I couldn't believe it. Patrick hurt someone. The very thought threw Nickola's confession out the window. He wasn't a God, he was no saint, he was a killer.

Once we were in the car, Patrick started to undress. He pulled off his jacket and then yanked off his tie. I tried to force my gaze away, but I just couldn't.

My mouth slightly dropped when I looked at him. There was a scar cutting across from his middle ab down to his pelvis like he had been sliced by a knife. The skin that outlined the back of his rib cage and under his arm was all uneven and I couldn't even begin to make out how he got them. The words, and was tattooed along his breast bone reminding me of Piero's tattoos. He had a fleur-de-lis tattooed on his hip, the symbol black and solid. There was another tattoo on his shoulder but I couldn't make it out.

"Okay, show and tell is over," he told me, throwing on another white dress shirt, "I mean, unless you wanted to share?"

I groaned, pissed off that he was able to make me feel this way just by simple words and yet, he was the monster here. He was the one that could go to prison not me.

"You killed that person, didn't you?" I questioned not being able to look him in the eye, "the one that you had."

He was silent, figuring out whether or not he should lie to me.

"I put him out of his misery," he answered.

"So, you killed him?" I scoffed, turning my head to face him.

"He begged me too, so I did as he wished," he argued, annoyed that I wasn't seeing him as some hero, "trust me, he's better off dead."

"And how do you make that out?" I snapped.

"That low life is responsible for the cops showing up at the docks last night putting two of my guys in hospital and killing one of Egor Volkov's. Trust me, what I offered him was an escape from Egor's rathe."

I sat there, my mouth opened. I was shocked, mostly because it made sense. But I refused to let him be right.

"Where are we going now?" I asked bitterly, over today.

"We're going to Egor's office," he told me, fixing up his sleeves.

"Why?" I frowned.

"To make sure that there's no bad blood between us," he said simply.

Of course.

We arrived at the New York high raise in fifteen minutes. I froze, not being able to move. Last time I got out of this car, a part of my world came crashing down. I didn't want it to happen again.

"Are you coming?" Patrick asked, just about to open his door.

I didn't answer him.

"Eliza, your coming inside even if I have to pull you out in front of everyone on the street," he warned.

His threat wasn't why I opened the door and got out though I'm sure he thought that. I couldn't take anymore pushing and shoving.

Patrick got out of the car and joined me on the busy New York side walk. He looked less formal without his jacket and tie which was just annoying because he looked even hotter. I stood with my arms crossed, refusing to look at his proud face.

"Come on," he ordered, gesturing towards the doors of the big building.

I groaned, rolled my eyes but followed the direction of Patrick's hand.

I was quite shocked when I got inside. It didn't look like the work place of a Russian drug lord. It was light with a wall of windows, facing the street. There was a reception when you first walked in and just to the left was a small room that held a couple of lounges, like a waiting room.

"Hi, how can I help you?" Asked the young brunette behind the desk.

"I'm here to see Egor Volkov," Patrick said, pacing straight up to her.

"Do you have an appointment?" She asked, leaning over a little with a grin on her face.

I couldn't help but scoff. Of course, flirt with my husband, it doesn't matter that I'm standing right here.

"He's expecting me," he answered her, noticing her flirtation himself.

Ass.

"Just go up, and I'll tell him that your here," she told him.

He thanked her, before gesturing me to go through. I jumped when I felt his hand at the small of my back giving him a look. He ignored me and continued to push me towards the elevator doors at the end of the waiting room. Once inside, I felt kind of claustrophobic. I was alone, in a small space with a man that I was only just beginning to know. And by the sounds of things, I probably shouldn't.

Hitting the highest level, Patrick said, "when we get to Egor's office, don't say anything unless your spoken too. Understand?"

I frowned at his question, "if you don't want me to do anything then why did you make me come. I'd much prefer to wait for you in the car."

He smiled fakely at me and I could only guess what he was about to say. You said you wanted to spend time with me.

"Egor Volkov is a sucker for a pretty face," he told me, making my mouth drop, "with you here, he's more likely going to behave himself."

I think I would have preferred him to say the spending-time thing.

"Wait, so your just going to swing me in front of him like a...prostitute?" I asked, horrified.

He continued to surprise me. Just when I thought I couldn't think of him any lower, he does or says something that makes him go down a level.

