Ivan: A Dark Mafia Romance (Underworld Book 1)

I lead Sloane up to the main floor, past the dining hall where nearly all my men are drinking and talking quietly, despite the lateness of the hour. They’re mourning Karol.

I should be in there with them. But when I got back from the club, I couldn’t speak to anyone. I was in such a state of bottled-up fury that I had to fight or fuck or run.

I went down to the catacombs in a daze. I flung open the door and saw Sloane waiting for me.

She knew what I needed better than I did.

And she gave it to me, immediately.

She flushed out all the rage and frustration that was poisoning my mind.

Now I can think clearly at last.

The first thing I know is that I’m not going all the way down to the dungeon to see her. She’s staying in my room from now on. I’ll still lock her in, but I no longer believe she’s going to try to murder me in my sleep. And if she does, I guess I deserve it.

It’s my fault Karol is dead. I sent him to watch Remizov. He wasn’t ready for a job like that. That mistake is on my head.

As I let Sloane into my suite, I can see her looking around in that curious, appraising way I’m already starting to recognize. She surveys the tobacco-colored couches, the fireplace large enough to roast an ox, the plush rugs, the black and white Robert Frank prints on the wall.

“Does this meet with your approval?” I ask her. “Will it bump up my Airbnb rating just a little?”

She laughs softly. It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh. I don’t want to admit what an effect it has on me—lifting my spirits that were sunk so low that they were almost subterranean.

“Yes,” she says. “You’re well on your way to four stars.”

“Four,” I snort. “Try the shower before you say that.”

I lead her into the bathroom. It’s the most modern part of the whole compound—all spotless white marble and gleaming steel, with heated towel racks, a full-body dryer, and a shower that could comfortably fit four people. There are six separate faucets, including one that pours ready-mixed soap suds.

I turn them all on for her, just a shade hotter than comfortable.

The bathroom fills with steam.

Without a trace of shyness, Sloane strips off my shirt and stands naked before me once more. I’ve never been one to chase after the modest girls. But this woman has confidence on a level I’ve never seen. She’s intelligent. Capable. Ruthless.

She’s just like me.

Is it narcissistic to say that I love that about her?

I’ve never considered tying myself to any woman, not permanently. But if I did, it would have to be a woman like this. A true equal.

Of course, that’s all theoretical.

I don’t have time for romance, especially not now.

Still, I can’t help staring at Sloane as she steps into the shower and starts languorously soaping her body. She runs her hands over her wet, slippery breasts, down the flat plane of her stomach.

She tilts her head back to work a handful of shampoo into her hair, her lifted chin revealing the long curve of her throat. Her arched back makes her figure look all the more alluring.

I hadn’t planned to join her, but it’s more than I can resist.

I drop my trousers once more and join her.

“You missed a spot,” I say, sliding my palms over the curves of her ass.

“You’re right,” she purrs. “I’m completely filthy.”

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m kissing her again. My cock is rising to attention, my balls tingling as if they haven’t had release in weeks, instead of less than twenty minutes ago.

I notice that when Sloane stands on tiptoe and puts her arms around my neck, she’s the perfect height to reach up and kiss me. And when I clasp my hands under her ass, it’s the easiest thing in the world to lift her up, with her legs wrapped around my waist.

I lower her down onto my cock, fucking her under the steaming hot shower spray. We’re still kissing, our mouths locked together and our tongues moving in rhythm.

It’s so easy to hold her up. She’s strong, and she’s using her legs and arms to ride me at the same time that I’m thrusting upward into her.

I find myself looking into her eyes, which are dark in color but bright in expression. She really does remind me of a little fox: quick and wild and clever.

We have dark-colored foxes in Russia—their coats are black in the summer, silver in the winter. They’re rare and valuable, just like Sloane.

I carry her out of the shower, over to the bed. I pull her onto my lap, so I can watch those beautiful, natural tits bouncing on top of me. I lay back against the pillows.

She rolls her hips in a slow, steady rhythm, like she’s riding a horse. Her eyes are closed and her lips are parted. She raises her arms to push back her dark curls, the droplets of water from her wet hair pattering down onto the bed.

She’s squeezing my cock with each roll of her hips. Her skin is flushed from the hot water, and from the pleasure of this position. I can see the little nub of her clit grinding against my lower abdomen.

She leans forward and lays her palms flat on my chest, to increase the friction against her clit. Now she’s grinding harder and harder, like a mortar and pestle.

I’m determined to let her cum first, but it’s impossible to hold back. She’s squeezing me so forcefully. If I look at her, the sight of those gorgeous breasts swaying above my face will put me over the edge. But if I close my eyes, the sensation of her riding my cock is all the more intense.

Jesus, I can’t win. I can feel my balls contracting, my cock pulsing.

Luckily, Sloane is right on the edge too. It seems like she was waiting for me. As soon as I start to cum, I can feel her shaking on top of me. Her pussy clenches around my cock in one long squeeze, and it makes me go off like a cannon, an orgasm that barrels out of me, that sends sparks flashing across my closed eyelids.

This girl is going to give me a stroke.

