12. Ivan

12

IVAN

I f I thought I was on the way to being obsessed with Charlotte before, it’s nothing compared to how I feel after that chat. There’s no going back now.

Everything that happens after she logs off is quick and messy, my arousal driven to the point that all it takes is a few harsh strokes and the memory of her hinting that she might want me to punish her, and I’m covering my hand with my cum. Minutes later, as I’m in the bathroom upstairs washing up, I look up into the mirror and let out a sharp breath, gripping the edge of the sink.

What the fuck am I doing?

I know this only ends badly. I want more of her. And I’ve created the perfect way to have her—both possibly in real life, as myself, where I can play the gentleman she’s told herself she wants…and online, where I can be the depraved masked man that she’s allowing herself to fantasize about more and more.

The man created from a night that she doesn’t even realize was me.

It’s twisted and fucked-up, and I know it is. I know it’s wrong. But I want all of her. I want her pretty and sophisticated on her lunch break, and I want her tipsy and daring and wicked. I want her buttoned-up, and I want her messy. I want to know every facet of her, and this is the perfect way to do exactly that.

In real life, I’ll get to find out who the Charlotte is that everyone else sees. I’ll get to find out who she is as a woman—a real woman.

And online, I’ll slowly pull the threads of who she wants to be, and unravel all those fantasies until I uncover her darker side. A side that just might want me, no matter who I really am.

Shit . I look up at my reflection, shaking my head at myself, but my thoughts are already running off to a place that I know is impossible. Charlotte would never fit into my world, and I should never want her to. I should never want to bring someone so beautiful, so naive, so normal into the fucked-up criminal underground of the Bratva. Into a world that thrives on breaking and using women, even if I’ve never done that myself. Someone will want to. And if I ever failed to protect her, I could never live with myself.

But my mind is already spinning the fantasy. Deep down, I know if she ever finds out that these three men—the masked man at the club, Ivan, and Venom—are the same man, she won’t want me. I know she wouldn’t want a man who is a part of the Bratva. But if I make her fall for me before she ever knows, if I make her admit all her deepest desires to me, and if I show her how those pieces of myself connect…

Maybe she won’t be able to walk away from me, either.

—-

Friday, all I can think about is the fact that I have a date with Charlotte this evening, one that I’ve planned meticulously all week. I have a meeting with a distributor for my father first, but once that’s done, all I have to do is go back home and get ready, and then pick her up.

It’s difficult to focus on anything else. She hasn’t logged back onto the site all week, and I feel like I’m starving for her. I went as far as to follow her twice in the morning, to see her walking to work, but that’s all I managed, with the other responsibilities that I have. I didn’t dare interrupt her lunch again. I didn’t think I could make up a good enough excuse for that twice.

She texted me on Wednesday, to confirm the date. Ironically, I got the text as I stood across the street watching her go into her building, my phone pinging with her name as I leaned against a brick wall at the corner of one of the alleys and watched her dark hair fluttering in the breeze around her face, wishing I could wrap a piece of it around my finger.

Charlotte: Sorry it took so long for me to text back. I just needed some time to make sure this is what I wanted to do. Just out of a relationship and all of that.

Ivan: No, of course. Take all the time you need. I wouldn’t want to pressure you. I know it might have seemed like that, the way I introduced myself, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go and possibly never seeing you again.

Of course, I know that I would have seen her again, if that day didn’t work. I don’t like the way the text budges up to a lie, but I tell myself that it’s the truth. What if she had never come back there? I couldn’t have stood losing my shot with her. And I couldn’t stop myself from trying.

It’s only a lie in the most technical sense.

Charlotte: So, how does Friday night look for you? I’m free. For ‘just dinner’ on an ‘actual date.’ ;)

Ivan: You remembered. I have an idea for ‘just dinner.’ You’ll love it. Friday it is. I’ll pick you up if you send me your address? How does eight-thirty sound?

Charlotte: Perfect. I’ll send it over on Friday morning.

Cautious. Good girl. It’s the first thing I think when she says she won’t send me her address until Friday morning, because it’s the smart thing to do. Of course, I already know her address, and a lot of other things about her. That guilt pings in the back of my mind again, telling me that all of this is not the way to begin, if I want to keep her. That every one of these lies and secrets and omissions will build on one another until I’m caught under the weight of them, with no chance of having Charlotte in my life.

But there’s no possibility that she would have me any other way.