He smiled at me again, but this time his eyes said something completely different. He had never looked at me like that before so I couldn't begin to know what it meant.

I frowned when he leaned forward and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, my body freezing at the sudden intimacy.

"Anything but," he whispered, his voice rough and rich.

I frowned, confused at his sudden change. What the -?

Ding

The doors slid open, straight into the huge penthouse office that windows welcomed the light from the sun. God, the view was amazing, looking out to all the high raises of New York. There was space for two lounges, a coffee table and I think there was a bathroom down the back.

Sitting behind a huge wooden desk was, I'm guessing, the Russian drug lord.

"Ah, Patrick," he cried, standing from his desk, his voice dripping with a Russian accent.

"Egor, my condolences," Patrick said, regrettably, offering out his hand.

I stood like an owl, watching as these Mafia Kings, acted around each other. Both with suspicion and respect.

"Spasibo," he responded, before his eyes landed on me.

I froze under his stare, trying not to be threatened by his hollow eyes, his beard or black suit.

"And who is this, krasota?" He asked coming around the table, taking my hands in his.

"This is Eliza, my wife," Patrick introduced, sounding almost proud which was far from what he was yesterday.

"Da, da," he groaned, remembering, "of course it is. My apologises. I did not recognise you without white dress."

I frowned, looking between Patrick and him, "you were at the wedding."

"Da. Very prekrasnyy ," he gushed.

I couldn't help but blush. I had no idea what prekrasnyy meant but by the look on his face, it was good.

I didn't see a scary drug lord that Patrick had warned me about. All I saw was a sweet, mid-fifties man.

Giving me back my hand, Egor shook his head and took a step so that his attention was on Patrick.

"Dreadful business, Patrick," Egor said gravely.

"I agree sir. The corporate has already been taken care of," Patrick reassured him.

"Did he beg?" He asked, just under his breath, probably so that I didn't hear.

But I heard it. And it horrified me.

"It's the only way I do it," Patrick promised.

What did he just say? What the hell?

"Good," Egor praised, walking around to the back of Patrick, as if trying to mark his territory and show his superiority.

"I lost a good man yesterday. He had wife, young children. Now he is gone."

"I understand," Patrick told him, spinning around to face him, "please, pass on my condolences to his family. I would also like to offer any help with the funeral arrangements."

I was surprised by his offer. What ever happened to sometimes-its-easier-to-be-the-villain thing.

"I'm taking care of it myself," he said, "there is something else."

"Come on, Egor," Patrick groaned, "don't hold back."

"It's about the cops. Particularly the one that shot my guy," Egor started, tapping his chin.

"Yes," Patrick egged on.

I swallowed, not knowing if I wanted to hear it.

"I want him, to be punished."

"No!" I cried, before I could stop myself and the look on Patrick's face told me that I shouldn't have.

Egor was shocked by my out burst and made his way back over to me.

"And why is that, Koroleva?" He asked, leaning in close.

My eyes looked up to Patrick, almost asking for permission to speak. His eyes told me no, but I couldn't stop.

"There's been enough death, already," I stated, trying to sound strong and brave, "the cops were just doing as they were told. The guy that is to blame, has been punished. Why can't you just move on? It's not like your husband was shot."

Silence.

Patrick and Egor froze.

I swallowed.

Patrick's eyes were like razors digging into my skin as Egor continued to stare at me. I knew my mistake. The way things worked around here is by respect. And I pretty much just insulted a Russian drug lord.

When Egor gave out a belly laugh, I sighed in relief. Thank god he had a sense of humour.

"It's looks like you have live one here, Patrick," Egor laughed, snatching my hand and planting kisses all over it.

"Yes, it seems I do," Patrick's hard, cold tone did not go a miss, nor did his deadly stare.

"Listen, krasivaya Eliza. There's a lot to know about this life," Egor told me, tapping my nose, "you learn fast or get left behind."

"Don't worry, Sir. I've learnt a lot just today."

I had never been so grateful to leave a place. Well, that was until we reached the elevator and I realized Patrick and I were alone.

The doors were barely shut, when Patrick growled, "I gave you one order and you couldn't even follow that."

I frowned, "maybe that's the problem. I'm not one of your soldiers, Patrick."

"Exactly, your my wife. Which is the only reason why Egor will think twice when it comes to killing you. But others won't," he warned.

"Will you?"

Ding