CHAPTER 4: THE DISTRACTION

Dimitri had no schedule to handle today. All his deals were settled. The drug operation was running smoothly. The Commissioner was doing his job without complaint. For once, there was nothing demanding his immediate attention.

So he decided to work out.

The gym in his penthouse was state-of-the-art. Everything was imported from Germany or Italy. The equipment was professional grade, the kind used by Olympic athletes and serious bodybuilders. The walls were mirrored on every side, so he could watch his own muscles contract and release as he trained.

He was in the middle of a set of pull-ups when she walked in.

She was tall, maybe five-ten, with blonde hair that fell down her back in waves. Her body was curved in all the right places, the kind of body that men spent money to achieve. She wore designer workout clothes that probably cost more than most people's rent. Her name was Katya, and she was one of his regular mistresses.

Dimitri continued his pull-ups, not even acknowledging her presence.

"Hello, Dimitri," she said in that high-pitched voice that annoyed him. It was fake, forced, the voice of someone trying too hard to be sexy.

She bent down and touched his chest seductively as he hung from the pull-up bar. Her fingers traced along his muscled pectorals, trying to seduce him.

Dimitri rolled his eyes. He gripped her fingers and pulled them away from his chest.

"What do you want?" he asked flatly, releasing the bar and dropping to the ground. "Just because I told security to give you access doesn't mean you can trespass your boundaries. You know better than that."

Katya's expression shifted immediately. The seduction dropped away and she became serious.

"I need money," she said bluntly. "I need it now."

Of course she did. This was why he kept her around. Not for any emotional connection or genuine companionship. She was beautiful, she was willing, and she knew not to ask questions. But she was also expensive.

Dimitri didn't argue. He grabbed his phone and wired her a substantial amount of money. Not enough to make her think she could push him further, but enough to keep her satisfied for another month.

Katya's face lit up. She smiled and whispered a seductive thank you.

Dimitri smirked. In one smooth motion, he gripped her arm and turned her around so her back was to him. Then he gave her several hard spanks across her ass. The sound cracked through the gym.

She moaned, the sound a mixture of pain and pleasure.

He bent her over the leg press machine, one of the heavy-duty equipment pieces that looked like it could bend steel. Her designer workout clothes came off quickly. She was ready for him. She was always ready for him.

"You can't go scot free," he said, positioning himself behind her.

She was moaning like the whore she was. That's what he needed right now. A woman who existed only to satisfy his physical needs. A woman who had no expectations, no demands beyond money and sex. A woman who didn't defy him.

He entered her without ceremony, without tenderness, without anything except pure physical aggression. His movements were hard and fast, his hips driving into her with force. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the gym, mixing with her moans.

He fucked his aggression into her. The girl in the basement was consuming his thoughts. Her defiance. Her silence. That look she'd given him. Nobody had ever looked at him like that. Nobody had ever dared.

The image of her face kept flashing through his mind as he pounded into Katya. The girl's fearlessness. The way she'd raised her middle finger at him. The way she'd told him to go to hell.

It was infuriating. It was intoxicating. It was driving him insane.

He fucked harder, chasing the release that would temporarily quiet his obsession. Thirty minutes. That's how long it took before his body finally gave in to the physical exhaustion.

Katya was barely able to walk when he was done. She wobbled out of the gym on shaky legs, already texting someone about her next shopping trip.

Dimitri showered quickly, washing away the sweat and the temporary satisfaction. But the obsession came right back as soon as the water hit his skin.

He had to see her.

He descended into the basement with purposeful steps. When the steel door opened, he found her sitting on the concrete floor, eating the food that had been left for her earlier.

So she was finally eating.

He smirked. Her survival instinct was kicking in. She was beginning to accept her new reality.

"Are you ready to talk?" he asked, his voice casual as he approached her.

She looked up at him, her brown eyes meeting his ice-blue ones.

"No," she said flatly. "I'm not telling you anything. Let me out of this prison."

Dimitri laughed. It was a genuine laugh, the kind that came from someone who found something truly amusing.

"You're funny," he said. Then his expression hardened. "Which is not. Be serious."

He walked toward her and lifted her head with her hair, pulling her face up toward his. He studied her features again, the sharp cheekbones, the full lips, the determination in her eyes. She was pretty. More than pretty. She was beautiful in a way that made his chest feel tight.

His voice suddenly became calm, almost gentle.

"What's your name?" he asked.

She kept quiet for thirty seconds, the silence stretching between them like a physical thing. Then finally, she spoke.

"Natasha," she said quietly.

Dimitri released her hair and smirked. He repeated her name, rolling it over his tongue. Natasha. Where had he heard that name before? He knew it was important. He knew there was a connection he was missing.

"What's your relationship with Viktor?" he asked.

Natasha suddenly turned the question back on him.

"Does killing look like fun to you?" she asked, her voice full of disgust.

Dimitri chuckled. He removed his gun from his waistband and began cleaning it methodically, running a cloth along the barrel.

"It's fun," he said. "It relieves so much burden. It's cathartic."

He laughed again, but when he looked at her face, he saw the disgust written all over her features. It made him stop.

"Sometimes," he said, his voice turning serious, "when people look at me in ways that displease me, I shoot them in the head. And you were looking at me like that in the warehouse. Which means I could kill you."

Natasha rolled her eyes. The gesture was so dismissive, so disrespectful, that it actually shocked him.

"Kill me," she said coldly. "I don't care. You can kill me."

Dimitri grinned. There was something wrong with her, something broken inside her that made her not fear death. He found that interesting.

"I would kill you," he said slowly, "but not today. I have all the right to decide about you. You are mine now."

He pointed the gun at her deliberately, watching to see if she would flinch.

She did, just slightly. A small involuntary reaction.

Dimitri smiled. He returned the gun to his drawer and looked at her with fresh eyes.

"Stand up," he commanded.

She did, pushing herself to her feet with difficulty. Her legs were shaky from sitting for so long.

His eyes trailed up her body, taking in the oversized dirty clothes she was wearing. They hung off her frame like she was a ghost trapped in fabric. She looked fragile, broken, like she might shatter if he touched her too roughly.

He picked up his phone and made a call.

"Get a room cleaned," he said to whoever answered. "New clothes. Warm bath. Everything ready in twenty minutes."

His eyes never left hers as he spoke. He was watching her face, gauging her reactions, trying to understand this girl who refused to break.

He ended the call.

"I don't need it," Natasha said immediately. "I don't want any of this. I want to leave this place. Right now."

Dimitri ignored her completely. He stood up and looked down at her with an expression she couldn't read.

"Some maids will attend to you soon," he said. "They'll help you shower, dress. You'll have a real bed tonight."

"I don't want your charity," she spat.

But Dimitri was already walking away, ascending the basement stairs two at a time. Behind him, he could hear her protests, her refusals, her anger.

He smiled as he closed the basement door behind him.

She could refuse all she wanted. She could protest. She could tell him she wanted to leave.

But she was his now. And eventually, she would accept that.

Eventually, she would surrender.

He just hoped he didn't break her before she did.