CHAPTER NINE

Analise

"Just one more hour, Melissa. I promise. He's eaten, took his bath, and his iPad's fully charged."

"Analise," she laughed softly, "I told you, it's fine. Luca's an angel tonight. He's showing me how to beat his puzzle game."

I exhaled, a small wave of guilt curling in my chest. "You're sure? I really didn't plan for this to take so long."

"Positive. Honestly, he's better company than most adults I know. Smarter, too."

A smile tugged at my mouth, even as my grip on the steering wheel tightened. "I owe you another raise."

"You already pay me better than most HR managers. Take your time. And text me if anything comes up."

"Thank you. Really. I'll be back before midnight."

The line disconnected, and silence settled in the car again—tense and suffocating. I kept my eyes forward, watching as the GPS led me down a winding private road carved into the hills. Trees lined either side of the street like soldiers. Every turn was too quiet. Too rehearsed.

And then it appeared—the gates.

Tall, black, and menacing, flanked by men in all black with thick vests and polished rifles slung across their chests. Not like rent-a-cop mall guards. These men looked like they'd killed for less than a wrong turn.

One of them stepped forward as I rolled to a stop.

No words. Just a hard stare through my windshield. His eyes didn't blink.

Then, calmly, he spoke.

"Mr. Sokolov has been waiting for you."

That was all.

No questions. No ID check. Just a name that landed like a brick in my stomach.

Sokolov. Just like Sofia Sokolov.

I nodded once, too tense to speak. He tapped his comm, and the gates slid open without a sound.

I drove in.

The deeper I went, the more I realized how out of place I was. The estate wasn't just rich—it was built for power. Cold, calculated, dangerous power. The kind of money that had blood on it. Manicured hedges bordered sleek mansions that looked more like modern-day fortresses. Cameras watched every angle, guards at every turn. There were no flowers. No warmth. Just stone, metal, and paranoia. Nowander Sofia barely went home.

At the far end, a mansion loomed. Three stories of glass and marble, cruel and perfect in its symmetry. A second guard was waiting. Tattoos crawled up his throat and across his shaved head, disappearing beneath a tight black shirt that showed off arms thick enough to break someone in half.

He didn't speak either.

Just jerked his chin and turned toward the front door.

I got out, boots crunching on white gravel. My fingers itched with nerves, but I followed.

The inside was worse.

A shrine to wealth and war. The air was cold. Every surface gleamed with sterilized perfection. The floors shone like mirrors. The walls were lined with violent art—sprawling, abstract things in crimson and charcoal. They didn't need to show bodies to scream death.

The guard walked like he didn't care if I kept up. He reminded me of John. Same quiet muscle. Same heavy-footed presence. But John had something this man didn't.

A soul.

We passed hallway after hallway. I counted at least five armed guards before we reached the double doors at the end of a corridor carved in black stone.

He opened them.

And I walked into hell.

A dining room stretched out in front of me. At the far end sat a man in a white shirt, casually finishing a steak. There were flecks of red on his collar, tiny dots across the front of his shirt like someone had sneezed blood on him.

Across from him sat another man—no, slumped in a chair, arms tied behind him with cord thick enough to slice into skin. A long, thick nail was jammed straight through his left eye socket. The bone was cracked. Blood poured down his face and chest. 

I froze mid-step.

"Analise," the man said without looking up. His voice was smooth. Perfectly calm. Like we were about to have tea and talk about the weather. "You look just like Sofia described."

I didn't move.

"You're early," he added. "I like that in a woman."

I tried to breathe. 

The man lifted his eyes. Cold, grey, and lifeless. Mr. Sokolov. Sofia's father. And a psychopath, clearly.

"I see you've met Viktor," he said with a flick of his hand toward the bleeding man. "One of my employees. Thought he could pocket from our last weapons run. Thought I wouldn't notice."

The man tied to the chair whimpered. His right eye—still intact—rolled wildly, tears streaking down his bloodied cheek.

I turned.

I don't know if I was planning to run or throw up, but the guards at the door didn't let me go anywhere.

"Sit," Sokolov said, voice flat.

"I don't—"

"Sit."

I stood there, shaking. My legs wouldn't move.

