Page 401 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

And here we go.

We’ve gotten tangled up in way too much lately, starting with that whole standoff with soldiers from the Volkov Bratva at Roman’s place back in Manhattan. Seems like my brothers have this knack for getting involved with women who wear bright red targets on their backs…targets that somehow are transferrable and end up splayed across ours.

In the case of that bratva run-in, Roman’s fiancé, Marchella, ended up on their radar because of her idiot brother. He killed the nephew of some guy named Boris after the nephew surprised him during a raid on a drug stockpile.

I get it.

The kid was family and Boris wanted to avenge his death.

So, the Russians came, they saw, they wanted vengeance.

But we didn’t let them have it.

Instead, I drove their vodka-soaked asses outta our territory and back to Brooklyn.

They didn’t like that much. And Boris always vowed he’d be back to collect on what he was owed.

He hasn’t, and it’s because he’s a low-level pawn with no real authority in the bratva hierarchy. There was no order to kill Marchella. It was pure bloodlust on Boris’s part. He had no backing when he showed up at Roman’s, just a grudge.

I rake a hand through my hair.

The last thing we need is to have the Russians up our asses again because of Conor. We already put that to bed. Volkov and Matteo had an unspoken agreement to leave the whole thing in the past, and I’ll be damned if it gets resurrected.

And if they came here looking to roast his ass, I’d gladly hand it over.

Vengeance be fucking theirs.

Anya appears in the doorway of the kitchen, one of the straps of her sundress slipping off her shoulder. She casually leans against the doorframe, her long blonde hair cascading down her arm as she eyes me with curiosity.

“Listen, I’ve gotta go,” I mutter, my eyes never leaving her face. “I’ll call you after I speak to him.” I click the End button and put my phone onto the granite countertop behind me. The neckline of her dress is low enough to give me a peek and my fingertips sizzle with longing. I want to drag them up and down the sides of her slim torso again, feel her body hum under the palms of my hands.

I clear my throat. “Where’s, ah, the baby?”

She shrugs. “Our little outing must have been too much excitement for her. I changed her diaper and she never once opened her eyes.”

“So I guess that means it’s time for your first official break,” I say, a teasing smirk playing at my lips.

“I guess so,” she says softly, inching toward me. “You know, I’m perfectly capable of occupying myself.I’mthe au pair. I don’t need one myself.”

“You’re saying you want me to leave?” I ask, her floral scent close enough to taunt my nostrils.

“I’m saying that I don’t need a keeper.” She runs a hand through her long blonde hair, lazily throwing back her head. Her tits press tight against the fabric, and the deep ache in my balls is back.

Not that it ever really left.

But damn, I’d love for someone to give it some relief.

A little lick, rub, and tug action would make me blow like a fucking volcano, make my head right again.

Anya parts her lips, turning her face up toward mine.

I should be thinking about damage control.

She reaches out, placing her hand on the counter next to me, her hip grazing mine.

I should be thinking about finding Conor and beating him to a bloody pulp.

Instead, I’m thinking of all of the different, creative ways I could be this girl’s very naughty, kinky keeper.

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