HIS RUTHLESS MAFIA OBSESSION

CHAPTER SIX

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Destroy it, or it will destroy you.˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

|Andrey|

"Wait."

Ophelia's voice isn't her own.

It's trembling.

I turn slightly, hand still on the doorknob. I know whatever she's about to say, I won't like it.

Miss Ophelia stands behind me, her eyes heavy with something I don't like. Pity.

"You don't have to do this," she says. "You aren't made for this life, Cara mío. I know you're trying to be who your father wasn't, but violence isn't you, Andrey."

Every molecule in the room seems to pause as I stare at her.

She doesn't flinch. She just stands there in her cardigan, and that same tired gaze she used when I was fourteen and came home with bruised knuckles from the bullies at school.

"You were never him. You don't need to be," Ophelia continues.

That hit harder than a bullet.

I breathe in slowly, jaw tight. "And yet, here I am. With his enemies. His empire. And his killer on my bed."

"She might not be his killer."

"Maybe. But she's something," I say, "And I'll find out what."

Miss Ophelia doesn't say anything. Just looks at me like I'm still that stupid kid with paint on his hands, pretending art could fix anything.

I'm not that kid anymore. I'm certain.

"I have work to do," I say as I walk out of the room, before she can try to mother me again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The valet doesn't even look at me as he opens the door outside the Valmont Hotel. Smart kid.

Luc de Vries is already upstairs and punctual. Good. People who waste time usually don't value their own.

I walk through the marble lobby, my ears and eyes sharp, and my mind is already several moves ahead.

Darting my eyes subtly, I scan the surroundings, and only relax when I find no threat.

Then I pull out my phone.

Genevieve hasn't responded to the photo. Or the texts. That isn't like her.

No anger. No threat. No sarcasm.

Either she is rattled, or she wants me to think she is.

I thought it would get under her skin.

Chyort (Hell), I want it to.

I hate not knowing what goes on in her mind. I live for her reactions to my games.

But I hate that I care more.

Gritting my teeth, I shake off my thoughts and punch the elevator button until it slides open.

The rooftop lounge was empty. Just two glasses of bourbon sweating on the table, and Luc De Vries sitting like he owns the world.

A tan linen suit and a smile that says he's winning at life. Arrogant syklo(p***y).

I don't sit.

"Mr Maksim," he greets, standing, extending his arm to me. "I trust your evening is going well"

"Let's skip the poetry... and the laskovosti."

Luc chuckles. "Straight to business, I see."

I sit across from him, ignoring the drink.

"You have leverage over a financial shell still tied to my wife's holdings."

"Your wife?" His eyes sparkle with interest.

"Genevieve Saint-Claire. I heard you are acquiring the Ruslow Trust. Quietly." I say the last word with a bit of emphasis while staring at him.

He gives a slow nod. "Legally, the trust is linked to her second ex-husband. Not her. But I'm guessing you already knew that."

"I'm not here to guess, I'm here to take control of it!" I snap.

The arrogant Belgian prick leans back in his chair, scoffing, fingers drumming against the armrest. "Everything has a price," his eyes twinkle with greed.

Good. I've got him right where I want him.

"I'm offering you better protection for your future investments in Los Angeles. You're expanding here, but you don't know the players like I do. You need insulation. I can provide it."

"And in exchange?" Luc lifts his brows.

"You give up your claim to Ruslow. Transfer it to my holding company."

A beat passes.

He studies me, "You're not doing this for business. You're doing this to cripple your wife's hold. No?"

"That's still business," I shrug.

Luc smirks. "You're dangerous. But good thing I like you."

I don't smile. "Do we have a deal?"

He raises his glass. "Draft the terms. I'll sign them right away."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I leave the rooftop without touching the bourbon. The elevator ride down is silent. Just me and the weight of everything Genevieve is about to lose.

A delicious smile of vengeance tugs at both sides of my lips as I send a message to Samuel. The terms should get to Luc in the next five minutes.

Genevieve probably thinks everything is going smoothly according to her well-laid plans, but she underestimates how far I'd go.

Back in the car, I open my encrypted line.

Still no message from her.

I close my eyes for a second.

The memory of her smoky, warm, black cardamom scents wafts through my nose.

I still get hard at the memory of her lingerie clinging to her curvaceous body, that smirk, and the way she played the role of calm and calculated while trying to kill me.

The kiss at the altar. The hesitation in her breath the night I almost ruined her and let her go.

The way she made silence feel louder than screams.

She is a contradiction I haven't solved yet.

I shouldn't be thinking about her, especially not like this. f*****g Genevieve should be the last thing on my mind.

And it pisses me off.

I tap into the surveillance feed without wasting time. Her feed loads slowly, but I don't rush it.

Finally, it loads, but her Penthouse is dark.

The bedroom lights had turned on at some point but were off now.

I switch views. Kitchen. Study. Closet. Empty.

She isn't home.

Where the f**k are you, Genevieve?

Sighing, I exit the feed and tap into the transaction logs from one of the Cayman shadow accounts I used to move some money from one of Genevieve's offshore accounts.

My firewall pings once, then clears.

The numbers roll in.

At first glance, everything seems to work well. Clean. Static. But then I catch it–

A f*****g reversal.

A transfer I locked down at 07:04 this morning has been quietly reactivated, rerouted to a blind f*****g shell in Morocco!

I did not authorise that! I zoom in on the logs. It was just an hour ago. Location: Los Angeles.

My jaw tightens as I exhale from my nose, clenching my fist.

Fucking incompetent Anton! He assured me he'd do a clean Job!

Before I can reach for my comm line, my phone buzzes.

Samuel.

"What?" I answer.

"S-sorry to interrupt, boss," Samuel stutters, "but we've got a hiccup."

"Define 'hiccup.'" My eyes don't leave the screen as I reply in a low, clear tone.

"The Cayman block you issued a few hours ago? One of the staff accountants reversed it. Said he had 'clearance from above.'"

"Above who?" I snap.

There's a pause.

"Apparently... from you."

I go still.

No one speaks for a second. The weight of it lands in my chest like a wet stone.

"Who was it?" I ask, though I already have a name forming like a bitter taste in the back of my mind.

"Gabe. One of the old Saint-Claire loyalists. Moved to the West Coast office two months ago. On your payroll now, technically, but—"

"But he still takes orders from her."

Another silence. Samuel knows better than to confirm it out loud. But I can hear it anyway.

I close my eyes again, slower this time.

Fuck.

She knows.

"I want Gabe taken care of." A cold lump forms in my throat. It forms anytime I do this.

I can never get used to the tiny pricking of the guilt. It's insignificant, but I don't want to be my father.

"Done. Anything else?"

"Tell the internal team to comb through the logs. Find out what else she's taken back without me knowing."

"You got it."

I hang up, and for a second, I don't move.

Until a smile creeps to my lips.

That woman is something. She knows, disappears, doesn't react, anticipates...

And somehow, she still finds her way into my goddamn head.

Nice try, Gen.

Nice f*****g try.