Donna

7

THE DECEMBER AIR IS HARSH AND UNFORGIVING as it lashes against my skin. I welcome it. I breathe, watching the my breath form a cloud.

Still breathing motherfucker. Good job. The cold stings my lungs, but freshens it as well. It prickles across my bare skin, giving me a sense of numb awareness.

I walk back to my Estate, my eyes flitting about. I don't drive to these meetings. It's much to easy to place a bomb under a car.

Shooting me? Much harder than placing a device on an unattended car. My ears prickle, the sound of a slow moving vehicle behind me. I turn around slowly, gun in hand pressed against me in a way what makes it hard to spot.

The limo rolls up, window rolling down. At the sight of the occupant I simper, turning forward and walking away. The limo drives next to me.

“Couldn't leave without the last word, could you?” I say to the in front of me.

“Get in.”

“Orders, Лисичка,” I drawl, not looking at her. “I don't do well with them.”

“Don't you want to play?”

That stops me cold.

“Fine.” I open the door, sliding in next to her.

The woman I just left leers at me with hooded eyes, pink lip between her teeth.

“What game?” I prompt her.

She doesn't reply, crawling over to me, sitting nearly on my lap. Absently, I run a finger over her throat.

“Y'know, despite how dangerous you are, I'd still slit your throat with a box cutter.” I murmured, tracing the line I'd cut into her gorgeous skin.

She quirks a dark brow.

“Even though you enjoy our games?”

“Even though I enjoy our game.” I confirm.

Feline like, is what she is. As if confirming my conclusion, she bares her teeth at me, snapping her jaw in front me.

“So cold,” She smirks, her calculating smirk.

“Let me make you warm then,” I grab her, hefting her in my lap, my fingers digging into the ample flesh of her hips.

“When you are going to let into this p***y, huh?”

Peeking under from my lashes, I skipped a finger into her, observing her reaction.

“It's yours,”

The only indicator of her arousal was her juices coating my finger, and a slight breathlessness.

Shoving two fingers into her harshly, I keep my eyes on her.

“Why are you lying to me, Лисичка. Who else owns this p***y?”

The heat sucking in my fingers intensifies, getting wetter; tighter. She leans into me, her t**s pressed to chest, her mouth at my ear.

“Worry about yourself, caro.”

FROM THEN ON WE STARTED RECORDING habits. We knew the hangout spots, the back roads.

Roksana was playing coy still, but I'm going to that own that p***y, and I'll f**k her so good that that b***h will feel my name tattooed on her skin.

Until then, I'll play her little of hide and seek, while simultaneously working my game.

She's slipping.

I know more than she'd like, but she's not aware of that knowledge. See, Roksana loves the idea, the thrill, the safety of control.

So I let her be in control, all the while I'm pulling the strings. She did the one thing, I would've thought she knew better than to do:

She underestimated me.

See, we're playing two different games; she sees herself as a figure of fear, I see what she is and will always be.

A woman.

A woman is a woman, and no matter what, no matter sexuality, presences, appearances, strength—

She is still a woman.

And I still a man.

And we are both human.

She sees a momentary power struggle, I see the game of Life.

THIS b***h IS TAKING FAR TOO MANY liberties. She's popping up in my office; the one not on my Estate, the cover private bank.

She touches things, touches me.

Doesn't she know I will snap her neck?

I'm f*****g crazy, and I don't think she understands that fully. I'm a mother f*****g psychopath. I'll kill her, and I'll feel minimum regret. f**k I look like?

Does she really think she can sway her hips, bait me with some p***y and I'll be her lapdog?

Stupid stupid b***h.

Maybe that worked on someone else, but it will never work on me.

You have a p***y, that's not a rare commodity. I can kill you and I promise, there'll be another one.

Don't get me wrong, she's dangerous, lethal, but she's losing her edge:

Her unpredictability.

DECEMBER ROLLED AROUND, THINGS WENT DOWNHILL. During holiday season, most syndicates make underhanded hits, because even the Mob doesn't want to taint Christmas.

I'm on the phone with one of my mules, contemplating blowing his s**t up.

“What the f**k do you mean, he cut the product? How the f**k did he manage to do that, when you're supposed to be watching it?!”

“T-The cutter, it's just like—”

“I know what a f*****g cutter is, that's not what asked you. I asked how, not what it looks like.”

“I-I”

I don't have time for this s**t.

“Get me pure product, or I'm going to f**k you up so bad, the Devil will flinch. Get it done get it quick.”

Her presence further irritates me. f*****g incompetent fools.

“You are a very violent man.”

“I'm sorry, did you think this was a flower shop? That's down the street. This is Mob.”

She approached me slowly, but carelessly, making simple but pertinent mistakes. I wonder if she even noticed it.

The heels. A woman like her, wouldn't wear heels that high in the presence of an enemy. Too much baggage. Too many potentials for death.

But a woman who wants a good f**k maybe something more, puts on sky high f**k me heels—sexy but impractical.

“Yes, but I mean exceptionally so.”

I don't give her eye contact, which I'm sure is killing her.

“Mh, you noticed? What gave it away? My blatant disregard for human life, or the fact that sometimes I smile at you, and other times I look at you like I just want you stop breathing?”

Not a beat missed.

“Both.”

“Well then, congrats. If you're not going to kill me, shut the f**k up. I have business to do.”

Not a falter. Keeps coming at me.

“You get more and more aggressive every time I see you. Are you trying to tell me something?”

I look up and pierce her with my cool gaze.

“If you are not illiterate, you will read between the lines.”