Just a Bit Bossy by Alessandra Hazard

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 18

 

 

As he sat across from Roman Demidov in the man’s office, Raffaele felt more annoyed than anything else. He’d left his old life behind for a reason. He didn’t enjoy negotiations like this.

He’d always been a good negotiator. He was good at making people bend to his will. It was a quality that made him a good businessman. But these weren’t just business negotiations. The stakes were much higher here.

It had been over a decade since he’d had to deal with men like Demidov—dangerous, unbending, and unpredictable.

It didn’t mean he’d forgotten how to.

Raffaele let the silence fall, watching Demidov patiently and keeping his expression neutral. The Russian had the reputation of a ruthless man, but that didn’t worry him. He’d been surrounded by men like this since before he could walk. In many ways, their backgrounds were similar, and if it was true that Demidov wanted to leave that part of his life behind, then they really had a lot more in common with each other. But a leopard never changed its spots, even if it wanted to pretend to be a harmless cat. Raffaele didn’t delude himself into thinking that this man wasn’t dangerous or wouldn’t use him for his own gain if he let him.

The silence stretched.

Finally, Demidov sighed, his blue eyes steady on him. “I think it’s time we speak candidly,” he said.

Raffaele just gave a nod. They had been skirting around the subject for the past few days, conversing only in the presence of others about the business deal Demidov was suggesting—one that had nothing to do with the real reason he was here. It was well past time for them to speak candidly. Raffaele had had the time to evaluate Demidov, and Demidov had likely done the same.

“I want you to convince your father to leave me alone,” Demidov finally said, his tone as cold as his gaze. “I have made it clear to him that I’m done doing that sort of business, but he’s—dissatisfied and insists that I’m breaking our deal, leaving him without networks in Russia, Eastern Europe, and Central Asia.”

“And he can’t let it go if he doesn’t want to look weak,” Raffaele said, suppressing a sigh. Marco’s pride had always been one of his greatest flaws.

Demidov nodded, his gaze sharp and assessing. “Frankly, it’s something I can handle myself if push comes to shove, but I’ve been careful to keep my hands clean while I dealt with my other associates, and this is the last one. I’d like to wrap it up without unnecessary… complications. I’m sure you understand what I mean.”

Raffaele did, somewhat surprised but careful not to show it. So it was true that Demidov wanted to distance himself from his criminal roots. This issue with the Sicilian Mafia was something that could be resolved by hiring a few talented hitmen, but Demidov was clearly unwilling to risk it, since he wanted to become an upstanding citizen. Raffaele idly wondered what had motivated this man to do it. He doubted Demidov had had a sudden change of heart. Men like him generally didn’t. Whatever his motives were, they were likely selfish. Just like his own had been.

“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.

Someone cleared their throat awkwardly, and Raffaele reluctantly broke the kiss. Except Nate didn’t let him, his lips clinging to Raffaele’s and sucking on his tongue in a way that nearly made him come in his pants like a green boy. Fuck, this was getting out of hand. A mere kiss shouldn’t do this to him, regardless of the Ferrara libido. No matter how many times Nate sucked his cock, Raffaele wanted more.

Maybe he should just fuck the guy. Push him under him, spread his legs, and take him.

The thought was ridiculously appealing, even though he’d never even entertained fucking another man.

Raffaele broke the kiss, ignoring the whimper Nate let out, and glanced around. The Nabokov chit was gone. He looked back at Nate and studied his flushed face.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he stated.

Nate’s glassy eyes widened. “Fuck off,” he said hoarsely, licking his red, swollen, pretty lips.

Raffaele had to kiss them again.

He felt a rush of vicious satisfaction when Nate immediately opened his mouth for his tongue, his hands clutching at Raffaele’s shirt.

When they broke the kiss again to get some air into their lungs, he said against Nate’s mouth, “It’s going to happen. I always get what I want.”

Nate huffed. “Not this time,” he said. “Do you even hear yourself? We’re both straight.”

“So what?” Raffaele said, nipping on his bottom lip. “How is that different from sucking my cock?”

“It’s easy for you to say,” Nate said with a chuckle, his lips trembling, his hand gripping Raffaele’s shirt tightly. “Stop that. Stop kissing me. No one’s here.”

Raffaele forced his heavy-lidded eyes open and stared at his assistant from a few inches away. Nate’s eyes were closed, his cheeks flushed pink and his mouth red and shiny from his kisses.

He wanted to fuck him.

He had to fuck him. He didn’t give a shit that Nate was a man too. He wanted to shove Nate under him and rut into him, take him like an animal would take a fertile bitch.

“Come on,” he said hoarsely, not even recognizing his own voice.

Grabbing Nate’s wrist, he pulled him toward their room.

Nate let him.