“It will… turn it around, basically.”
“Turn it around,” I echo. “Why shouldn’t I just turn my gun around on this bastard’s fucking head?”
Corrine shakes her head emphatically. “Because then the virus would still be out there causing chaos. He did this, Tommy. He’s the one who has to fix it.”
Maybe it’s her calling me “Tommy” that softens me. A name that’s too innocent for the man I’ve become. It brings forward a thought that’s been lingering in the back of my head ever since this virus first showed itself: that maybe violence isn’t always the answer.
I’ve found myself in this weird, fucked-up world of ones and zeroes, of bits and bytes, of impossibly tangled emotions for a girl I thought I left behind.
But here’s the thing: she understands this world better than I do.
Can I trust Corinne here?
Ever since I ran away from our hometown, my life has been about taking control of my surroundings—by any means necessary. My father taught me to use my fists, my guns, my soldiers. That’s what it is to be a Bratva man. To be the derzhatel obschaka.
Might makes right. Solve problems by cracking heads. Spill blood to make your point.
But I can’t punch a virus. I can’t torture a computer.
So what is there to do? The answer is staring me in the face with big puppy dog eyes, but I don’t like it. Corinne’s plan is basically for me to take my hands off the steering wheel. Let her do what she does best.
I don’t like that shit at all. It’s not that I don’t trust her. I do. She’s smart, determined, resourceful.
But I learned ten years ago what happens when I listen to my heart, to Corinne.
And it cost my mom her life.
Fuck, I don’t know. For the first time in a long time, I’m uncertain. I haven’t been uncertain of a single goddamn thing since the day I came to find my father. This is all doing a fucking number on my head.
I’m playing with my gun again and again. Safety on, safety off. Safety on, safety off. The gun makes sense to me. It’s metallic, mechanical. I can touch it and feel it. Parts go where they’re supposed to. It has one job—to kill.
For ten years, that’s been my job too.
And now Corinne is telling me to just…sit back and watch?
I feel so tired all of the sudden. I let my head sag forward. My chin hits my chest.
“Tommy?”
I shake my head slowly. “Don’t call me Tommy,” I tell her in a strange, choked voice that doesn’t sound anything like my own.
I look up at her then. She’s beautiful. She really is. An angel I never deserved. The angel I left behind.
I reach out and touch her face. Her skin is warm and flushed under my touch. She blinks curiously but says nothing.
I need something real. Something I can touch, something I can feel me. Something that makes sense to me.
So I do the only thing I understand: I grab the back of her neck and pull her towards me. Our lips meet in a hot, clashing kiss. Her hips grind into mine as her hands scrabble against my shoulders and my cock hardens against her thigh.
Her curves press tight beneath her clothes. I want them off of her—right fucking now. Seizing her button-up blouse in two hands, I tear it apart. Buttons go flying.
Corrie gasps. “I liked that shirt!”
“Shut up,” I growl. She whimpers into my mouth as I grab her again roughly, palming a heavy breast in one hand and squeezing the front of her throat with the other.
It’s as rough and primal as anything we’ve done yet. But it feels right somehow. This is my language—two bodies colliding. Sweat. Desperate, hungry panting. Lust in its purest form.
I spin around so now she’s the one caught against the desk. She cries out again when I grab her thighs and flip her onto her back. Papers and cups of pens go crashing to the floor, but I don’t give a damn. All I care about is Corinne. About making those eyes roll back in her head. Making those toes curl. Coaxing moan after moan from between those sweet lips.
I yank the button of her slacks open and tear them down, panties too, until she’s bared before me. She starts to say something—“Tommy, I—”
But when my mouth finds her hot center, the words turn into a strangled cry. Her hands scrape at my shoulders. They draw blood. I don’t give a damn about that either.
Tonight, we’re the people we were once upon a time. We’re two lonely, passionate souls who want each other so bad that words won’t do it justice. Only our bodies can. The world is on the outside tonight. The way it used to be. There’s nothing that matters except for the next kiss, the next touch, the next groaning, shuddering orgasm.
I’m freeing myself from my pants and I’m plunging into her and she’s gasping, sharp and shallow. She’s rising up on her elbows so we can press our foreheads together and stare into each other’s eyes as we fuck the rest of the world away.
“Fuck me, Tommy,” she begs. The way she used to when we were teenagers. When this was all we had. When this was all we cared about.
We come together, hard. And then again in the shower. And a third time back in my bedroom under cover of darkness. We don’t say much. We don’t need to.
Everything important has already been said. A long, long time ago.
The next morning is a different story. My mind is still hazy with thoughts of Corinne. How she sounds when she comes on my cock—it’s like music, the chorus to a song you can’t get out of your head.
My father has no such distractions. We’re standing in a butcher shop. The smell of blood is thick, and Bogan has his blade—a kitchen knife the size of a small hatchet—poised to strike the foot off the pig he’s butchering. I’ve always known he fancied himself a butcher, but I’ve never watched or even wanted to.
“Corrine knows how to fix the problem we’re having with the Italians.” I stand back as he picks up a long thin knife and slices the pig open, then sticks his hand inside to pull out the innards. A thin spray of blood flicks my way and lands on the sleeve of my suit jacket.
He’s whistling while he works, pretending to ignore me, but he hears. And we both know it. Corrine’s plan is the only one we have and it can work, but it’s going to require Bratva resources and I can’t just demand those. Dealing with my father takes finesse, the ability to make him think he’s winning no matter what.
This time, though, I don’t have time to coddle his ego. These Italian fuckers need to be put in their place. Because now, it’s personal.
“How do I know she didn’t make the program herself?”
‘I know her’ and ‘I trust her’ aren’t phrases that will convince him. But it’s all I have. “I trust her,” I say carefully.
“Because you’re fucking her.” He sets the knife and the guts of the pig on a tray behind him then frowns at me and shakes his head. “Your cock is not a good judge of character.”
My cock has nothing to do with Corrie’s work. “Corinne is the only hope we have. She’s enlisted the people responsible for writing the program in the first place. They’re going to undo it. Reverse it.”
“How will he know? If this woman of yours is so smart, how will we be able to see that she is doing the right things?”