I keep playing that conversation over and over in my head, along with the night at Masquerade and the online chat, as I’m driven to the bar to meet my father’s distributor. She hasn’t texted me since then, other than to send me a pin of her address this morning, and that’s contributed to the feeling that I’m starved for contact with her. That I need her, in a way that defies logic.

The bar is a dive near the South side, one that my father owns. There’s a black Buick with darkened windows parked in the back, visible when the car I’m riding in pulls into the back as well. I would have preferred to drive myself, but my father insisted on sending his driver for me this morning. I know it had nothing to do with my comfort, and everything to do with him wanting control over my movements. Possibly also someone to report on where I go after I leave and if I stopped anywhere beforehand—the driver isn’t someone I recognize. A new hire, maybe, and potentially also a spy.

Either way, I don’t make a fuss. That’s more suspicious than just going along with it.

It’s five o’clock, but the bar is still dark and quiet. This place is more of a front for business than anything else; shabby enough on the outside—it fits right in with everything else, drab enough that it gets only a handful of customers. The ones that are here are sitting at the cracked wooden bar top, on worn green leather stools, talking to the worn-looking woman pouring them shots. I spare her a glance as I walk in through the back door—she looks like she was pretty once, but her blonde hair is greying now, put up in a pile atop her head, and what was once probably a pretty damn good figure has softened in a way that doesn’t flatter the frayed low-rise jeans and black tank top she’s wearing.

I see the shadow of the man I’m supposed to meet in the back. He’s folded into the furthest booth, a sweating glass of water and another of beer in front of him, both mostly untouched. In the shadows, I can’t make out any of his features, but I see the ring on his forefinger that I was told to look out for—a heavy gold ring with a star in the center.

The bartender gives me one glance and then straightens up, pushing the shots over to the waiting customers before starting to look busy polishing glasses. I’m dressed casually in black jeans and a thin black hoodie, military boots finishing off the look, but I suppose there’s no mistaking one of the boss’s sons. There are probably pictures of us all in the back for reference—or to use as a dartboard.

God knows I’ve used my father’s picture that way often enough.

I slide into the booth, over the cracked green leather. The man lifts his head, and I see a smooth, almost boyish face, two days’ stubble, dark eyes that are nearly black. “Karyiev,” he says flatly, and I nod.

The ironic thing about meeting my father’s distributor in this place is what it is that he’ll be moving. Party drugs, high octane coke, molly, and LSD, all of which will be sold at top dollar in my father’s establishments by other dealers who will take their own cut. This man is probably worth as much as I am, but we’re sitting here in this dingy bar. The musty, sour smell barely covered by the sharp scent of lemon cleaner and new alcohol, while the jukebox plays whatever the bartender or one of the patrons chose at a muted volume. Right now it’s something by Linkin Park, which I’m not fond of. The sound is grating.

“My father wants the shipment done by this weekend,” I tell him quietly, my voice pitched low. “Delivered and parceled out to the other dealers to move. We’re running low on product, so he wants a higher volume this time. The Black Cat and Fantasy clubs especially moved twice as much as we expected.”

The man picks up his water glass, taking a sip. “I have as much allocated as last time. He wants it this weekend, but wants a higher volume? Then he’ll have to pay more.”

I know he’s right to ask it. My father sprang this on me, too, and I’m well aware that it’s a big ask. I also know he put me in this position to see what I’d do about it. “He’ll pay the usual rate for the product. No additional fees.”

The man snickers. “You ask for anything in a hurry, you pay a premium. The Kariyev pakhan should know this.”

He does know it. I let out a slow breath between thinned lips, frustrated that I’m here at all, frustrated that I’m dealing with a situation that I know my father has made purposefully difficult. “I’m the messenger,” I say flatly. “I’m telling you what Dima wants, and what he will give. All I need is for you to nod and say yes.”

“You’re not the messenger.” The man leans back, giving me another look at those near-black, unsettling eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest, and the sudden pull of the material of his shirt gives me a glimpse at where his gun is hidden—at least one, anyway. I never go into a situation assuming that I know all of the weapons someone has on them, and so far, I’ve always walked away alive. That’s probably one of the reasons.

“You’re Kariyev’s son,” he continues. “So don’t bother telling me that you’re not in a place to bargain or make concessions, because you are.”

Less so than you think. I’m not Lev, to have my father’s ear and his trust. Even Lev would only need to put a foot wrong once or twice to lose those things. If I make a choice my father dislikes, I’ll pay for it. There’s little I can do in this situation, especially when I’m fairly sure that Dima has no intention of paying a rush fee for anything.

