Page 7 of Big Bad Daddy

“You know why. Besides, it’s too late now. Pushkin and Grinkov will be there; I’m sure they know you will, too. If you decline at the last minute, it may appear as if you’re purposely avoiding them. It’s not a good idea to anger your new allies when you’ve just pissed off the Sicilians.” Bogdan reasons with me, reminding me of things I’d rather forget.

As we drive into Brooklyn, meandering through the heavy traffic filled with ordinary citizens returning home from a hard day’s work, I pull my phone out of my pocket and tap on my favorite site. Sybil Sheridan’s face appears on her Instagrampage. I’ve visited too many times to count, but I never tire of staring into her perfect amber eyes. She’s fucking stunning. The photo is new, from a perfume ad she shot in London. I know it’s a new image because I’ve seen every photo she’s ever taken, from cherished family photos on her family’s social media to her centerfold in last year’sSports Illustratedswimsuit issue. That one alone kept me occupied for hours.

I feel the corner of my mouth tip into an unavoidable smile as I trace my finger across the curves of her breasts and down the apex of her thighs. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. No woman has turned my head in twenty years. The last one who sparked my interest made me so miserable that I vowed I’d never fall in love again.

And I won’t. This isn’t love. It’s a simmering obsession. A fixation that haunts me night and day. Sybil Sheridan is not an appropriate option for a long-term connection.

“Tell Yarina I plan to take a guest,” I say without thinking, imagining Sybil on my arm, keeping company with the loveliest woman I’ve ever met. It would be foolish to expose someone as beautiful and innocent as her to the pack of jackals attending the dinner, but she may be the one person capable of making the evening bearable.

Bogdan stiffens, his muscles tightening as his eyes shift from side to side, panic setting into his bones. “Oh, come on, I told you Pops and I are watching hockey on Thursday. I bought him box seat tickets for his birthday. They cost me a fortune and he’s been waiting weeks for it.”

I lift my eyes from my phone and stare into Bogdan’s confused face. It’s a simple mistake. As my counselor, he typically accompanies me to meetings with otherpakhans, ensuring I don’t lose my cool and destroy hard-won alliances. But this is different. Yarina’s dinners are never about business.

“You’re not the date I had in mind,” I assure him, slipping my phone into my coat pocket. “Sybil Sheridan wants information. She insinuated she’d pay or barter for it. I don’t believe pretending to be my date for an evening is taking advantage of the situation.”

Bogdan’s brow creases with curiosity as his mind struggles to comprehend my plan. “How is that not taking advantage?”

I shrug, too eager to concern myself with ethics. I’m not a judge or politician. I’m a gangster. Pressuring a woman to have dinner with me is not even the worst thing I’ve done today.

“This isn’t about sleeping with her. She’s too young for me.” I brazenly lie, still too uncomfortable with the age gap to admit I want her. Sybil is my daughter’s age, which means I’m old enough to be her father. As tantalizing as that might feel when I’m alone at night, scrolling through her photos, I’m not sure I’m ready to look like a foolish old man with a girlfriend half his age. I can’t afford to look ridiculous and weak when so many ruthless men are dying to take what’s mine.

“I don’t believe a word you say.” Bogdan lifts an eyebrow and eyes me with justified suspicion.

“I’m serious. This is about getting Yarina and her niece, Larissa, off my back while getting through a tortuous evening by enjoying the company of a woman who stirs my curiosity. She needs information from me and I’m not the kind of man to give someone something for nothing.” I keep talking, hoping to convince myself that this is nothing more than a quid pro quo. I am, after all, a businessman.

"So, you’ll ask nicely and dangle information as an incentive?” Bogdan asks as he swipes through his phone. He turns the screen to face me and reveals a photo of Sybil in a microscopic bikini. He stares at my face and waits for me to react, probably wondering if my infamous anger will rear its ugly head and reveal my true intentions.

I grit my teeth, trying to smile through boiling rage. “That’s precisely what I’m going to do. Now, get Sybil's picture off your phone before I toss you out into the street.”

Chapter Six

Some of the best hackers in the world come from Russia. I don’t know what they do or how they do it, but I’m grateful they exist. They’ve made my life so much easier and profoundly more profitable. And since they don’t like dealing with foreigners, I’m fortunate I’ve kept up my mother tongue.

My favorite is a kid named Sasha, who operates out of St. Petersburg. At least, I think he does. They tend to keep their location secret for fear of prosecution. I understand that feeling. Most of my life has been spent operating in the shadows and living on the fringe of ordinary society. I always believed it was the lifestyle that suited me best. Now, I’m not so sure. For the first time, it feels like a hindrance. I find myself falling for a girl who wades through respectable society as easily as I tread through the New York underworld muck.

Last night, I asked Sasha to investigate Sybil Sheridan. It’s the first time I’ve used him for personal reasons, and he was surprised by my request. He wasn't half as shocked as I was, but I’ve only ever used him for business and nothing involving women. I’ve done many distasteful things in my long careerwith the Bratva, but stalking women isn’t one of them. It’s not my style. At least, it wasn’t. Something about that little girl has awoken a side of me that I hardly recognize. Dark desires consume me. Images of Sybil, naked and ready to be used and worshiped, haunt me night and day. I can scarcely think of anything other than indulging in her tight flesh.

I thought about it for hours before I sent Sasha a message. There is a long list of reasons I should leave well enough alone, take her silence as a sign, and distance myself from a woman who would never consider me an option, but I can’t. I’ve fought for everything I’ve ever wanted, and I’m damn sure I’ve never craved anything more than Sybil.

She could be my undoing.

The car pulls up to the curb in front of the little-known Italian fashion house of Lucia Leone. The designer is only a few years out of fashion school and struggling to get her brand off the ground. She can’t afford to pay top dollar for supermodels to showcase her clothes. Sybil offered her friend free services to get things rolling. That was kind of her. Thanks to Sasha, I read the emails detailing today’s plans and decided it was best to proposition Sybil in person. It’s bad enough that I’m using Yarina’s dinner to get to know her and woo her under false pretenses. That’s not my style. A real man makes his intentions known and claims his woman for all the world to see.

When I know what I want, I go out and get it. But Sybil needs a gentler touch, at least for now.

“Stay here and keep a lookout for anyone suspicious going into the store.” I offer my driver instructions, then exit from the backseat of the car, joining Gaspar, who is already standing on the sidewalk.

He shifts his gaze from side to side, his eyes narrowing before he nods, giving me the all-clear to enter Lucia Leone’s establishment.

“Hello, sir.” A young saleswoman greets me as I cross into the tiny lobby leading toward a showroom of white walls and black clothing.

Below me, the checkboard tile announces my entrance, drawing attention from browsing customers who turn their heads in my direction. Young and old women stare with curious glances, a range of emotions playing on their faces. It’s doubtful anyone recognizes me, and that suits me fine. It’s best to remain anonymous. I’d rather not use my reputation to frighten people into complying with my wishes. I don’t appear in newspapers like Dante Serpico or crave media attention like Alexei Grinkov. The fewer people who recognize me, the better.

Perhaps I simply look out of place.

“Can I help you find something for your wife?” The saleswoman makes a natural assumption for a man my age, and my chest tightens with yearning. It’s the same longing I’ve felt since Sybil Sheridan walked out of my home, and I lacked the sense to stop her.

I look past the saleswoman and stare at the stairway at the back of the store. Lucia Leone’s design studio is on the premises, and one of my men saw Sybil arrive twenty minutes ago. She’s here, somewhere on the second floor, and the only thing standing between us is the eager saleswoman asking me questions about a significant other who doesn’t exist.

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