12. Daniela

Security is tight as we head down to have dinner with Fedorov. Although that doesn’t stop Antonio from scanning every corner of the private elevator before we step inside, as though someone might be hiding behind one of the gilded panels.

Hyperalert and edgy are a bad combination, especially on a man who has a gun holstered beneath his suit jacket, and another concealed at his ankle.

I rub my hand up and down his arm. The muscle is hard and tense—too tense for my liking. “I know how much you hate to be in this position, but we’re doing the right thing. I have no doubt about it.” Although you are starting to make me anxious.

I wasn’t nervous until he showed up at the apartment to shower and change. That’s when I learned that there are GPS trackers sewn—or welded—into most of my belongings, including the bracelet I’m wearing and my wedding ring. Apparently, it’s been that way since I ran off. He tried to downplay it as a security measure that will never be activated unless it becomes necessary. It didn’t make me feel any better.

Any other time, I would have told him exactly how I felt about being tracked without my knowledge and consent. But for tonight, I held my tongue.

Antonio turns toward me, his eyes raking over every inch of my body, in much the same way he examined the elevator before we got in. “I thought I told you to find some ugly rag to wear.” He caresses my cheek with his fingers. “You’re beautiful. Much too beautiful for your own good—or mine.”

I adjust his tie. “You don’t look so bad yourself for a hot-tempered, grumpy—”

He presses his fingers on my lips to shush me and flips a switch to stop the elevator. The alarm blares, and his phone rings immediately.

“We’re fine. Just need a minute,” he says gruffly into the phone, before dropping it back into his pocket.

Antonio’s not above elevator sex. And as I recently learned, I’m not, either. But we’re already late. What’s he doing?

“We’re hosting, and it’s after eight. We should already be there.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about etiquette. Your safety is my only concern. I want Fedorov seated first, so my men can have a few minutes to observe him and his guards before we arrive.”

Everything has been orchestrated carefully. All the attention to detail should ease my anxiety, but it’s having the opposite effect.

His dark eyes bore into mine. “This is a deadly serious meeting. I need you to be alert to danger at all times. Dimitri Fedorov is the Pakhan of the European Bratva.”

This is the fourth time in the last thirty minutes that he reminds me.

“He likes you to believe he’s a forgetful old man, harmless, but he’s a ruthless monster. Do not let your guard down for a single second.”

Antonio doesn’t want me anywhere near the Russian, and his list of instructions, including how I’m not to use the restroom unless absolutely necessary, are weighing on me. But I quietly go along with the plan, so as not to give him an excuse to scrap the dinner. It wouldn’t take much. Besides, he knows this ugly business far, far better than I do, and every tiny detail was put in place to ensure my safety. I won’t give him any reason to worry more than he is already.

I cup his jaw in my hand. “I understand the gravity of the situation. I don’t have a death wish.”

Without warning, he backs me into the corner of the elevator, caging me with his muscled frame, and crushes my mouth with his—no holds barred. The spicy scent of his cologne wafts into my nose, as he levels the toe-curling assault.

Rough. Demanding. Delicious. He takes no prisoners.

My husband is staking his claim—once again. His intensity sends a shiver through me, every nerve ending dancing in its wake. More, please, they whisper as they sway. It doesn’t help that I edged last night with that evil wand, picturing him with his cock in hand while he thought about me wet and needy. I might have been following his instructions, but I felt the heady rush of power as I sent him the text that I was beginning.

“I am so pissed that you’re burdened with this bullshit. When tonight’s over,” he murmurs, with his fingers still cradling the back of my head, “I’m going to fuck you until you’ve forgotten everything. Even your name.”

My heart pounds as he steps back and flips the elevator switch.

He gazes at me from across the elevator. “No matter what happens, do not take off that bracelet. It has state-of-the-art technology inside.”

“I won’t.” I have a child to think of. She needs me—and so do you.

When the elevator doors open, he takes my hand. “Valentina is safe tonight. Don’t worry about her.”

It’s uncanny how he seems to always know what I’m thinking. I’m confident Valentina’s safe. The president himself isn’t as well-guarded as she is tonight.

“You’re safe too,” he adds, “as long as you follow the rules.”

I lace my fingers through his as we step into the large atrium. We stop in front of the entrance to the restaurant, where Antonio hands Lucas the gun from under his jacket. It’s a show for two of Fedorov’s guards stationed nearby.

But that’s all they get from him. Nothing more. Not a cursory glance, a perfunctory nod, or the weapon holstered at his ankle.