog the threats against her in my mind.
Marcus is gone. Good. Fuck him. Grigori Popov is also history, as are the two motherfuckers he sent to collect whatever ridiculous debt he wanted Lyra to pay in Arkadi’s place.
There are the more…fervent…family members of Arkadi’s victims, like the fucker I was about to also kill last night before Lyra intervened. The other conspiracy theorist lunatics, who followed Marcus’ click-bait ‘blog’ and idiotic podcast.
They still exist, even if their false idol of a leader’s head is splattered over a dive bar in Alphabet City.
Then there’s Kir Nikolayev. That threat might have more to do with me or the Black Court. But in my current mood, I’m lumping that Russian fuck in with the rest of the perceived potential threats against Lyra.
My fingers flex again.
I feel it creeping up my spine: a vicious urge to erase every single one of them before they even have a chance to think about touching her.
Lyra stirs beside me, her lips parting with a soft sigh. I force myself to relax.
I shouldn’t feel this violent need to protect her. It’s not in my nature. I take what I want, but I don’t keep.
And yet…
I reach out, fingers skimming the curve of her hip, tracing the bruises I left. The proof that she belongs to me.
She shifts again, pressing closer, her breath ghosting against my chest. A low growl rumbles in my throat.
Mine.
I watch her for a long time, the battle waging inside me. Do I let this happen? Or do I root it out before it can grow into something I don’t understand?
If I let this feeling in and accept it, I know exactly what that means.
It means Lyra isn’t just a possession anymore, she’s a weakness.
And I don’t have weaknesses.
At least, I didn’t—until now.
Santino takes the chair across from my desk without hesitation or deference. Just smooth, unhurried confidence, like he’s been sitting in that exact spot for decades.
Which, to be fair, he has.
He crosses one leg over the other, adjusts the cuffs of his three-button suit jacket, and gives me his usual calm, collected look.
He could be holding a smoking machine gun with a pile of bodies behind him, a brick of cocaine peeking out his pocket and the commissioner of the New York City police department right there with handcuffs already out, and he’d look just as unruffled.
Santino’s been with my family longer than I’ve been alive, an old-school consigliere from a different era when deals were sealed with a handshake or a bullet, and loyalty meant you went into the ground before you talked.
That might make him a relic, but it doesn’t mean he’s out of touch. He’s survived this long because he’s smarter than any men who underestimated him.
He’s also, despite his calm demeanor and stylish suits, the toughest motherfucker in any room he enters. Even now, in his seventies.
The scars on his knuckles tell that story pretty clearly.
When I was a kid, I used to stare at his hands in fascination—at the crooked knuckle that had healed wrong after he broke it on a man’s face. I remember asking him once if it still hurt. He just laughed and said, Carmy, pain is just proof you’re still in the fight.
I allow myself a moment to admire the seriously swank suit he’s wearing. Santino always dresses like he just walked off stage at the Sands in 1962. He’s Frank Sinatra reincarnated, with a butterfly knife hidden in his jacket and gun up his sleeve. I’ve always suspected that’s half the reason my father has always listened to him.
The other half is that Santino understands this game better than anyone, and his loyalty to this family is absolute.
“What’ve you got for me today, Santino?”
He smooths a hand down his lapel, his cufflinks glinting in the dim light. “Word is there’s Russian movement in our territory. Not an attack yet. But testing. Feeling it out.”
I frown. “Not the Nikolayev Bratva—”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Kir wouldn’t be so obvious. No, these incursions are from the Ivanov family. However, Peter Ivanov’s cousin, Matvey Kazurov, is—”
“One of Kir’s top avtoritets,” I finish for him, my gaze darkening. “So, either Kir’s getting a touch careless, or he just doesn’t give a fuck about subtlety anymore.” I drum my fingers on the edge of the desk. “Thoughts on how we respond?”
Santino tilts his head. “I was thinking, since you may or may not have influential Russian friends in certain…unmentioned circles…” He clears his throat delicately. “Perhaps you might have a conversation with them.’
The room goes silent. My fingers stop moving.
Influential Russian friends.
Unmentioned circles.
It’s not exactly a state secret that I socialize with a few Bratva-connected Russians: Roman Nikitin, Bane Antonov, Laz Kislev, Mikhail Javanović, for example.
But the way he says it stops me cold.
It would appear Santino might have at least an idea about certain nocturnal activities of mine.
Activities involving an underground cathedral, a hound mask, and fighting the guilty…or chasing them through a maze.
I don’t say shit. I just raise a brow. “Is there something you’d like to ask me directly, Santino?”
He meets my gaze without hesitation. Then he smiles a small, knowing smile.
“I’ve spent my life learning to see what most don’t, Carmine. And what most hide.” His voice is quiet, calm. “I don’t think we need to continue this conversation any further, do you?”
I hold his gaze, letting the seconds tick by, until even Santino looks slightly unnerved.
Then I shake my head once.
“No, Santino, I think we’ve covered everything.”
He dips his chin, stands, buttons his jacket, and taps his fingers against the desk twice. “Just food for thought.” Then, smooth as ever, he turns and strides out, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stay still for a moment, processing.
