Page 1 of Wrapped in Perfection

Prologue

Dmitri Ivanov

There arethree things I don't have time for.

Cowardly men.

Drama surrounding women.

Anyone trying to stop me from building my empire.

If any of those things get in my way, I deal swiftly with the issue and carry on with my life, even more focused to see my plans come to fruition.

So when I see her with him, I should stay away. It's a trifecta of everything I don't tolerate. But the moment she arrives, my attention is blurred. And I can't afford any distractions.

"This is getting old. What's the bottom line?" my older brother, Maksim, asks. For months, we've expressed interest and had multiple meetings to buy the land we need for our development.

Lorenzo Rossi, the Chicago Italian mob boss's youngest son, owns it. While he claims to be a legit business owner, my three brothers and I aren't stupid enough to believe it or let our guards down. But we also aren't going to back away from what we need. He bought the land from the city for next to nothing. Anything he gets is a huge profit. Before the ground can be touched, millions will need to be spent on cleanup. He knows it. We know it. But he's greedy. He also thinks he can string us along forever.

There's a loud surge of voices. It's only four o'clock, too early for the dinner rush, which is why we set our meeting for an hour ago. We should have finished by now, but Lorenzo doesn't understand the value of time.

Silver-spoon prick.

I'm bored and frustrated with his game. My brothers are, too, but I lack patience the most. Maksim, Boris, and Sergey all can wait things out longer than I can. But even they are fed up with this cat and mouse game Lorenzo's put us through. And I'm sick of looking at him and his three thugs' faces.

I sit back in my chair and cross my arms, glancing at the commotion, trying to stop myself from flying across the table and ripping Lorenzo to shreds.

A woman dressed in a bridal gown, the man I assume she just married, and people dressed up, arrive in groups. They all head toward the elevator, except one woman.

She has long, blonde hair that hangs in curls down her back. Her blue eyes remind me of Lake Michigan on a sunny day. A black, satin cocktail dress hugs her curves, accentuating her voluptuous breasts and round ass. Red stilettos match her pouty lips and clutch.

Hello, bombshell. Come to daddy.

She's not fat, but she's not a stick, either. I could grab her anywhere and not feel bones, which is what I like in a woman.

She walks toward our table, and I check her out. At first, she doesn't see me, but then she catches me staring, and our eyes lock. She blushes and looks away.

I look at her hand.No ring. Good.

When she passes, a light floral scent lingers in the air, and I almost groan.

I turn in my chair, watching her ass jiggle and sway just right before she disappears through the heavy wooden bathroom door.

"Dmitri?" Boris asks, pulling me back into the conversation.

I raise my eyebrows in question, and his face hardens. I'm sure I'll hear about this as soon as we leave.

Sergey clears his throat. "Our deadline is thirty days. If we can't make this happen in the next few weeks, we're walking. You can find another buyer."

Lorenzo calls his bluff. "You've got a lot of money tied up into land you won't be able to do anything with if you don't get my piece."

He's got us by the balls, and I hate it. "There are a lot of things we can do with what we have. Don't get cocky," I warn him.

The conversation goes back and forth. I'm getting irritated and excuse myself. "I need another drink. Anyone else?" The restaurant doesn't officially open until five for dinner, so the waitstaff hasn't arrived yet. Since we know the owner, he let us come in early but made it clear we needed to get our drinks at the bar, which we were fine with.

Maksim nods to get another round for everyone, and I go, happy to get a breather. The bartender is handing a man a beer. He's wearing a suit, has brown hair and eyes, and a scowl on his face.

"Bernie, give me four vodkas and four whiskeys," I order.

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