But I also don’t want this man thinking that I’m disposable, or powerless. That’s always the wrong card to play in these situations.

“There are no concessions to be made,” I tell him evenly. “And the price is the price. I’m here to discuss logistics, not negotiations.”

“They became negotiations when you said you wanted more product. It’s a thirty percent upcharge to rush product, Kariyev. If you want to try to negotiate that, you’re welcome to.” He smiles at me, and I feel my jaw tighten.

“How do you feel about negotiating with the wrong side of my blade?” I growl, leaning in and keeping my voice low.

The man chuckles. “You’re not going to kill me. I know how much of your product I provide. Your businesses couldn’t handle it. And you think word wouldn’t get out? That I don’t have ears and eyes that know where I am today? Not easy to get another distributor, if you murder one like me.”

I move fast, like a striking snake, out of my side of the booth and into his in a flash. I crowd in close to him, preventing him from drawing a weapon, and grab his arm, wrenching it around as I press him into the corner of the booth.

With my other hand, I slide my knife free, resting it against my leg. “Threats and money work wonders,” I murmur, my voice pitched very low. Low enough that no one else will hear. “And maybe I can’t kill you, but I can take a piece. A little blood. A pound of flesh to make up for your extortion.”

I already knew I couldn’t kill him. He’s right about that. There’s no world in which we can take out one of the main criminal distributors in Chicago, and not suffer a blow worse than paying his upcharges. But I also know that I can get away with threatening him. And everything that’s happened so far has only served to piss me off enough to follow through on that. My father’s manipulations, this man’s arrogance, the fact that time is ticking closer and closer to when I’m supposed to meet Charlotte, and this meeting is threatening to encroach on that.

“I’ll drop it to twenty-five percent upcharge,” he sneers, and my patience snaps.

With one swift movement, I angle the knife under the table, pressing the point into the crease of his thigh. “There will be no fees. The shipment will be finished by Sunday, ready to distribute and start selling in our clubs by next weekend. Or I’ll see to it that not only will you be walking funny for the foreseeable future, but you also won’t be availing yourself of any of the perks that come with visiting some of those clubs? Understood?” I tilt the knife, pressing it close to the edge of his dick, and the man squirms.

I can feel his resentment. “You’re going to pay for this,” he hisses between his teeth, and I smile coldly.

“No. I won’t. Because if anything changes over this little disagreement, I’ll start calculating just how many fingers you actually need to do your job.” I press the knife in a little more firmly, enough that I feel the denim of his jeans start to give way beneath the tip of it.

“Fuck you, shchenok, ” he growls. “There will be a reckoning, Kariyev. I promise you that. One way or another.”

He’s not Russian, and his Russian is bad, but I still understand what he said. And it fucking pisses me off. “Right now, all I care about is that you do what I came here to make sure you handle.” I stay right where I am, his arm twisted back, the knife pressed into his groin. “Are we done negotiating?”

“Fine. Get that fucking knife away from my fucking cock, and I’ll make sure it’s done.” He glares at me like he wants to spit in my face, but he does nothing more.

“Finally. A little fucking respect.” I smirk, taking the knife back and moving away from him. “Your money will be paid on delivery. I’ll have a guy there with the cash for you.”

I’m sure as hell not going to be that guy. I have a date tonight, and this meeting is already running long.

By the time I get back to my place in the city—where I had the driver pick me up this morning, because I sure as fuck didn’t want my father hearing anything about my other house—I have barely enough time to get ready for my date with Charlotte. I left clothes at the penthouse, figuring if I somehow get lucky enough to bring her back home tonight, I’d want to make sure this place was exactly how I’d like it to be.

I have a regular housekeeper who comes by to make sure it’s clean—I’m rarely here enough to make a mess of it, but I still check to make sure that my instructions are followed. There’s good wine in the rack by the refrigerator, everything is neat and orderly, and the bed is freshly made. I light a candle in the living room and bedroom before I go to take a shower, wanting it to feel like it’s lived in. She’ll notice something like that, I think, if the space feels stale and cold, like it’s often unlived in.

When I finish getting ready, I feel like a different person than I was this afternoon. I chose a light grey suit for tonight, with a very pale blue shirt and no tie. With my hair styled neatly and freshly shaved, I look nothing like the guy who threatened a drug dealer in a dive bar just a few hours ago.

Glancing at my phone, I can see I have just enough time to grab the car I plan to take tonight from the garage, and head to her place. One more look in the mirror, and I grab my keys, heading out to the elevator.

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. And I don’t want to screw up a single second of it.