Desperate crimes, p.2
Desperate Crimes, page 2
part #1 of Mergers & Acquisitions Series
But now it’s our turn.
Sure, we’ve had successes.
Done our thing side by side, but this?
This could finally bring our families together in a way that sticks.
“This is it, Sammy boy. My plan to bring our families together,” I say, leaning back in my chair as I glance toward the glowing map on the screen.
“A true Viper and Volkov union.”
He nods, his dark eyes sharp.
“I agree, Junior. It’s the best thing for both of us on this project. It could be big. Close the gap between us.”
I nod like we’re on the same page.
And we are—about the deal.
About the land.
About the opportunity.
About the politics.
But there’s something he doesn’t know. Something I keep locked behind steel.
I’m not just thinking about business.
I’m thinking about her.
Leanna Volkov.
Sammy’s first cousin.
I’ve been watching her for years.
Ever since she showed up at one of those charity galas in a clinging dress when she was barely legal.
The woman makes my world tilt off its axis.
But it’s more than obsession now.
It’s need. It’s inevitability. Destiny.
She’s mine.
And I don’t give a fuck if her family takes kindly to a snake in their midst.
I’ll wear the label.
I’ll hiss and bare fangs if I have to.
But no one—no one—is going to come between me and the woman who was born to be mine.
The secure line rings once before Gianni Caas picks up, and once more I am focused on this deal.
Smarmy bastard probably thinks he’s doing me a favor by answering this late.
“Fury,” he drawls. “And Ramirez. You boys don’t waste time, do you?”
“Time is currency,” I say. “Let’s talk status.”
“Everything is as it should be,” he replies, too smooth. Too calm. “My people have nearly wrapped it. Ministers are satisfied. The corridor’s cleared. We’re at ninety-nine percent.”
“Ninety-nine isn’t good enough,” I tell him flatly. “I want the signatures. I want the deeds. I want that land locked down by the time I touch foreign soil.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then, “You’ll have them. Final pieces are falling into place. Just need a few more months. You know how politics works—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I know how leverage works. You stall, and I yank yours.”
His silence stretches this time.
I let it.
I end the call.
Sammy lifts an eyebrow. “You trust him?”
“I trust that I’ve got my hand around his windpipe.” I rise from my chair and turn away, scanning the map again.
He thinks this deal is about power.
Wealth.
Legacy.
And it is.
But what he doesn’t know is that the true merger—the only one I care about—is already underway.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
But soon, Leanna Volkov will carry my name.
And when that happens?
There won’t be any more lines between Fury and Volkov.
Because I’m going to make her mine in every way that counts.
And God help anyone who tries to stop me.
Chapter One-Nico Jr
Present Day (Summer)—On the Parkway Just After Lucy and Balor’s Party
Did I plan to kidnap the object of my obsession from Balor Cruz and Lucy Volkov’s backyard premiere party?
Not exactly.
It practically dropped into my lap, wrapped in red silk and stardust like a gift the universe owed me.
One moment, Leanna Volkov is laughing under the string lights like some untouchable fairy queen—lips glossed, throat bare, champagne in one hand, her red dress hugging every goddamn curve like it was stitched by sin itself.
She glows.
Radiates.
Like the world was made to orbit her.
And all I can think is mine.
She twirls beneath the stars, completely unaware.
Unaware that the devil is watching her.
Not just watching. Calculating.
Because she doesn't know the rules have already changed.
She doesn’t know I stopped being patient the second I saw her looking so free, so perfect, so ripe for taking.
The devil, of course, is me.
And the next moment?
She’s walking to her car—which just so happens to be parked beside mine.
Alone.
Stupidly, blissfully alone.
She never sees me coming.
I move like a shadow—silent, sure, ready—and press the needle to her soft skin, my other hand covering her mouth before she can let out so much as a whimper.
Two breaths.
That’s all it takes for the sedative to kick in.
I catch her before she hits the ground. Gather her up in my arms like the precious fucking treasure she is.
Then, I slide her into the passenger seat of my SUV, her head resting against the pillow I placed there hours ago, just in case.
Because I hoped.
Because I knew.
I leave her keys tucked just beneath her front tire and send one quick text to one of my most trusted men, who will know what to do.
Her car will vanish without a trace. Just like she did.
By the time anyone notices she’s gone, I’ll be halfway to the estate I built for her.
Now she’s in my car.
Unconscious.
Breathing softly.
Head lolled to the side like a sleeping beauty caught in a dream.
My Princess.
Keyword is, of course, mine.
My hands are steady, but my heart is pounding.
I lick my lips, and glance at her just for a second.
I can’t stare long because I’m driving. And I’m always careful when I drive. But even more so now because she’s here with me.