It would appear the Black Court is not as invisible as we like to think. And sooner or later, someone’s going to make the mistake of trying to pull back the mask.
I’m still mulling this over when there’s a knock at the door and three of my capos enter for our scheduled meeting. They file in, taking their places and launching into updates on business, disputes, financials.
I should be listening, but my mind is elsewhere.
On her.
I shift, pulling my phone from my pocket and discreetly bringing up the security feeds. There she is.
Instantly my blood runs a little hotter, my dick twitching and thickening in my pants.
Lyra is moving naked through the bedroom, her skin covered in the evidence of last night. My bruises. My fingerprints. My fucking claim.
I watch her cross the room, her body achingly soft in the morning light. She disappears into the master bathroom, and I switch cameras, swiping the screen with practiced ease.
The feed changes.
She turns the water on, steam curling up immediately. She moves to the mirror, inspecting the bruises on her breasts and her neck. She reaches between her legs, checking the marks I left on her inner thigh, probably feeling a delicious ache from where my cock fucked her into submission last night.
She pulls her hair up, piling it on top of her head before stepping into the bath. The water parts around her, swallowing her inch by inch, the bubbles closing over her, hiding what I want to see.
I barely register the voices of my men anymore. All I see is her.
Her face tightens slightly as she lowers herself fully into the water. She’s sore.
From me.
Heat flares low in my stomach as my fingers clench the phone. I should stop watching. I should focus.
I don’t.
I can’t.
Nothing in this world matters more than the woman in that bath.
And I don’t give a fuck whom I have to kill to keep it that way.
The dive bar in Alphabet City smells like bleach and stale whiskey.
I glance over at the newly painted wall, the repaired chair, and the freshly washed spot on the floor which you would have no idea was where Marcus Chen got his head blown the fuck off last night.
Mikey Lucarelli and his crew are fucking pros when it comes to cleanup duty.
They’ve just left after a firm handshake and sizable wad of cash from yours truly, leaving me alone with Marcus’ headless ghost.
The owners of Johnny’s, the bar that Marcus’ brains redecorated not twenty-four hours ago, were very familiar with the Barone name when I spoke to them earlier. They were also more than happy to look the other way, which is why I was more than happy to clean Marcus off the walls and give the place a new paint job.
I run my fingers over the edge of the glass in front of me, watching the whisky catch the dim light.
The front door swings open and Nico steps in, shaking the cold from his shoulders before making his way over to drop onto the stool beside me.
“Welcome to Johnny’s,” I deadpan. “We’re self-serve tonight.”
My brother shrugs, reaches over the bar and grabs a glass, then snags the bottle of questionable Scotch I’ve got on the bar top. He pours himself a drink, takes a sip, and makes a face.
“Carmy, you do realize you’re the head of one of the biggest Italian outfits in the country now, yeah?”
“Pretty sure I got that memo, yes.”
He eyes me. “Then why the fuck are you drinking this piss?”
“Because it’s best this shithole has,” I grunt. “Now, you said you had something?”
He chuckles, taking another sip of his drink anyway. Then he sets his phone down on the bar and brings up a series of photos.
Of Vera.
I’ve had Lyra’s mother followed since her freak-out before the wedding, when she was demanding money from Lyra.
What can I say. I don’t trust professional leeches.
Nico swipes through the photos showing Vera at a bar, watching what appears to be horse racing on the TV.
What a shocker.
Then something more interesting pops up. A man enters—clean-cut, cheap but well cared for suit. He sits next to Lyra’s mother, and the next photo shows her pushing a thumb drive his way.
I exhale slowly.
“Your instincts were good,” Nico growls. “This was earlier today.’ He stops on an image where the man is slipping the thumb drive into his pocket. “Looks like he gave her something in return.” Nico swipes to the next photo where the man is passing Vera a thick envelope. Which, yes, could be anything. Except Vera being Vera, it’s no surprise when the next photos show her opening it up and thumbing through the cash inside before the man tries to get her to put it away.
I zoom in on the clean-cut motherfucker in the cheap suit.
My jaw tightens.
“Am I the only one who thinks this fucker screams Feds?”
Nico leans back. “That’s what I thought at first, too. Except I had the guy followed after his meeting with Vera.”
I glance at him, waiting.
Nico picks up his glass, takes a sip, grimaces, then sets it down. He taps the phone again. “Guess who he had a meeting with next?”
Nico swipes to the next photo, and my eyes narrow viciously.
Kir Nikolayev.
I exhale through my nose in the silent bar, rolling my shoulders, forcing my pulse to remain steady. But my grip on the glass is tight.
“I don’t like coincidences,” I murmur.
“Neither do I,” Nico says, watching me. “But this isn’t a fucking coincidence.”
I lean back, swirling the rotgut in my glass, forcing my pulse to calm. “We need to find out what was on that drive.”
“Already working on it,” Nico says. “My guy’s tracing this asshole even as we speak. If he’s Bureau, we’ll know by tonight. But I doubt he is. Kir’s a lot of things, but an informant, or even someone who would look at the FBI, isn’t one of them.”
We sit there in silence, my thoughts blackening by the second.
Vera may have thought she could move in the shadows.
But the thing about playing in the dark is…
The monsters lurking there always see you first.
