Possessing the Princess

1

ARIS

FUCKING DUBAI.

The City of Gold.

Money flowing like rivers through this megalopolis in the Arabian Desert.

Flashy cars roaring across bridges spanning Dubai Creek.

Glitzy hotels rising to the heavens.

A billionaire on every block.

The shining jewel of the United Arab Emirates.

What a crock of shit as the Americans would say.

Just because there wasn’t open warfare on the shiny streets or RPGs blasting off on a nightly basis didn’t mean there wasn’t a thriving, cutthroat, underground culture. A brutal lifestyle I represented from my Bratva bloodline to the matte black barrel of my SR-1 Vektor Russian made pistol.

I wanted to fucking own these roads of gold surrounded by sun-saturated deserts and blistering dunes. I’d already made a start with my nightclub, but one major setback had pissed me off to the ultimate degree.

I didn’t specifically hate Dubai, just one suka in particular. The fucking Sheikh to be exact.

But Dubai suited me. The wealth. The opportunity. The prosperity.

The heat that soaked my skin and seared into my soul, reminding me of Greece.

Far better than the tundra-like cold and damp of St. Petersburg, Russia.

I was half Greek, half Russian, all mafia. But my father had never failed to remind me I was a one hundred percent half breed unlike my brothers. From my father, the pakhan of the Krov Vorov Bratva, I’d inherited my dark blond Slavic looks and killer instincts. From my mother, the Mediterranean beauty, I’d gotten eyes the same azure color as the Aegean Sea. At least she’d always said so.

Glancing at the mirror inside my penthouse bedroom in one of Dubai’s glittering high rise hotels—The Sultan’s Plaza—I adjusted my tie and flashed my teeth in a feral semblance of a grin. Azure eyes? All I saw in the reflection was the cold look of a ruthless man determined to get what he wanted, one who didn’t give a single shit if he had to steal, murder, or blackmail to obtain it.

And what I wanted—besides power and position—was vengeance.

“Aris,” Yasmin called from outside the door to my suite. “It’s almost time to leave.”

“Come in,” I ordered, and she entered with her usual slinky waltz.

“You preen more than a runway model.” Sauntering to me, she inspected me from head to toe but not with a normal woman’s appreciation.

Tisking, tutting, she tugged at my cuffs although I was impeccably dressed in a dark suit and shined shoes.

“I do not and have never preened.” I allowed her to manhandle me even as I gritted my teeth.

Yasmin got away with far more than any other person in my employ, and not because she was a fine-looking Persian female, as sleek as a multimillion-dollar Bugatti.

When I’d first met her, she’d blasted away every preconceived notion I’d had of women native to Dubai.

Hell, she’d blown up most of my ideas about women altogether.

Yas possessed a cutting tongue, a brash manner, kept her wildly colored hair in a sharply cut mane that angled to her jawline. She’d been straight-up unsympathetic and seriously hard-nosed. High-risk ventures spurred her almost as much as empire-building drove me.

Over the past five years, I’d earned her loyalty and she’d gained my respect. Now she was a confidante, a cohort, and the woman behind the scenes who kept my illegal operations running smoothly and made sure I maintained a carefully organized schedule.

When I’d arrived in Dubai with the bare minimum and few connections to tap, this unlikely woman had been my first point of contact. I’d needed someplace to hole up, a base from which to start my criminal exploits. She’d offered me tenancy in a shabby apartment only after haggling over every last dirham.

Yas had been bossy. Unflinchingly uncompromising. And a very willing accomplice once I began cutting underhanded deals to better position myself until I was where I stood today.

“You look a hell of a lot better than you did the day you showed up on my doorstep.” She leaned back from her slim hips.

“And you’re still a back-street hustler.”

She gave me a cutting smile, which I returned.

Then we tapped fists.

Satisfied with my appearance—although Yas wasn’t exactly a fashion hound, she maintained that a man of my status should at least try to meet the mark—she checked the magazine of the SIG P226she carried then motioned me toward the door of my bedroom. “Yallah.”

I stepped out with her acting like my own personal bodyguard, which wasn’t really necessary.

“You know, I never thought you’d amount to anything,” she remarked, falling into step just off my side.

I gave her a disdainful glance. “Your words never fail to inspire me.”

“I can’t have you getting too big of a head.” Her brown eyes held a trace of amusement. “Getting complacent would put an end to your calculating nature.” She hip-checked me. “Bad for you and bad for me.”

“I’m so glad I continue to be of use to you.”