I can’t think, speak, hear, or feel anything but that pure ecstatic surge.

And then I’m back inside my body again, with Sloane lying beside me, her head on my chest.

It’s a position that makes a man want to tell a woman his deepest, darkest secrets.

And Sloane wants to hear them.

Because she’s asking, “What happened today?”

Before I can consider what a terrible idea it is to tell her anything, I’m opening my mouth and spilling it all out.

I tell Sloane about Remizov, about how he’s been expanding his empire in St. Petersburg, and how he seems to have the police and the politicians in his pocket. And then, though I can’t believe I’m admitting it, I tell her what happened to Karol, and that it’s my fault. I tell her I’ve been outmaneuvered and outsmarted.

It’s insane for me to admit any of this. Forget about safety or prudence—I want to impress Sloane. I don’t want to show her my weakness and failure.

But I tell her everything.

Because she’s a professional.

She knows that in our world, things go wrong.

She knows better than anyone that it’s kill or be killed, every day.

And that’s why I want her advice.

When I finish speaking, she lays there quietly for a minute, pondering over everything I’ve said.

If she were a normal person, she’d probably try to say something comforting, like it wasn’t my fault that Karol got caught, even though we’d both know that was bullshit.

But Sloane is not a normal person.

She says, “The box at the gate was bait. The guns in the warehouse are bait as well.”

“I know that,” I say.

“But you still want them back.”

“Sure. If I can get them.”

“Well, take a page out of Remizov’s book. Capture a couple of his men. Make them get the guns for you.”

I consider this. It’s not a terrible idea. If Remizov has some trap in place—like some of Utkin’s officers waiting to arrest me—then it’s his goons that will get pinched, not mine.

“Not a bad idea,” I say. “What about Remizov himself?”

“That’s a trickier problem. You don’t know where he lives? He doesn’t have a monastery of his own?” she asks with a teasing edge to her tone.

“Not that I’ve found.”

“Does he have a mother or brother he loves?”

“Not that I know of.”

“A girlfriend?”

“If he has a girlfriend, I doubt he gives a fuck about her. He strikes me as a bit of a sociopath.”

“Hmm. Retaliation is going to be tricky then. It’s easiest to get people at home.”

“That’s true,” I say to Sloane. “As long as you don’t come clomping into their room so loud that you wake them up.”

“Oh, shut up!” she says. “You’re the first person that ever woke up. You’ve got a guilty conscience—or the ears of a bat. Now do you want my help or not?”

“I do,” I tell her, with a pretend expression of contrition.

I can’t help teasing her, but I’m being sincere. I want to hear what she thinks.

“You’re used to being the strongest person in a fight,” she tells me. “That’s why you want to attack him head-on.”

“He’s not stronger than me,” I protest. “He may have made some alliances, but—“

She cuts me off.

“It doesn’t matter if you could take him in a fair fight,” she says. “He’s not going to play fair. And even if he did, and even if you won, you’re going to lose a lot of men.”

That’s true. I have a vision of two armies facing each other, taking turns firing at each other with their muskets. It’s a stupid way to fight.

Sloane taps the nail of her index finger against her bottom teeth.

“Let’s put aside the idea of revenge, just for the moment,” she says. “Instead of trying to kill Remizov outright, how can you weaken him? You want to cut him a hundred times with a poisoned blade, before you strike the fatal blow.”

“I can’t just attack his businesses and supply lines outright. He’s got the commissioner and the governor on his side.”

“No,” Sloane agrees. “You’ll have to get creative. But that will be better anyway, psychologically speaking. If you can destroy his assets one by one, without him even being sure who’s done it or how, that’s going to put him in a worse state anyway.”

I think of my men downstairs. My brother, cousins, friends since childhood.

“He doesn’t have a family,” I say, thinking out loud. “His men are all hired.”

“That’s right,” Sloane says. “They’re not actually loyal to him. He pays them. And they might be afraid of him. But the bond isn’t as strong.”

I think of his actions so far. One of his first moves was the raid on the diamond district. He needed money.

“Find his cash and you can bleed him out,” Sloane says. “Without money, he’ll lose his men.”

“You are a clever little fox,” I growl in her ear, pulling her even closer against me. “You should give up your job as the grim reaper and come work for me.”

I feel her stiffen.

“I don’t work for anyone,” she says. Her voice is cold. I’ve offended her.

“I know,” I say quickly. “Of course you don’t. I wouldn’t want to, either.”

She relaxes, ever so slightly.

But she’s still on her guard.

I stroke her hair, which is still damp and smells nicely of my shampoo. I use long, slow, heavy strokes with my fingers. I’m deliberately soothing and quieting her. I want her to sleep next to me tonight.

I can feel her body growing warmer and heavier. Her breathing slowing.

“You want to stay here with me?” I ask her, my voice barely more than a whisper.

“Mm hmm,” she says, nuzzling all the closer against me.

I probably should, at the very least, remove all the guns from the room.

But I’m just as drained and relaxed as Sloane.

In this moment, there’s almost nothing that could pull me away from this bed, and the woman lying in my arms.