"Let me explain something, since you've come into my house asking for protection," he said as he stood, picking up a heavy nail gun from the table beside his wine glass. "This is what happens when people disrespect me."

"No—no, please!" the man cried. "I swear, I didn't—please, I have a family—"

The first nail shot through the center of his forehead.

I screamed.

It wasn't just the sound. It was the way his body jerked. The way his arms tried to pull against the restraints before going limp. The wet thunk of skull giving way.

Another shot.

Then another.

Until there was no face left. Just bone, blood, and metal nails.

Sokolov wiped his hands with a napkin. Calm. Clinical.

"Get rid of the trash," he told the guards.

They came and dragged the man's body away, leaving a sticky trail across the marble.

"Pull out a chair for Miss Analise," he said next. "And get the chef to bring her a plate."

I didn't move.

He raised his glass. "You're in my world now. You'll eat, we'll discuss your husband. I will help you find him. But you'll follow my rules. Or you'll end up like Viktor."

…

Ivan's POV

She stood by the window, wrapped in a towel that clung to the curves of her wet body. Her skin was still glistening from the shower. 

I sat on the edge of the bed, bare-chested, watching her.

"You don't have to do anything," I said. "I meant what I said earlier. This can be a business deal. You don't owe me a thing."

She didn't answer.

"You're free to find someone else, if you need to," I added. "As long as it's private. Don't embarrass me and I won't care who you fuck."

Her lips twitched.

"You really don't care?" she asked quietly.

She stepped forward.

And let the towel drop.

Every part of her was bare and goddamn dangerous. She was a beautiful woman. I swallowed hard as she crossed the room slowly, hips swaying like she knew exactly what it was doing to me.

When she stopped in front of me, she brought her eyes down to mine. 

"There's no one else I'd rather have fuck me," she whispered. "Everywoman in the mafia talks praises of you. They all want you. Every woman you've ever taken to bed speaks of your cock and the magic of it. I think it's my turn, I think I deserve a night of pleasure with my husband.''

She stood between my legs, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"You don't have to do this," I said flatly, dragging my gaze over her chest, down to the soft curve of her waist. "Say no now, or don't say it later."

"I want to," she said. "I want you to fuck me."

Her voice didn't shake.

Still, I made it clear. "You can stop whenever you want. You don't owe me anything just because you're my wife."

"I'm not stopping."

Good enough.

I grabbed her waist and turned her around, pushing her down onto the bed. She let out a quiet breath, back arching as I pulled my pants down again, my cock already hard. 

I shoved her legs apart and ran my fingers over her pussy. Wet. 

"I got myself off in the shower thinking of you.'' She murmured, biting her lip. 

I smirked, she moaned when I slid two fingers in. Tight. She clenched around me like she'd been waiting for this all night.

"Beg for it," I muttered, lining myself up.

"Please," she whispered, looking back at me over her shoulder. "Please fuck me."

I pushed in.

Slow. Deep. Her body took it inch by inch, and her mouth dropped open as she gripped the sheets.

She made a sound—half gasp, half sigh—and I started to move.

Her pussy clung to every inch of me. I drove in harder, grabbing her hips, watching the way her body rocked forward each time I slammed into her.

She kept moaning my name like it meant something. Like I meant something.

I didn't.

I watched her back arch, her fingers clawing at the sheets. Her pussy tightening around me.

And I felt nothing but the heat.

Nothing but the slick drag of her cunt around my cock and the pressure building low in my gut.

She looked over her shoulder again, eyes wide, lips parted.

She wanted connection.

I wanted silence.

So I fucked her harder, faster, chasing the end.

Her cries got louder. She trembled. Came around my cock with a strangled moan.

I didn't slow down. I gripped her ass, slammed into her one last time, and came with a grunt, spilling inside her.

I pulled out, catching my breath.

She turned, smiling, reaching for me like we were going to fall asleep in each other's arms.

Instead I grabbed a towel and wiped myself clean. When I looked down at her, she wasn't Analise. She wasn't her. Those few minutes of pleasure had helped me forget. Perhaps, after two years, this was a sign that I was finally moving on. 

"You can sleep here," I said, already walking toward the bathroom.