Wicked Mafia Prince (A Dangerous Royals Romance, #2)(46)

Is she remembering?

“So many people let you down and abandoned you,” she says. “You, who feel so deeply. Love so deeply. It must have hurt.”

I concentrate on cutting the next slice, but she’s the one who’s doing the slicing here—she’s slicing me right open. It’s true—everything in my world changed when I met Tanechka. She showed somebody could love me.

And then she betrayed me, betrayed the gang. Or seemed to.

I felt so wild when I thought she’d turned traitor. Like a bull with arrows stuck into it. Yet deep down I suppose it felt inevitable, too.

I didn’t know she was innocent.

And I killed her.

My pulse races, thinking about what Aleksio said. Part of me wants to confess—confess to the nun. Yet a sickly sweet nausea blooms inside me at the very thought.

“I have killed so many people. Some slowly and painfully. Some I tortured. I don’t concern myself with love the way you imagine.”

“I think you love your brothers. I think having a family means the world to you. Somebody who will always be there. Somebody who can never leave. The gang, too—you’re seeking a family.”

“Don’t make excuses for me. You won’t like the result.”

“You should’ve seen your eyes when Aleksio called you brother.”

I pocket the blade and stand, feeling dizzy.

“You’re not a terrible person,” she says. “You’re just a man who feels deeply. You want to be loved. To be forgiven.”

My blood races. “Is there nothing you won’t spin fairy tales about?” I grab her hair and yank her up to me. I feel insane. “Look at me. Look!”

She looks into my eyes.

“I’m not a man who feels deeply, much as you wish I was. I’m not a good man.”

“I won’t accept that.”

“No?” I twist her hair harder. I bring her face close to mine. “No?”

“No,” she gasps.

So I kiss her—roughly. I kiss her, not caring that she doesn’t kiss back.

When she struggles, I clasp my arm around her and force her up against me, up against my cock. I nestle in my cock where I know she can feel it.

I twist her hair as I take her lips. I suck. I bite. I slide her against me, moving her ever so slightly. I often did this when she felt angry—I kissed and manhandled her, cock notched between her legs, until she softened.

“I’m not a good man, Tanechka,” I say into the kiss.

She presses her hand to my chest, pushing. Perhaps she’s angry now.

“I’m the man who’ll make you wet whether you like it or not,” I whisper, hot into her ear. “I’m the man who’ll shove apart your legs and destroy you—with just the tip of my tongue.”

“Get away,” she pleads.

“You think I’m being brutal with you? When I get brutal with you, you’ll know it. You’ll know it because you’ll be screaming my name, begging for more.”

I kiss her neck, now, merciless with my teeth. I want to mark her.

“Every curve, every breath, every nook, all of you is mine.”

She hisses out a breath. She’s softening. The breath is always a sign.

“You’re feeling it now, aren’t you?”

She doesn’t answer, but she’s soft to me now. I pull away, pull us apart.

I stare into her eyes. “I’m the man who will keep you from your god until you remember you’re a devil.”

With that, I turn and leave.





Chapter Seventeen




Viktor


I spend the next day at Konstantin’s with Aleksio, Yuri, and Tito. We focus on our many operations—the brothel pipeline, the money-laundering robbery. These things we can affect.

But when I think of my Tanechka trapped inside that nun, I feel helpless.

And when I think of that clerk behind a desk somewhere keeping us from the information that will lead us to Kiro, my face feels hot. Wherever he is, Kiro is vulnerable.

It’s a good thing I don’t know this desk clerk’s name. But I tell myself, Leave him alone. We’re protecting Kiro by moving under the radar.

I don’t truly believe it.

I bring the old man a quilt to put over his legs, and I push him outside to feed his ducks. He gets cold. He wears an old man’s hat over his bald head. “You’ll meet her soon,” I say. “You’ll like her. She’ll remember who she is soon. I’m sure of it.”

“It’s only been a few days, Viktor. Give it time.”

“It’s…frustrating. To have what you want most in the world in front of you. But it’s an illusion. Like a mirage in the desert. I surround her with her favorite things, and she resists. Her favorite poetry.”

The old man throws bread. The ducks come, quacking.

“They sound always like they’re complaining,” I say.

“Ducks. Whadya gonna do.” He throws out more bread with the unsteady hands of an old man. “Maybe she needs to feel like you understand her,” he says. “You bring her books the old Tanechka liked. What about the Bible? Why not bring her the Bible and ask her to read you her favorite part.”

“I will not encourage her delusion.”