She makes soft noises of contentment for a few minutes and then, judging by her slowing breathing, falls into slumber.
Chapter 9
Alessia
I wake up at 10 p.m. Vlad was right; I should’ve waited for dark to go to sleep, but after the emotional drain of seeing my brothers and getting homesick, I didn’t have it in me to stay up another minute.
He’s asleep beside me. First time I’ve seen him sleep.
I study him. Examine the tattoos up close. They’re crude and ugly, but he’s beautiful. The need to touch him, to trace those defined muscles, feel his ripped abs is overwhelming.
I do want to have sex with him. I want to straddle his waist right now and see what it’s like to feel him inside me.
But there’s no way I’m letting him know that. He’s taken everything else from me—I’m not going to hand over the one thing he lets me keep.
I get out of bed and search the room. I was in too much of a fog when I arrived, but now I look for any electronic—his phone, tablet—anything I could use to contact my brothers.
Of course, I find nothing.
He’s thorough, my Russian. Smarter than he appears to be. But then, he’d have to be smart to be the money guy for the entire Russian bratva.
I go through his things, looking for clues about him, but there’s nothing of a personal nature. No photos, so papers, not even an ID.
“Stop snooping, little bunny.” Vlad’s voice, thickened with sleep, comes from the bed.
I jump and turn around. It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize, but I’m not really sorry, so I save it.
“Are you hungry? Let me check your blood sugar.”
I am getting shaky. “It’s low,” I tell him.
He curses and swoops out of bed, picking up the testing kit and coming at me.
He has a killer case of morning wood. At least I think it’s a killer case. I wouldn’t really know. I stare at the flagpole filling his boxer briefs.
“Beg for it, zaika, and it’s yours,” he rumbles as he bends over my finger.
“Go to hell, Vladimir.”
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t take his attention away from the syringe.
“Is that your real name?”
“Da.” He lifts me by the waist to sit on his dresser, then hikes up the t-shirt I used as a nightshirt and injects my belly.
“What’s your last name?”
“Putin.” He’s leaning over me, so close I can feel his heat.
“Very funny.”
He drops his gaze down to my panties. “These are pretty.”
My knees are open and before I can slap them closed, he runs one knuckle down my panty-clad slit.
My internal muscles seize in pleasure, but I squeeze my thighs together, shooing his hand away.
One corner of his lips lift, but he doesn’t try anything else. “What are you hungry for?”
“Honestly? Pancakes. But they’re too carb-y. So spinach and mushroom omelette.”
“I’ll get Zoya.”
“Isn’t she asleep now?”
He shrugs. “She works when I need her to.”
“That’s kind of an asshole thing to say.”
“Da. I’m asshole. You should know this by now.” He pulls a t-shirt over his head and steps into a pair of jeans. “Come.” He holds his hand out to me.
I don’t want to take it, but I also don’t want to refuse—not when it seems he’s offering me a chance to get out of the room.
I offer my hand and he leads me through his enormous mansion to a beautiful kitchen. Everything is contemporary and new. Sleek and European styled appliances and granite countertops.
I walk to the refrigerator and open it. There’s a carton of eggs, which I grab.
I stiffen when I feel Vlad right behind me, but he doesn’t try anything. Just reaches past me and pulls out butter, cheese and milk and some kind of fresh greens—I don’t recognize the leaves.
“Omelette.”
“Yes, please.”
Despite saying he was going to get Zoya up, he pulls a frying pan out and makes quick work of preparing and cooking two perfect cheese omelettes with greens.
When he serves it to me—complete with a smattering of sliced green onion on top—I sit at the barstool and wolf it down.
“You were hungry,” he observes, sitting beside me and forking his own food. “Did you eat anything before you went to bed?”
“Not much,” I admit. I’d been too overwrought emotionally to want to eat.
I carry my plate to the sink, rinse it off and put it in the dishwasher. “How long have you lived here?”
“I bought the place six years ago. But I’ve been in the U.S. for the last thirteen months.”
“Yes, obviously. But why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you leave this beautiful place to live in Chicago? I mean, you’re obviously doing quite well for yourself here.”
His brows draw together. Expression tightens. “I was ordered to leave. By Victor, the papa.”
“The papa?”
“That’s what we call the head of the bratva.” He scrapes his fork on his plate, scooping up the last of the eggs.