Finally.
I should feel guilty, maybe.
Shame. Fear.
But I don’t.
I feel nothing but calm. Well, and some excitement.
This was inevitable.
Like a force of nature.
Nothing and no one could have stopped it.
And really, they never should’ve let her out of their sight.
Because now? She’s where she belongs.
Under my control.
Wrapped in the dark I've curated just for her.
The SUV cuts through the winding coastal roads of the Jersey Shore, tires eating up asphalt slick with salt and shadow.
I take the long route—not because I have to, but because I want to savor this.
The silence. The anticipation. Her.
Every breath she takes, soft and shallow beside me, is a goddamn miracle wrapped in velvet and sin.
We’re heading to the estate I built with her in mind.
Not a safe house. Not a bunker.
A fortress.
A sanctuary.
The picture-perfect mansion.
And it’s all for her.
Every square inch of it tailored to her taste—black roses everywhere, especially in the garden, because she once paused too long in front of a bouquet at that charity gala, blackout drapes in the main suite in the exact shade of her lipstick, a clawfoot tub big enough for two because she likes to soak, and a library because she loves to read.
I noticed.
I always notice.
It’s a place no one knows about—because no one deserves to.
Not yet.
Not until she accepts it.
Not until she walks barefoot through those marble halls, touches the furniture I picked out with her in mind, curls up in the bed I’ve never slept in—because it wasn’t real until she was in it.
I didn’t build her a gilded cage.
I’m not pretending to be some white knight galloping in to rescue the damsel.
That’s not who I am.
Never was. Never will be.
I’m the exact opposite.
I’m the monster they warned her about in bedtime stories—the shadow behind the curtain, the one who waits, who plans.
I’m a real chip off the old block, born of blood and raised to rule my empire of steel and cement, my kingdom of lies, without mercy.
Fury is my name.
Nico Jr. to be exact.
You've heard of my father?
Yeah, you have.
Well, I’m worse.
The crowned prince of Viper Enterprises.
Heir to the empire my father built alongside my uncles—Luc and Angel.
Men who didn’t inherit power, they took it. Bent the world to their will.
And me? I’m like the upgraded version of those three menaces.
Because I was born with advantages my father and uncles had to claw through the dirt and blood to earn.
Things they bled for. Killed for. Things my mother nearly died protecting.
I didn’t waste what they gave me—I sharpened it.
Refined it.
While the world underestimated me, I studied.
I mastered the law, every loophole, every clause, every technicality that could be twisted into a weapon.
Now when they try to bust us?
I’m the one who walks into courtrooms with a smile and walks out with verdicts that reshape the game.
I know how to play by the rules—but it’s more than that.
I own them.
I rewrite them.
I make new ones.
I’ve got more judges in my pocket than a gambler has poker chips.
More politicians answering my calls than they do their constituents.
I grease the gears of the system with quiet favors and untraceable accounts, and in return?
I get power that doesn’t need blood on its hands—unless I want it there.
Unlike all these new wannabes, men who think they’re the new John Gotti, trying to climb the ladder, I don’t need to posture.
When I want to get something done? I don’t even need to leave a trail of bodies behind me.
I can smile across a boardroom table and gut a man’s future with a signature.
I can destroy legacies with a well-timed phone call.
But don’t mistake that for softness.
Just because I’ve got polish doesn’t mean I won’t get dirty.
I’ll wade through blood if I have to.
Break bones. Shatter kneecaps. Crush windpipes with my bare hands if it means protecting what’s mine.
I can and I have.
My father taught me how.
He sees it every time I take things further than he ever dared.
I’ve made him proud—not just by expanding the empire, but by proving that I’m willing to do whatever it takes.
No hesitation. No flinching.
The OG Vipers—my dad, Luc, and Angel—they built the kingdom with fists and fire.
They clawed their way through a world that tried to bury them, and they came out gods.
But me?
I’m building a dynasty.
A legacy soaked in power, sharpened by strategy, and yes—stained with blood when necessary.
I don’t fear violence.
I understand it.
Respect it.
Use it like a scalpel or a hammer, depending on the mission and maybe even the day of the week.
Right now, there is only one thing that matters.
Leanna Volkov.
Chapter Two-Nico Jr
I have been building to this moment for years,
Now it’s here. She is here. In my car.
And if anyone tries to fuck with that?
With her?
I’ll crack the sky open with my rage.
I'll turn the oceans red.
I’ll cut the tongue out of anyone who so much as whispers her name with disrespect.
I’ll bury entire bloodlines for the price of her safety.
Because she isn’t just some spoiled heiress or pretty face.
She’s the pulse in my throat.
The obsession in my bones.
