Mikhail

31 (R)

Never had I thought I would find myself having a cup of tea with Mogilevich, let alone feel somewhat safe doing so.

The loaded gun on my lap brought me comfort, as did the surprising lack of disgusting comments from the middle-aged man.

"You'll stay overnight," he informed me matter-of-factly, unthreateningly sipping his tea and relaxed back against the couch opposite the one I had situated myself on.

Not once had any of his men so much as aimed a gun at me and, if nasty looks were disregarded, I wasn't held as an enemy treading their grounds.

The change was too drastic and suspicious.

Mogilevich was after something.

"What do you want in return?" I cut to the chase coldly and reached my cup on to the antique coffee table between us.

I placed my gun on to the velvety material of the couch beside me, its barrel aimed at Mogilevich, and rested my hand over it.

To be alone with such a man and knowing how he had acquired his power and wealth was unnerving, and my subtle threat hadn't gone unnoticed.

I wasn't here to play games. I was here to wait for the bullet in Mikhail's arm to be removed and the wound stitched, all so he could return to me.

A light smile distorted his features, and the genuineness of it was unnatural to the point of drawing my brows down in a confused stare.

"We can talk business tomorrow," he assured me, but I gained his attention on to the gun under my hand once I shifted in my place.

"There's no time like the present," I offered confidently with a tilt of my head, "I'd prefer to know now before I stay here longer than necessary."

"I'm afraid it's wisest for you both to remain here until we've taken care of the families after you," Mogilevich countered, dark eyes focusing back on mine.

He was taking me seriously.

Then again, it's the bare minimum for him not to demean me or act in any perverted manner. I shouldn't be this surprised. The Mogilevich men were as crazy as they come.

If he was planning on defending us, I, as future head of the Wellesley empire, would be left greatly indebted to him. I couldn't risk it.

"In return, Natalia, I wish for you to reconsider working-"

I was quick to interject. He had demanded I work for him during the first time I met him, the same night he had ordered Mikhail to cut my head off, fuck it, and send it to whatever relatives I had.

"I will never work for you. The world in which I would associate myself with human trafficking doesn't exist," I gritted out firmly, my gaze narrowing at him murderously.

"I wish for you to reconsider the decision your father has made," he clarified, remaining eerily calm, "to maintain an equally beneficial and strengthening treaty, in which I could consider you an ally."

I gaped at him and the absurd proposal he so comfortably made. Guilt rendered me speechless once I found myself considering it.

Banishment and disownment wouldn't be enough if my father were to ever find out, should I accept the proposal.

"You're asking a lot," I decided slowly, and he offered me an understanding nod.

"I am, yes," he agreed, "I hope helping you out of your current situation will prove my willingness for a treaty lasting more than a few weeks."

My father had been the one to end the informal peace treaty with Mogilevich, the one we were forced to make because of my miscalculations.

The sole objection to consider reigniting peace remained his involvement in human trafficking, and knowing my father's disapproval of their family, in particular Mikhail.