HIS RUTHLESS MAFIA OBSESSION

CHAPTER TWO

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚Deceit, a sick, familiar taste. ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

|Andrey|

"Yes?"

My voice comes out tense, and I take a drag from the burning cigar between my fingers as I place the phone on my ear.

"Yes, sir. We handled it," my bodyguard replies.

I don't wait for him to say anything else before I drop the phone.

Finally, some f*****g mercy.

Sighing, I pour some whiskey into the glass and swirl before gulping down the content. The familiar burn warms through my chest.

Stupid suka(b***h), It'd have turned into a war at my wedding if my men hadn't stopped her from killing him. I can't risk that now with my plan about to start.

I need to establish some ground rules for Genevieve's henchwoman. I'm in charge, and it's about time she or anyone else began acting like it.

A knock raps at the door. "Sir, your wife is here and demands to see you."

"What the f**k does she want?" I scoff. I'm barely about to rest from all the partying for the night, and now she's here.

She was pretty determined to go back to her mansion earlier tonight.

"She—"

"f**k off! I'll be out in a minute," I cut him off before he can say anything else.

I take the last drag of my cigar, smirking as the memory of her in my arms on the dance floor flashes.

She is a siren, and she knows it. Too bad she's a speck of dust in the grand scheme.

I turn the doorknob, but a familiar hand tugs at my shirt before I can open the door.

"Cara mio, why didn't you tell me your wife was this lovely?"

"Huh? Miss Ophelia, what do you mean?" I turn to face the closest person I've ever had to a mother, my housekeeper.

"Since I wasn't invited to the wedding, she brought some little gifts for me and the other staff."

My brows creases. What game are you playing, Malyshka? Our marriage is only a business move.

Why is she suddenly playing the role of a submissive wife barely hours after our wedding?

She clarified that she wouldn't move in with me even when I told her it was a good image to live together. Now she's here and bearing gifts?

When I open the door, I expect to see Genevieve, but no one is there—except for luggage—okay, there is a lot of luggage.

"Where's she?"

"She asked to wait for you in your room, and Miss Ophelia let her," one of the staff waiting on me replies.

"And no one could stop her?"

Rage burns through my veins, and they flinch.

In truth, I know nobody can defy Miss Ophelia, but still, it is my f*****g mansion!

Storming up the stairs, I barely pause before flinging my bedroom open. And there she is.

"Oh, finally, you're here." Genevieve purrs, drawing my attention.

Whatever words I'm about to hurl, they get stuck in my throat.

She moves across the room like a sin, scantily clad in silk, holding a wine glass in her right hand and dragging her fingers along the table's edge.

"What are you doing here?" I try not to look away from her face.

"Relax, Andrey. I came here to ensure we spent our wedding night together." Her lips curl into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Everything about her is deliberate. My lips twist to a sly smile.

"Is this an amateur attempt to show me that your reputation outlives you as the Queen of the Ruthless Reapers?"

A smooth, silky laugh escapes her lips.

"Is it working, dear husband?" she asks, her voice thick with mockery.

I don't answer.

"Come, drink with me, and I'll tell you why I'm here." She hands me the wine glass with a sly grin—waiting for me to sip first.

I don't. Just stare at the drink, then back at her. "Not thirsty."

Genevieve leans in, chest brushing my arm, lips nearly on mine. "That's a shame. I was hoping to get you drunk... make this night memorable."

"Why don't you take a seat first?" I gesture toward the bed.

She smiles and turns toward the bed, swaying her hips effortlessly so that her round ass jiggles. I stiffen my body, trying to stop my rod from reacting.

"Comfortable?" I ask, stepping into the soft glow of the low-hung chandelier.

Genevieve doesn't sit. She turns and tilts her head, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Am I supposed to be scared of you now that the rings are on our fingers?"

"No," I hum, unbuttoning my cufflinks with slow, methodical precision. "You're supposed to be smart."

Her smirk falters.

Good.

She closes the distance between us to regain control, fingers ghosting over my shirt. "Isn't this the real reason you married me? For the control of me and my empire?"

I catch her hand mid-motion, disgust and irritation itching beneath my throat as her breath stutters.

"Do you know what your problem is, Genevieve?" I ask softly, dragging her wrist until her palm is pinned to my chest.

"You think seduction is the highest form of power. Because men have fallen into your bed, they've surrendered to you."

Her lashes lower, but her chin stays up high.

I lean closer, whispering against her ear. "Belladonna. How fitting?"

The silence stretches as tension coils between us, thick and choking.

"I smelled it in the drink," I continue, circling her, watching as her spine straightens at the realisation of the danger brewing.

"And yet, you thought you had the upper hand."

In one fluid motion, her hand slips beneath her lingerie, pulling a blade from her straps and lunging it at me.

She moves fast—too fast— but I'm faster.

I catch her wrist mid-air, inches from my throat, as the end of my lips curl into a smile.

But she doesn't stop there.

Her knees bend quickly, aiming for my crotch, but she's no match for me.

Swerving away just as she attacks, I press the blade in her hands to her neck, daring her to try something else.

"Really, Malyshka?" I tsk, "Was this how you killed your three husbands?"

Her breath hitches.

"The name 'black widow' really does suit you."

The truth is, I knew she was going to try to kill me tonight.

I had my men spy on her and her cartel crew days before the wedding to be prepared for anything she'd planned.

And she didn't disappoint.

Still holding the knife to her throat, I guide her toward the bed as I reach for the velvet rope of the bed canopy.

"What are you going to do?" she asks, her voice tight.

"Something more effective than killing you with this knife."

I tie her wrist gently but firmly, pinning her legs between my thighs so she doesn't try to attack me with them.

She watches me like a cornered python, her eyes scanning for weakness.

"You want power?" I whisper, "I'll show you what real power looks like."

My fingers trail her collarbone, lingering inches above her full breasts. Her chest rises as her skin shivers beneath my touch.

Then I part her legs, never taking my eyes off hers, and trail from her knees up her thighs with the same blade she wants to kill me with.

A sly smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.

Instead of stopping there, I take it further, nipping at her lace panties with my teeth.

I linger for a moment, making sure my tongue wets her skin, and she whimpers.

Good girl.

After a while, I bring my lips inches away from her lips, with the knife making its way gently, almost scraping her opening.

A gasp escapes her lips as she sucks on her lower lips, writhing beneath my touch and yearning for more.

And still, I don't give her what she wants.

I don't kiss her. I don't touch her where she aches for it. I just speak low and lethal.

"You don't get to win this time. Not with me."

Her breathing is uneven now. Good. She's starting to understand.

I lean down until my lips hover over hers. "Next time you think of crossing me, think of this moment. You might not live to see another day after tonight."

She closes her eyes, parting her lips slightly—breathing ragged, begging me to taste them again.

Memories of how they melted in my mouth like dark, delicious vanilla ice cream at the altar flood my brain instantly.

My lips are almost touching hers.

So close.

And then—