“We would both feel better with my men in tow.”
“Your men will fuck things up.”
My wife has a way of striking all my chords at once. But she doesn’t need to know she just did that.
“Does Berkowitz have any undercover experience?” I ask.
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“Yes, you do.”
She grimaces and then loosens her arms slightly. “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him about any of that.”
“Who do you trust more to carry out a hit on a mob boss? A cop or a criminal?”
Her eyes flutter away. Her shoulders droop. Her hands drift down her arms and clutch her elbows. Her defenses are dropping quickly. I just have to keep poking until she realizes how much she needs me—how she’ll flail without me.
She suddenly meets my gaze. “No one is doing any hits, Pavel. They’re going to arrest everyone, and we can get Zoya out the right way. The legal way. The way it’s supposed to be done.”
“That’s not happening, Liya. You know that.”
She shakes her head. “I know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re mocking me. Tearing me down because that’s the only way you’ll get what you want.”
I pin her to the door with my eyes. That’s all it takes with Liya. It works every time. She always folds under my gaze. But not today.
She licks her lips and straightens her posture. “I’m not an idiot, Pavel. I know what I’m doing.”
Her hands climb to her shoulders again. Her stance might resemble that of prey, but her eyes are those of a predator—sharp, intuitive, ready to strike. She’s strong. It’s what makes me want to protect her. It’s also what makes me want to shake her up.
I watch. I wait. I listen.
When she doesn’t respond, I shrug. “I expected more from you.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s tough, isn’t it?”
Her features contort. “What are you talking about?”
I close the distance between us, trailing my thumb over her throat. Her response elicits a primal urge to shove my cock into her mouth. Maybe then she’ll shut up about her way being the only way.
Maybe then she’ll understand where she belongs: beneath me if she can’t handle standing beside me.
I tap her throat. “Tell me something, Liya.” My thumb rises to her chin. “Who is the pakhan of the Suvorov Bratva?” I grip her chin lightly. “You or me?”
Darkness crowds her features. The confusion is gone. In its place is a sharp and articulate expression, one that both infuriates me and ignites my senses. Her breathing steadies and she stops shaking, standing tall away from the door.
She’s either going to fight me or fuck me.
She pushes my hand away. “Fuck you.”
I squint, trying not to smile. I guess she wants to fight me.
Which means I struck a chord this time.