“I’d like to help you, but my father and I aren’t on speaking terms,” Raffaele said, meeting Demidov’s gaze. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
Demidov’s lips twisted into a faint smile. “I’ve heard of it, yes. And I’m sure you’d like for people to continue hearing that.”
“Is that a threat?” Raffaele said, looking at him flatly.
“Not at all,” Demidov said, his tone neutral. “I have no interest in threatening you. I want your help, not your unwilling cooperation. Once this… misunderstanding with your father is resolved, I have no intention of blackmailing you. I just want to get it over with.”
Raffaele studied him for a moment, looking for any sign of deception. He found none.
“You will give me whatever evidence you’ve found among Whitford’s possessions,” Raffaele said at last. “If you try to double-cross me—”
“I won’t,” Demidov said, exuding impatience. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a flash drive. “The originals were deleted, you have my word on it.”
Raffaele would have laughed if these were normal business negotiations, but in these circles, where there were rarely any written contracts, a man’s word meant a lot, and Roman Demidov didn’t have the reputation of someone who didn’t keep his word.
He put the flash drive in his pocket and then looked at Demidov. “I will speak to him,” he said, getting to his feet. “It might take a few days before I have an answer for you.”
“You’re welcome to stay here until you get the answer.”
Raffaele almost smiled. So for all the supposedly voluntary nature of his help, there clearly was a limit to Demidov’s trust. The Russian wanted to keep him close: both to keep an eye on him and to use him as leverage if things went sour with the Sicilian Mafia. They might be “guests,” but he wondered what Demidov would do if they attempted to leave.
“We’ll stay here,” he said, and then paused, somewhat thrown off by the use of “we.” It wasn’t a word he used often.
Shaking the strange thought off, Raffaele got to his feet and left.
He wasn’t entirely happy with how the conversation had gone—or with his own decision. There was a better, more foolproof solution to this issue. All he had to do was tell his family that Demidov knew the truth, and Marco would send his people to take care of the potential risk Demidov presented. It would be a more reliable solution than talking his father into leaving Demidov alone and hoping that the Russian was a man of his word. If anyone else found out that Marco actually gave a damn about his son, Raffaele’s comfortable life of an American businessman who didn’t need bodyguards would be over. His life would revert to the very existence that he had always loathed: the necessity of bodyguards, random kidnappings, gunfire, and blood. He’d left Italy because he was sick and tired of it. He didn’t want to be dragged back into that life.
Demidov was a threat to that. He should have eliminated the threat completely instead of choosing the less reliable route. And for what?
Because you promised Nate you’d keep him safe.
Raffaele ground his teeth, frustrated with himself. But it was true, no matter how much he’d like to deny that. If he told his father to eliminate the threat, the Russian would retaliate. It might get messy very quickly, and the likelihood of Nate being caught in the crossfire was bigger than he’d like.
Fuck, he had gotten soft. Fifteen years ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated. But it seemed living in America had changed him, for better or for worse.
Or maybe something else was the culprit.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Nate was right there when he rounded the corner. He was smiling as he talked to some pretty woman—the daughter of a businessman called Nabokov, if Raffaele remembered correctly.
His irritation only spiked at the sight of Nate’s wide smile and disgustingly kind expression. That kindness and those nice smiles were never for Raffaele, but they irritated him all the same. He wanted to wipe that smile off Nate’s lips. Preferably with his cock. He wanted to stuff it so far down Nate’s throat the annoying shit choked on it.
His cock twitched in his pants, going full mast, which only served to irritate Raffaele more.
Striding over, he grabbed Nate’s nape and yanked him into a bruising kiss. Ignoring the surprised yelp Nate let out against his lips, Raffaele shoved his tongue down his throat, fucking his infuriating mouth the way he wanted to do with his cock. It was the only socially acceptable thing he could do in public. He could hardly open his fly and push Nate to his knees and feed him his cock while the Nabokov chit stood right there. But fuck, he wanted to.
He kissed Nate harder, keeping his head still in a punishing grip as he plundered his mouth with his tongue. He liked the way his insufferable PA got all confused and submissive whenever Raffaele kissed him. It was heady.