The bastard was Russian.

I COULDN’T SAY I HADN’T known. Jesus, it was why I’d always tried to keep my distance from her. I’d known she would trip me up. Though, as much as I wished I could blame my fuck-up on the fact trouble followed Gianna wherever she went, I knew that had nothing to do with it. When she was close, all I could focus on was that she smelled like temptation. Like something I wanted to worship and degrade at the same time.

She’d just had to prod that one spot—that one weakness of mine—to make me lose my grasp on control. She’d been right about my mother. I could only imagine the look on her pretty face if she knew I’d been the one to put the bitch out of her depraved fucking misery.

I hadn’t given myself up in over ten years. Ten years down the drain because of one goddamn woman. I might as well have spouted Shakespeare to her from below her window.

The next time she spoke back to me, I just needed to fill her mouth with something more productive. The image of her, on her knees, looking up at me with soft brown eyes, played in my mind. It sent a rush of heat to my groin. Made my blood rush in my ears.

With a clench of my teeth, I pushed the fantasy away.

Not yours.

A mixture of fury, regret, and relief burned in my chest.

I could change everything so fast. Make her a single woman. Make her want me. Make her mine. The plan began to weave itself in my mind, and when I felt a tremble in the hand still wrapped around her throat, I shut it down fast.

Her pulse beat quickly, expressing her fear—but her eyes, they were filled with defiance. Triumph.

“Iowa, huh?”

Bitter amusement filled me. She was put on this earth to aggravate me, to humble me. I didn’t know a single damn man who wished to be humbled.

I tightened my grip. “I’m only going to say this once, sweetheart—don’t fuck with me. I promise you, next time, I’m not going to be so nice.”

I would have killed anyone else who’d provoked me like she had. But somehow, the idea of her lifeless body made my stomach tighten in denial. I often wished she was a problem I could just make disappear—though, oddly enough, her death had always been a hard no for me.

She looked bored. “Say something in Russian.”

This was a moment I would love to fill her mouth with something more productive.

I let her go rougher than I should have, and then hated myself for feeling a twinge of regret. Couldn’t kill her. Couldn’t even hurt her. What the hell would I even do with her? My dick immediately took over, flashing images through my mind of her naked on my bed, ass up, head-down, as she clutched the sheets and begged me for more.

Obviously, I had some ideas.

But something deeper was involved—some foreign, visceral need I couldn’t explain and didn’t even understand. A hunger that roared in my chest and bled into my veins. If I went there with her, finally had her in the ways I’d dreamed of for years, nothing would be the same. My plans of a normal, comfortable life would be shot to hell. The idea of giving it all up was a physical abhorrence.

“Is that where you went to . . . that night? Russia?” she asked me as I reached the door.

That night. She said it like she was disturbed by just the memory, while, even though I hated it, that night had fueled my obsession for her for years. I’d dreamed of it, fantasized of her, and fought a physical battle with myself not to go back to New York just to see her in the flesh.

Contempt spread like frostbite in my chest. I turned to look at her, ignored the soft curves of her body as she leaned against the wall where I’d put her. “Fortunately for Russia, their women seem to have a little more self-respect than to drop their clothes for a man they hate. Guess I needed a change of scenery.”

Anger flashed in her eyes.

As soon as I stepped into the hall, a thunk hit the door before I could pull it closed.

I gritted my teeth.

She’d thrown her goddamn shoe at me.

“If I didn’t already know you’re a fucked-up bastard and like pain, I’d be making your face a lot less pretty right now.”

Funny that we were both thinking about each other’s faces. Just the sight of his pissed me off.

I pulled the door open to let Nico enter.

He walked in, sizing up my new apartment. I’d sold the last just so I wouldn’t have any excuse to come back to New York. Fuck how well that worked out.

“You know what?” Ace lifted a shoulder and turned to me. “What the hell.”

His fist collided with my jaw.

It felt like a fucking sledgehammer, and finally cleared my head of a certain dark-haired woman since she’d thrown her shoe at me earlier. A welcome reprieve.

I walked toward the kitchen to get a drink.

“What? Not going to hit me back? Too grandiose, or something?”

I let out a sardonic breath. “Or something.”

I’d had enough fighting to last a cage-fighter two lifetimes. Fought to eat. Fought not to be touched. Fought to stay alive. The streets of Moscow hadn’t been a school trip, and I’d only ended up there because my mother’s house had been anyone’s worst nightmare.

“You want to tell me what your problem is with me?”

I laughed. “I don’t give a single fuck about you.”

“Cut the shit. You’ve had a hard-on for pissing me off from day one.”

“Sometimes an opportunity presents itself and I take it. It has nothing to do with you or my cock.” Unless it involves Gianna Marino, anyway.

I’d always convinced myself I disliked Nico because he was impulsive and reckless. But I knew that was just an excuse for the real reason: he’d fucked her. If I couldn’t fuck her, nobody could fuck her. It was that simple. The idea of anyone touching her was a nauseating pill I refused to swallow.

I’d never seen Ace interested in any particular woman besides Elena Abelli. The opportunity for my small vendetta practically landed in my lap earlier. Maybe it was a little immature, considering he’d slept with Gianna only once years ago. But . . . I held grudges. Fucking sue me.

“Elena is mine, Allister.”

I raised a brow. “Does she know?”

“She will tomorrow.”

“Ah.” I leaned against the counter, sipped my drink. “So, that’s why you’re here.”

He rubbed his jaw. “We’re having lunch at Francesco’s tomorrow to go over wedding plans.”

“And what?” I said, amused. “Gonna see if they can do a quick switcharoo for the other sister . . . or something?”

His eyes narrowed. “Or something.”

“What do you need?” I got straight to business.

“An intermediary.”

“Don’t think you can handle the Abellis yourself?”

“I know I can. But I would rather not start a war with my future wife’s family.”

I nodded. “I imagine that would kill the honeymoon. Fine, I’ll send someone—”

“I don’t want someone, I want you to do it. If her fuck-up brother or cousin gets hurt in the process—”

Jesus, he was hard-up for this girl. I wished I couldn’t relate.

“The women should be at this luncheon tomorrow,” I told him. A woman’s presence always seemed to dull a man’s bloodlust.