Ruthless Creatures (Queens & Monsters, #1)(101)

“Your men? Max isn’t even cold yet and you’re already taking the reins? You’re one vicious fuck, Kazimir.”

“Remember that the next time you threaten me.”

He scoffs. “Like I don’t have insurance for that scenario. I drop dead, all the heads of the Russian families get a nice little package from me, explaining what you did.”

“Sure. The proof?”

“A recording of this conversation, for one thing.”

I smile, opening the wine fridge. “Too bad I’ve got a scrambler on the signal so all you’ll hear on playback is white noise.”

In the following silence, I hear Massimo seething.

“Look. I appreciate your effort. And I’m in a generous mood. So as long as what you’ve said turns out to be fact, and I see on the news that Max died in a prison fight as an innocent bystander, caught in the frenzy a bunch of crazy Italians beating each up over drugs, I’ll grant you a favor. Look the other way if you want to steal one of our shipments, something like that. Accordo?”

He pauses. “Accordo.”

His pause was too brief for me to believe it’s going to be something as small and inconvenient as stealing a shipment, but I’ll deal with it when it happens.

One thing at a time.

We hang up without a goodbye.

I pour two glasses of wine and head back into the living room. Nat is right where I left her, staring out the window.

She takes the glass I hold out to her without a word.

“I want to show you something.”

Sipping her wine, she glances at me.

“It’s this way.”

I turn and walk away, knowing that the surest way to get her to do something is not to insist that she do it.

Unless she’s tied up in bed, she hates being bossed around.

Sure enough, she follows, her footsteps soft on the wood floor. I lead her past the kitchen and formal dining room, down a corridor, and to one of the guest rooms at the end. Then I open the door and stand back to allow her to look inside.

Her gaze wary, she peeks inside the room.

She gasps.

“It’s yours,” I murmur, enjoying her expression of astonishment.

She stares for a moment, looking around with wide eyes. “How long have you had it like this?”

“Since you first told me you were mine.”

“But you said we could never live together. That I could never even visit you here. So why go to all this trouble?”

She gestures to the room. It’s an artist’s studio, filled with artist’s things: paint, brushes, easels, blank canvases of all sizes waiting to be colored in.

Reaching out to stroke her satin cheek, I murmur, “When the longing got too bad, I’d come sit in here and imagine you on that stool in front of the easel, painting something that made you happy. Maybe a picture of me.”

She looks at me with tears in her eyes.

I want to kiss her, but I don’t. Whatever happens next, she has to be the one who initiates it.

I might be the king of the Russian mafia now, but my queen will always hold the most power. Only she can make or break me with a single word.

She says, “You said you’d never bring me here. So what’s changed?”

“Max is dead.”

She blinks. I nod, letting her take a moment to process that.

“You…”

“Yes.”

“Because?”

I say softly, “Any man who threatens you loses his life, no matter who he is.”

She blinks again. Moistens her lips. Takes another sip of her wine.

Her hand is shaking.

“This is kind of a big thing for you, though, right? I mean, politically.”

“Yes.”

“Will it be messy?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will there be other guys fighting you to be in charge now that Max is gone?”

She chews her lip. Her brows are drawn together. I’m not sure what she really means for a moment, until it dawns on me that she’s worried.

About my safety.

About me.

Whatever this emotion is that’s expanding like a hot balloon inside my chest, I’ve never felt it before.

My voice comes out gruff. “No. There will be a vote, but that’s a formality.”

She nods, glancing away. In a small voice, she says, “That’s good.”

It takes every single ounce of self-control I have not to throw this goddamn glass of wine I’m holding to the floor and crush my mouth to hers. I need to taste her so much I’m almost salivating.

She senses it. Looking up at my face, her cheeks color. She glances away again, swallowing.

“I need to talk to my parents. They probably think I had a mental breakdown. I was shouting like a lunatic when I called them.”

I keep my voice gentle, so I don’t scare her away with a needy growl. “Of course. I’ll give you some privacy. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

I turn to walk away, but she stops me by saying my name.

When I turn back to her, I see how hard she’s trying to hold it together. Her lower lip is quivering and her face is pale, but her shoulders are straight and she’s standing tall.

She says, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Saving my life.”