Page 86 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
His hand slides between us, his fingers finding my clit and rubbing in tight circles. The added stimulation makes me gasp, my movements becoming more erratic as pleasure builds.
His fingers press harder, and that's all it takes. My orgasm crashes through me, my body clenching around him as waves of pleasure roll through me. I cry out, my nails digging into his good shoulder as I ride out the sensation.
Andrey follows moments later, his hips jerking up as he spills inside me. His grip on my hip is bruising, possessive, and I love every damn second of it.
We stay like that for several minutes, tangled together, our breathing slowly returning to normal. Then his phone buzzes on the desk, shattering the moment.
He reaches for it, his expression shifting from satisfied to serious as he reads the message. "It's from Matvey. The meeting with the other Pakhans is set for tomorrow."
40
ANDREY
The restaurant sits in neutral territory, a place where blood doesn't spill no matter how heated the conversation gets. It's an unspoken rule among the families, one of the few agreements that holds across every faction. The building is old brick and dark wood, expensive but understated, the kind of place where deals are made over vodka and rare steaks.
I arrive early with my most trusted men flanking me. The private dining room is already filling when we enter. Pakhans from every major family in the city are here, their own security spread throughout the restaurant. The air is thick with tension and expensive cologne. These men don't trust each other, but they respect the rules of this place enough to show up.
I take my seat at the head of the long table, my back to the wall so I can see every face in the room. The conversations die down as the last few arrivals settle into their chairs. I let the silence stretch, let them wait. Power isn't just about who speaks first. It's about who controls the room before a single word is said.
Finally, I lean forward, my hands flat on the table. "Thank you for coming."
A few nods, but most just stare, waiting to see what this is about.
"I called this meeting to make something very clear." My voice is calm, controlled. "My wife, Mariya Pushkin Melnikov, is off limits. To everyone."
Murmurs ripple through the room. I see skepticism on several faces, outright hostility on others. One of the older Pakhans, a thick-shouldered man who runs the docks, leans back in his chair.
"Your wife is Yegor Pushkin's daughter," he says, his accent thick. "That makes her everyone's business."
"She's mywife," I correct, my tone hardening. "That makes hermybusiness. Andminealone."
Another Pakhan speaks up, younger but no less dangerous. "Pushkin betrayed the Bratva. He testified against our operations, destroyed families, and sent good men to prison. His daughter carries that blood."
"Mariya hasn't seen her father since before he testified and sent her to America," I say flatly. "She was eighteen years old when he abandoned her. She has no contact with him, no knowledge of where he is, and no loyalty to the man who destroyed her childhood."
"You expect us to believe that?" The man's voice drips with doubt. "A daughter doesn't forget her father."
"Believe what you want." I meet his gaze without flinching. "But if anyone touches her, if anyone threatens her, if anyoneso much aslooksat her the wrong way, I will consider it a declaration of war against my family."
The room erupts. Voices rise in argument, some agreeing, others protesting. I let them talk, let them get it out of their systems. But I'm watching faces, cataloging who seems most resistant, who might be stupid enough to test me.
When the noise finally dies down, I speak again. "I understand your concerns. I know what Pushkin did. But Mariya is innocent. She's paid for her father's sins her entire life, and I won't allow her to keep paying."
"Pretty words," another Pakhan mutters. "But words don't change blood."
I'd prepared for this, knew that some of them wouldn't be convinced by logic or appeals to fairness. These men respect one thing above all else. Strength. And sometimes, strength requires a demonstration.
I gesture to one of my captains, who moves to the door and opens it. Two of my guards drag a man into the room. He's young, maybe thirty, with dark hair and wild eyes. His hands are bound behind his back, and there's a fresh bruise on his jaw.
The room goes silent.
"This is Pavel Sokolov," I say, standing. "He became Pakhan of the Sokolov family six months ago after his father died. Last week, he made inquiries about my wife. Asked questions about her schedule, her movements, and where she goes when she's not with me."
Pavel's eyes widen. "I was just curious! I didn't mean anything by it!"
"Curiosity," I say quietly, pulling my weapon from its holster, "has consequences."
I don't give him time to beg. I raise the gun and fire once, the shot echoing through the room. Pavel's head snaps back, blood spraying across the expensive carpet as his body crumples to the floor.
