THE DEVIL AND HIS ASSASSIN

Chapter 10

Dominic's POV

The office still smelled like her.

That faint but intoxicating scent. Jasmine and something sweet. Something that got under my skin and stayed there.

The faint traces of her perfume clung to the leather, to my skin, to the memory of her on her knees—no. I shut that thought down before it took root. But f**k if my brain didn’t keep circling back to it anyway.

The way her dark hair had fallen across her face. The defiant glint in her eyes even as she’d tried to mask it with feigned submission. The fragile column of her throat as she looked up, taking me in and out of her mouth.

She was everywhere. In my head. In my blood. In places she shouldn’t f*****g be.

From my glass-walled perch, I watched my kingdom sprawl beneath me, moving exactly the way I wanted. Control wasn’t a luxury for me. It was oxygen. And this place was the only thing that had ever listened when I demanded it.

I had designed this place the way other men designed alibis; carefully, obsessively, with no room for mistakes. Every polished surface, every hidden door, every inch of this multimillion-dollar club existed because I willed it into existence. The wealthy walked in thinking they were buying freedom.

I let them believe that.

People showed you who they really were when they believed the walls wouldn’t talk.

Lights strobed, catching the sweat-sheened skin of my dancers on the stages, the glitter of overpriced liquor in glasses and the cold, watchful eyes of my guards posted at every exit.

But the real rot wasn’t on the dance floor.

It hid behind those soundproofed doors. I knew exactly what played out inside them; men with pristine public reputations shedding their integrity the moment they crossed the threshold. Judges. Politicians. Philanthropists. Fathers. All of them crawling to satisfy urges they preached against in daylight.

They believed the dark protected them. That whatever filth they indulged in would disappear once they went home to their families and pretended to be decent again.

They didn’t know the mirrors watched.

They didn’t know the walls listened.

They didn’t know I’d wired this place so tightly that not even their breath belonged to them without me owning a copy of it.

By morning, I wouldn't just have money; I’d have hundreds of hours of incriminating videos, a digital archive of shame that would keep every powerful man on their knees if I ever needed them there.

It was all high-grade blackmail material, and I collected it because being prepared meant holding the leash of every man who thought he was above the law. I liked to be prepared. I liked to know exactly how much pressure it took to make even the strongest crumble.

A sharp, respectful knock echoed from the heavy oak door.

"It’s open," I said, not bothering to turn from the view.

The door clicked shut. I didn’t need to look to know it was Andrei. Only he moved that quietly. Only he dared to enter without waiting for a clearer invitation.

He was my consigliere. My advisor. The closest thing I had to a friend, even though we were cousins. Trust didn't come cheap in my world, and he was one of the few who’d earned it.

"The docks were clean," he said, dropping a manila folder on the mahogany. "Shipment came in smooth as silk."

"Took them long enough," I said, my voice a low rumble. "Those Italian f***s give any more trouble?"

"Not really. There was no interference this time."

"They’re learning," I rumbled, finally turning to face him. He stood by my desk, impeccably dressed, not a strand of his dark hair out of place. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom, not a waterfront warehouse deal. "Or they’re dead. Either works for me."

He allowed himself a ghost of a smile. "Looks like they received your message." He moved to the mini-bar without asking, pouring two generous glasses of my oldest Macallun. He slid one across the vast expanse of polished mahogany toward me. The crystal tumbler scraped softly on the wood.

"You look like s**t, Dom."

"Appreciate the concern."

He took a sip, his dark eyes assessing me over the rim of the tumbler. "Rough night?"

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need him prying into what happened here an hour ago. The last thing I wanted was his cool analysis on my latest f**k-up, or f**k toy, depending on how you looked at it.

I looked away. "None of your goddamn business."

"Everything in this empire is my business," he said, his tone still infuriatingly reasonable. "Especially the things that put that particular look on your face."

I wanted to smash the glass in my hand. Instead, I took a long swallow, letting the smoky Scotch burn a path down my throat. A look. What look was that? The one of a man who’d just found a beautiful, fascinating problem he couldn’t immediately solve with a bullet or a threat?

