Page 127 of Filthy Little Fix
Dante said there would be people from network security summits, bankers, and front-company CEOs who pretend they don't launder money. He told me to smile, pretend I don't hate all of them, and, if asked, to flaunt that I'm responsible for their digital infrastructure. It would make a lot of people uncomfortable and would be a power play. That's the official version.
Theunofficialversion is that Dante wants me where he can see me.
At night, Luca takes me to a Volkov mansion where Svetlana and Dante are getting ready. I find them in the bedroom—Svetlana is inside a huge closet with sliding mahogany doors, and Dante is finishing adjusting a solid-colored tie in front of the mirror. Besides the cigarette, the room smells of expensive perfume; a strong mix of plum, from her, with something of black pepper and smoke, definitely his.
I stop at the threshold. He sees me in the mirror's reflection. Luca had given me a very expensive suit to wear before I came, and Dante's eyes sweep over my body, assessing the suit, the fit. I lean against the wall. I admire him. He's always beautiful, but for public events, he looks especially delicious.
The closet door slides open. Svetlana emerges in a long, tight black dress that molds her body like a malevolent queen. She's still putting on an earring, a large ornament with a generous polished diamond. She walks in a hurry to the same mirror Dante is using, but she stops midway. She sees me, stops adjusting the earring. Frowns.
She walks quickly towards me. She drops the earring on the dresser beside me and her hands fly to the top buttons of my shirt—I'd left them open. I don't like collars; they suffocate me.
She immediately fastens them.
"Hide that shit," she says with a grimace. I look down.
Ah. The marks.
Purple and yellow bruises mingle with teeth marks on my collarbone. Souvenirs from the last few nights. I think they're beautiful. Svetlana, clearly, disagrees.
"We need people to take us seriously tonight," she says.
I shrug. "I like to keep them curious."
She gives me a dry look. "You'll be surrounded by corporate spies and undercover federal lawyers." She tightens my collar forcefully. "This can't show."
I smile. "By 'this', do you mean my neck or my psychological problems?"
"Both."
She steps away, grabs her earring, and goes to the mirror. Dante is still there, and he hasn't said a thing the whole time, but his gaze follows me in the mirror—when Svetlana touches me, when I speak, when I smile.
I cross my arms. "Are you going to give me orders too,boss?"
He pulls a black suit jacket from the back of a nearby chair. He approaches. And puts it on me. I extend my arms to help him, shamelessly enjoying that his hands are on me again. He adjusts the shoulders of the suit, slow, firm, possessive. He fastens the lapel of my jacket with military precision. My body heats up.
"Fix that collar," he orders. His hand goes to my collarbone, and instead of hiding it hastily like his sister, he gently pulls the shirt fabric, just enough to cover the marks. The touch lingers too long.
That hand. The same one that pulls my hair while he undoes me. The same one that squeezes my neck and suffocates me until my vision darkens. The same one that grabs my hips and leaves them bruised, the same one that holds my thighs and opens me up as if wanting to tear my skin.
Fuck. He's just fixing my clothes. But I search for any sign that he's going to throw me against this dresser and rip this suit off before we even walk out that door.
He knows the effect he has on me. Of course he knows. He knows that a simple touch like this makes me fantasize about being fucked against this very mahogany wall, with his sister waiting for us in the next room.
His breathing becomes heavier. He's going to?—
Dante's hand, which was on my lapel, suddenly tightens. His fingers dig into my shoulder, a painful grip that pulls me back to reality.
"I can feel your fucking hard-on against my leg," he growls against my ear, low enough for Svetlana not to hear. "Get yourself together. Now. Or I'll leave you locked in this room until the fucking event is over."
His threat, whispered and dirty, is a gallon of gasoline thrown on the fucking fire. The heat in my groin intensifies. The promise of being locked in here, punished by him... is the most exciting thing I've heard all night.Get yourself together,he says. Impossible. The only thing I can think about is howhotit would be to be disobedient.
I take a deep breath, trying to force air into my lungs, trying to force the blood away from my cock. I straighten my posture, forcing my muscles to obey. My face is burning. But Svetlana is here. And the event.
Dante lets go of me and steps back, the mask of the Volkov Don perfectly in place again. He turns to the mirror as if nothing happened.
I peek at Svetlana in the reflection. She didn't hear the whisper, but she saw the touch, my reaction, Dante's corrective grip. The expression on her face is one of deep, weary disgust.
She turns away from us, trying to salvage a shred of professionalism for the night. She picks up a pair of prescription glasses from the dresser—from a collection of five different frames. The frame she chooses is thin, gold, and a style a '90s executive would wear.