The one I chose.
And men like me? We don’t ask permission.
We take.
So let the world watch.
Let them whisper about how far I’ve fallen.
They haven’t seen me fall.
Not yet.
Because the only time I go to my knees is when I’m putting her crown where it belongs—on her head, bloodied and blazing.
My Princess.
Mine.
Leanna has been the object of my obsession since the day I allowed myself to admit it—just before she left for college with stars in her eyes and her hair in a ponytail like she wasn’t already crawling under my skin.
I call her Princess, yeah.
It suits her.
But the truth?
She’s a fucking queen.
My queen.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
Even if she fights it at first.
Queens don’t get to choose their kings in my world.
They’re claimed.
Crowned.
Kept.
And I plan to keep her right by my side.
But first, I need to get her addicted.
She stirs. Softly.
A whisper of sound, a flutter of lashes.
My grip tightens on the wheel. It’s too early for her to wake yet, but I took precautions.
I let go with one hand and reach for the bag with the chloroform-soaked rag.
I don’t want to use it.
It feels cheap and dirty.
The measurements I took of her and the drug I used to sedate her should be enough.
This is just in case.
I frown and wait, see if she’ll stir some more before I press it to her sweet face.
Her eyelashes flutter again but she’s still out.
Good.
“No waking up yet, Princess. Soon,” I whisper, dropping the bag with the handkerchief.
When it’s tucked away, I can’t resist brushing my finger across her cheek.
I wonder if she’ll cry when she wakes.
I kind of hope she does.
Not because I want her hurt. But because I want her raw.
Open. Bleeding. Real.
The world’s never let her be real.
She was born into silk sheets and million-dollar smiles.
Taught to walk like a Volkov, talk like a Volkov, seduce like a Volkov.
I watched her master every move, every smirk, every fake giggle designed to kill a man.
But me? I see the cracks.
The loneliness in her eyes.
The hunger she never let show.
She tries to hide it behind smiles with the girls and casual flirtations with men who aren’t good enough to touch her.
Pretty boys. Safe boys. Soft.
But she doesn’t need safe.
She needs me.
And yeah, I waited. Watched. Endured.
Through the debutante years, the security details, the fucking trips to Vegas, Milan, London, and Paris.
I watched her grow.
Saw her bloom.
While I sharpened myself into the kind of monster who could hold her without flinching.
And now?
Now I’m done waiting.
She looked too fucking perfect tonight.
Too ripe.
Too tempting.
The way her dress dipped between her breasts like a dare.
The way her hair fell in those soft, deliberate waves made for a man’s fist.
The way she smiled. Like the world was hers for the taking.
Well, it’s not. Not without me, anyway.
She’s mine.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
But she will.
She’ll learn that obsession is a kind of worship.
That the dark doesn’t always mean danger—it can mean devotion.
That I’ve sculpted a world with her at the center, and I will burn down anything that tries to steal her from me.
Even her own name.
If I have to lie? I’ll do it.
If I have to chain her heart to mine with silk or steel? I’ve got both.
If I have to make her forget everything but my touch? I’m already making plans.
She’ll scream, sure.
Fight me. Hate me.
But love—real love—isn’t soft.
It doesn’t come in daylight.
It’s made in blood and tears and need.
And she’ll need me.
She already does.
She’ll love me.
If I have to use every trick I know and invent a few more? That’s fine with me.
So, let them all rage.
Let Adrik Volkov hunt.
Let the whole goddamn world come knocking.
They won’t find her.
Not until she’s broken open and remade by my hands.
Because Leanna Volkov doesn’t belong to the world anymore.
She belongs to me.
Finally.
Chapter Three-Leanna
Present—At Lucy and Balor’s Party
“I don’t know what you mean, Mom,” I say, careful to keep my tone light as I sip my drink.
Sweet. Fizzy. Not strong enough.
I’m twenty-four, but she still treats me like her baby. But I know she loves me, so I let her.
Across the patio, string lights glow warm and golden, casting a soft, dreamy haze over the whole affair.
Laughter bubbles from the corner where Lucy’s cousins are gathered near the fire pit, and Balor and his new acquisition, a reggaeton star named El Tigre, huddle near the bar, all broad shoulders and expensive watches.
Beside them are their wives. My cousin Lucy looks at her husband like he hangs the moon, and I’m happy for her, I am. But I can’t help but envy her a little bit.
She’s always been blessed, though with looks, brains, and charm. Not that it’s always been easy for her. I know that.
But now? She has it all.
The house. The husband. The dream. This party.
It’s beautiful. Loud. Perfect.
Maybe a little too perfect.
My mother studies me over the rim of her wineglass, eyes sharp behind her lashes.
