Page 51 of Love to Defy You
“This has been fun.” I throw him a demure smile. “But I should get going.”
He grabs my arm, and when he pulls me in to whisper in my ear, I gasp. “It’s in Aleksandr’s best interest to invite me to dinner.”
That sobers me up real fast. The molten heat between my legs is extinguished by the icy chill that washes over me, and I start to tremble in his grasp.
It’s a brief glimpse of the predator underneath the charming mask, but it’s enough to make me realize that Alek was right.
“Are you saying you’ll hurt him if I don’t bring you to Thanksgiving?” I murmur.
“I could if I wanted to.” He presses his lips into my hair. “But is it worth the risk of finding out?”
Alek’s life is on the line. It’s been on the line since the moment we stepped foot in Zurich, and I’ve been toying with the man who holds Alek’s life in his hands. After the feast, I got complacent and let my guard down. I thought maybe, just maybe, the danger was exaggerated. I mean, murders on a college campus by a secret organization that runs the world? It sounds more like a conspiracy theory from a novel.
But this is real life, and Alek is in very real danger if I don’t cooperate.
Fear twists my gut as I whisper in a rattled voice, “Would you like to come over for dinner?”
His lips curl against my ear. “Thank you. I’d be delighted.”
Chapter 12
Alek
The leather chair in my office groans as I rock back and forth. My elbow sits on the armrest as I absently trace my bottom lip with my finger, but my focus is on the computer screen in front of me.
It’s been two weeks, and DarkSide has found nothing on Enzo Messina, or at least nothing I didn’t already know. But the lack of information is suspicious—a standard background check for employment provides more records than what’s in this report. Even DarkSide admits it’s unusual.
It’s as if Enzo went to great lengths to wipe traces of himself from the internet. Who would do that if they didn’t have something to hide?
Mikhail’s report, however, is a cornucopia of information. The Bratva are involved in the usual illegal activities—drugs, arms dealing, money laundering, and Ponzi schemes. That didn’t come as a surprise.
But what did come as a surprise is their connection to Madame Collette’s Fantasy Auction House. I’ve heard whispers of it before, but I thought it was an urban myth within elite circles, made up by men to make their peers feel inferior. Membership in this ultra-exclusive club is by invitation only and accessible to the one percent of the one percent. The women they auction off are said to be among the most irresistible in the world, on par with—and sometimes including—Victoria’s Secret models and Hollywood actresses.
A single night with one of these women can cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, and the men are allowed to do whatever they want with them, no matter how taboo. And if you want an entire weekend of nonstop sexual gratification, be prepared to shell out over a million dollars. Only the world’s wealthiest men can afford it.
It’s human trafficking disguised as a highbrow business operation, and Mikhail Aslanov is listed as the direct CEO.
If he has free access to sex workers, that explains the lap dancers at the Feast of Apollo.
Closing my eyes, I lean against the back of my chair and sigh. For now, I’ll lock this interesting tidbit of information away in case it comes in handy one day. I’m not above blackmailing my friends if need be, but Mikhail isn’t just any friend. He’s the closest thing to a brother I have, and a part of me wishes I could delete this report and forget I ever read it.
Pots and pans clang in the kitchen above the din of voices as the private chef and his team prepare Thanksgiving dinner—under my supervision, of course—and the savory aroma of an oven-roasted turkey wafts into the home office. Willow should be home from class any moment now, if she isn’t already.
I close out of the reports and head into the kitchen. But when I see an unwelcome visitor at the kitchen island sitting far too close to mymaliskha, I halt in my tracks.
Enzo Messina glances over his shoulder, and the smirk he gives makes me want to end him once and for all. I palm the switchblade in my pocket, fingers itching to slit his goddamned throat.
“Why, hello there, Aleksandr,” he says. “Willow was kind enough to invite me to dinner. I’ve never had an American Thanksgiving before.”
I narrow my gaze at Willow. “Is that so?”
But when she looks up from her bowl of Dream Whip, her eyes are wide with fear, and her complexion is pale. She doesn’t want him here; he coerced her to let him come, and I’m certain he used either her life or mine as leverage.
I pat my pocket and stride over to Willow. “Welcome home,malishka.“ I wrap my fingers around her neck and angle her face to look up at me.
And then I pull her in for a hungry kiss, forcing my tongue past her lips, and as I dominate her mouth, I swallow the soft moan she emits.
I have half a mind to take her right now on the counter, just to show Enzo that she belongs to me. The kitchen staff can excuse themselves if they don’t want to watch, although I’m certain Willow would welcome the audience.