People called me the Mafia King. The f*****g Devil of the Sokolov Syndicate. I hadn’t inherited those titles; I’d carved my way into them by being ruthless and cunning enough to survive every man who wanted me dead.

As the Pakhan of the Sokolov Syndicate, I ran the entire East Coast division. It’s the seat everyone wanted and no one else could hold. I took over twelve years ago, at eighteen, after my father got himself killed screwing the wrong man's wife. A cardinal sin in our world.

Most of the old guard thought I was too green, too untested. They thought they could break me. They were wrong. I made the Sokolovs the biggest name in New York and back in Moscow.

My network stretched from the docks in Brooklyn to the glittering towers of Midtown. We moved product; guns, diamonds, whatever paid the most and left the least trace. But what really kept the machine oiled was the clean money: nightclubs like this one, construction firms, import companies.

Andrei managed the clean money, the diplomacy. I handled the messy s**t.

He’d been there when I carved out my first territory, when the older members of the family tried to break me, when Lucas, my younger brother and the one everyone wanted to succeed my father walked away and took half the family’s Moscow operations with him.

Just thinking his name sent a fresh wave of cold fury through me.

"Have you heard from that traitorous piece of s**t?" I bit out, looking away to avoid the look that was always in Andrei's eyes whenever we talked about my little brother.

Andrei’s composure didn’t flicker. "Who? Lucas?"

"No, the f*****g Pope. Yes, Lucas."

He sighed, placing his glass down with a soft click. "He reached out a few days ago. He wants to talk. Says it’s about business."

I barked a laugh. "Business? He ghosts me for four f*****g years and now he wants to talk?" I stood up slowly, planting my hands on the desk and leaning into his space. "You tell him he can talk to the barrel of my f*****g gun. That’s the only proposal I’m interested in."

"He is still blood, Dominic."

"He stopped being my blood the day he chose those Moscow vultures over his own family.," The old anger, always simmering just beneath the surface, began to boil.

Andrei met my glare. "You gave him no choice."

"You taking his side now?"

"There are no sides. There is only the Family. And the Family is weaker with you two at war." His voice was maddeningly reasonable. "Whatever happened with Nadia—"

"Don’t," I snarled, cutting him off. "Don’t you f*****g say her name."

Nadia. The only woman who ever got close to me. The only one who made me feel something other than the cold weight of this crown. Her betrayal had nearly shattered me. It was why I never f****d the same woman twice anymore. Why I lost all interest the moment it was over. It was safer that way.

He held up a placating hand. "I’m merely pointing out that this feud is a luxury we can’t afford. Your enemies are getting bold. You can’t fight a war on two fronts. Lucas is the Underboss, whether you acknowledge him or not. His resources—"

"I don’t need his resources!" I slammed my fist on the desk. The tumbler jumped, Scotch sloshing over the rim. "I am the f*****g king of this city! I decide who gets what and he gets nothing! Not a block. Not a f*****g dollar."

We stared each other down, a silent battle of wills he knew he couldn’t win. He finally looked away, conceding the battle.

"I’ll tell him you’re considering it," he said, finishing his drink.

"I’m not."

"I’ll tell him anyway." He stood, collecting his coat. He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. "Get some sleep, Dom. Or better yet, go f**k someone to release that tension. It’s making you sloppy."

Then he was gone.

I collapsed back into my chair and my mind drifted to her.

I should have had her tossed out the second she lied about being a virgin. I should have ended her for even thinking she could lie to me.

But when I looked at her, I didn’t just see another pretty thing to break. I saw a reflection. Something raw and untamed and alive. She pretended to be scared but her eyes held a fire that didn’t beg for mercy. It begged for more.

She wanted to see the Devil up close.

And I was suddenly, viciously eager to show her.

I drained the last of the Scotch, the burn a pale imitation of the heat coiling in my gut. I stood, grabbed my coat, and headed for the door.

The night was young, and my little liar was waiting.

Time to see just how obedient she really was.