After meeting a mysterious girl in his bar with a fake Dimitri cannot get her out of his mind. He wants her, needs her and will do anything to get her...
Rhea is a normal 19 year old girl who escaped to college with her 2 best friends. Her life is n...
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I shut the door to my house. Rain clinging to my hair and clothes. Immediately, I grip the bottom of my shirt pulling it off my body.
I run a hand through my thick, damp hair before throwing the shirt to the side. "Fuck" I grunt as I walk towards my bedroom.
Who thought it would be a good idea to run around in the rain without a jacket? Rhea, of course. But I obviously couldn't let my love go out like that on her own. It's too dangerous.
My shoes thud against the wooden floor until I get to my room and take them off. I peel off the rest of my clothes placing them into my laundry basket.
As I walk into the bathroom, I get a text from my phone. It is from my delivery man, sending a picture.
A picture of some pretty white roses wrapped in a blue bow and a box of the most expensive chocolates I could find.
A smile appeared on my rugged features. The thought of Rhea's face as she opens the door and sees my gift makes my heart melt.
I would burn the world if she asked.
The smile remains on my face as I shower and change into a pair of grey sweatpants.
I leave the room and lounge on the black L-shaped couch in the middle of my living room. My laptop lies on the table already open on what I want.
I take business calls for the next hour, my eyes focused on my screen. Beautiful grey eyes stare back at me. An image is displayed on the screen of Rhea.
In the picture, she's sat on a beach, her long black hair in braids, her skin golden and shimmering in the bright sun.
Rhea's plump red lips sit in a slight pout. God, the things I would do just to kiss them.
I focus back on the conversation on my phone. "Что заставляет тебя звонить в такой час, Виктор?" It is already 11:43 pm and I'm in deep need of sleep. (What makes you call at this hour, Victor?)
The line is silent for a moment before he answers, "несколько наших людей погибли, один из складов сгорел. мы считаем, что это был испанский, босс." (some of our men have been killed, one of the warehouses was burnt down. We believe it was the Spanish, boss.)
I pause. The Spanish have been an enemy of this mafia for over 3 decades. The hatred for each other runs in our blood.
My grip on the phone tightens and my voice rings out, deep and authoritative, "найдите виновных и убейте их всех. мне не нужны испанцы, бегающие по моему гребаному городу." (find the people responsible and kill them all. I don't need any Spaniards running around my fucking city.)
