Chapter 1
Stepping out of the bathroom, the sight of the naked blonde still in his bed, her voluptuous body only partially covered with the navy sheet, causes his ire to flare at that exact fact, she is still in his bed. They know the deal, the women he sleeps with, and he makes it very clear to each and every one of them before he even lays a single finger on them: One night, no repeats, and definitely no morning after.
“Out,” the one-word command doesn’t hold an ounce of emotion as he purposefully strolls to his bedside table, his attention on his phone alerting him to a new message, ignoring the blonde’s sultry stare.
“Baby,” her nasally voice drags out the word, the sound grating on his ears, rendering himself grateful that she was face down in the pillow for most of the night, “don’t be like that,” she continues her shameless attempt at seduction, slowly crawling towards him like a sensual panther, “How about you go do whatever you need to and I’ll wait for you right here,” she straightens onto her knees, walking her fingers down his bare chest, “then we can continue last night’s fun.”
Grabbing her wrist before it reaches its intended destination, he questions, an edge to his tone which the woman doesn’t seem to notice, “What’s your name?”
“Gloria,” she purrs, seemingly not phased that he doesn’t know her name.
“Gloria?” he questions again, wanting to know her surname as well.
“Gloria Griffith,” she gasps as he grabs her free wrist, pulling her into his hard chest as he angles her arm behind her back, both of her wrists now restrained.
“Well, Gloria Griffith,” he hisses in her ear, leaving no doubt of his resolve, “I do recall making myself very clear at the club last night regarding my stance on the women I invite into my bed. Now, get out!”
Without further consideration, he steps away from the now annoyed blonde and makes his way to his walk-in closet, her tone cementing her chagrin as she asks, all attempts at seduction gone, “Can I at least use your bathroom before I go?”
“You have two minutes,” he states bluntly without even glancing her way, bringing his phone to his ear, “Nikolai, meet me in my office in ten minutes, I just received a message from my mother, Roman is coming for a visit.”
The curse spilling from Nikolai’s lips would have been amusing if he didn’t share the sentiment, having his father in the same country, not to mention the same city, is never a good omen. To put it plainly, he hates the man. He hates him to his very core.
For years he looked up to the man, almost worshipped him as a kid, hung on every word the old man spoke, watched every calculative move he made, every waking moment he spent learning from his father how to be a feared and powerful leader. Because as the only son of Roman Volkov, unequalled Russian mafia leader, there is no other way to be. As the future head of the organization, he needed to be feared by all, he needed to be ruthless, merciless, unconquerable, he needed to be just like his father. He wanted to be like his father. He followed his father’s teachings without question, obeyed every order, whether it was to sit in his office with him and learn about the boring administrative side of running an organization like theirs, or to get information through torture, learning how to use his deprived imagination to come up with new ways to extract that information, or to follow an order to kill, without hesitation, without remorse.
But his blind admiration for his father came to an abrupt end the day he found out about the true circumstances surrounding his sister’s marriage. Fury wasn’t a strong enough emotion to describe how he felt when he learned about the abuse, and not only did his sister suffer constant beatings, but their two young kids were made to witness it every time. Needless to say, her husband didn’t breathe for long after it all came to light, but what made his rage rival that of the devil himself, was when his sister revealed that their father knew, he knew and aided and encouraged his worthless piece of shit son-in-law, believing his daughter was too strong-willed for a female and needed to know her place.
He often wondered why his mother always acted so meek in front of his father but do a one-eighty as soon as she was alone with him and his sister, and then he realized the reason: His father did to his mother what his sister’s husband did to her. The only difference was that his mother summitted before he was even born.
The need for retribution pulsed through his veins at the revelation, retribution for his mother, for his sister, and for her kids, and in that moment, he made a vow to himself, he vowed to ensure his father’s downfall, even if it took him a life time.
That was ten years ago, ten years of building his own mafia army, cementing his reputation as the one player in their world of violence and crime you do not want to cross, the one who always comes out on top, the most dangerous, a formidable leader. He spent the last ten years honing his skills, both mental and physical, conditioning himself to be superior in every aspect needed to always be one step ahead of his enemy. And to this day, his father doesn’t know the true reason why he left Russia, why he wanted to ‘spread his wings and conquer the world’. All Roman Volkov is able to see through his drowning greed for more power, is his flesh and blood who has ascended the metaphorical throne of the underworld.
Walking out of his closet, dressed in his usual casual suit with his shirt buttoned only half way, he scans his room and then the bathroom to see the blonde has gone, leaving his bathroom a mess as a pissed off parting gift. The sentiment makes him smirk at the strewn towels and emptied contents of the waste basket, the latter drawing his attention.
“The devious bitch!” he curses, his discarded protection from last night’s escapades with the blonde, or rather this morning’s, seeing that they only came back from the club at 4am, is gone. Furious, he storms from the room and dials Mikhail’s number. There’s only one reason a tenacious woman like her would steal a rich and powerful man’s used protection filled with his sperm, unfortunately for her, it seems like she is as dumb as she is blonde.
“Dimitri,” Mikhail answers in his usual cheery voice, and generally he doesn’t mind his third-in-command’s joyful disposition, a complete contrast to the world they all live in, but this morning it only aids to fuel his fury.
“Gloria Griffith, find her, now!” he barks, his jaws clenched so tight it feels like he might dislocate it at the joint any moment now.
This isn’t the first time a woman tried to get pregnant with his child, it has happened twice already. The first time the woman poked holes in the protection they were going to use, unlucky for her, he has cameras everywhere. The second time the woman, who incidentally was also a blonde, from a bottle, actually, the first one was as well, she tried to convince him to forego protection, insisting she was on birth-control. But taking his bloody sperm out of the damn trash! For some delusional reason they think that he will marry them or some shit if they turn out to be pregnant with his child, damn be the child because he can guarantee that nannies will play the role of mother, all they want is to be the wife of the most dangerous man on the continent.
“Found her,” Mikhail cuts through his blustering thoughts, drawing his attention back to his phone still pressed to his ear, “She’s at a women’s clinic on Edison Road, mid-town.”
Shit! “Be there in twenty minutes, and get emergency contraceptive meds on your way,” he doesn’t wait for a reply before ending the call, phoning Nikolai again with the order, “Meet me up front.”
