Entangled with the wrong man

~ Druscilla ~

I kept my eyes locked on the pulpit like it was the only safe place in the whole sanctuary. One careless turn of my head and I'd see him-sitting there in the third pew like he belonged, broad shoulders stretching that charcoal suit, dark hair catching the stained-glass light.  

What the hell is he doing here? Gangsters don't just show up to Presbyterian service on a Sunday morning. Do they?

"Druscilla." My mother's voice sliced through my scattered thoughts. "I want you to welcome the new members."

I blinked. "What?"

Patricia leaned in, voice low so only I could hear. "Three new faces today. One of them is important. He wrote the church a very generous check."

"Wow. Bless him. Must be a good man."

She cut her eyes across the aisle. "He is. Though you wouldn't guess it from the look of him."

I followed her gaze and my stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Ivanov.

Before I could finish the thought, my mother gave me a little push between the shoulder blades. "Go on. Introduce yourself, tell him about our ministries. We need men like him-strong, committed."

My palms were already slick. I wiped them on my skirt. "Mom, I'm actually... I really need to use the restroom right now."

Patricia gave me the slow, knowing once-over that always made me feel twelve years old again. "You know I can spot a lie from across the room, right?"

Heat crawled up my neck. "I'm not-"

"If you know what's good for you," she said, hand on her hip, "you'll walk over there and thank that young man before he leaves. Now."

I glanced at Ivanov. He was already rising, buttoning his suit jacket. My mother's fingers brushed my shoulder, softer this time. "Be a good girl for me, Dru. Just say thank you and tell him more about our church."

I swallowed the rock in my throat and stood.

The aisle felt a mile long. My heels clicked too loud on the hardwood. By the time I reached him he was already near the double doors, sunlight pouring in behind him like some kind of dark angel stepping out of a painting.

"Hey," I said, voice barely above a whisper.

He turned. Those eyes-storm-blue and pale amber-locked on mine and the air left my lungs in a rush.

I opened my mouth to deliver my mother's polite little script. Thank you for your generous donation. We hope to see you again. Something safe. Something churchy.

Instead what came out was, "You go to church?"

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The devil was once an angel before he was kicked out of heaven. So what's so strange about me being here?"

Holy shit. He just quoted Scripture like it was casual conversation.

"I-I'm just surprised," I managed. "Didn't expect to see you here."

We stepped outside into the bright Manhattan morning. The parking lot buzzed with voices, car doors slamming, kids laughing. Kaila was over by the oak tree, giggling at something Ambrose said, cheeks pink, completely oblivious.

"Same way I'm surprised to see you," he answered, matching my pace. "I actually do go to church back home with my family in Mexico."

"Wow."

"Yeah. This was the first one I passed when I moved into town. Big, beautiful-even if it's not Catholic. I was raised Catholic."

"Oh. You're Catholic." I fell into step beside him without meaning to. My mother had said thank him and leave. Instead I was walking with him like we were old friends. Like I hadn't watched him do terrible, beautiful things to me in the dark a night ago.

"So why join a Presbyterian church if you're Catholic?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Sometimes change is good," he said with a shrug. "New town. New life."

Something about the way he said it made my pulse skip. New life. New feelings. New mistakes I was apparently dying to make.

"Hmm. Interesting." I twisted the hem of my dress between my fingers. "Is the big donation part of this... new life too?"

He stopped walking. "What do you mean?"

I felt my cheeks burn. "My mom-Pastor Patricia Hayes-she said you gave a lot. A massive amount."

"Your mom is the pastor?" He actually looked stunned for half a second. "No kidding."

"Yeah. Since my dad passed."

"I'm sorry about your father."

The words were simple, but the way he said them-quiet, sincere-caught me off guard. Gangsters weren't supposed to apologize for things that had nothing to do with them.

"He died a long time ago," I said, offering a small smile. "But thank you."

We kept walking, drifting toward the garden behind the sanctuary. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and the roses my father had planted years ago. Ivanov slipped his hands into his pockets, looking around like he was memorizing every detail.

"This place is really beautiful," he murmured. "Reminds me of home. Whoever designed it was a genius."

"That was my dad." The smile came easier this time as my heart swelled with pride. "He was an architect before he became a pastor. He wanted immigrants-like us-to feel at home when they walked through the doors."

Ivanov glanced at me, something soft flickering in his eyes. "We have more in common than I thought. Hispanic roots?"

"My grandparents came from Spain. We're Hispanic, yeah."

He plucked a white rose, twirled it between his fingers. "We speak the same language, at least. I'd like to know more about you."

The question felt innocent enough, but the look on his face was anything but. "What do you want to know?"

I stood still. Our eyes locked on each other's face as if we were the only thing existing in the garden.

He stepped closer. One hand slid around my waist, pulling me in until my breasts brushed the hard wall of his chest. His voice dropped, rough and low. "I want to know the things you like inside you."

My brain short-circuited. "Like... the things I love to do in my mind?"

"No, cupcake." His fingers trailed down, slow and deliberate, over the curve of my belly, stopping just above the heat between my thighs. "I want to know what you like to feel inside here." His palm pressed lightly against me through the fabric. "In between your legs."

Heat exploded low in my stomach. My breath caught so hard I almost choked on it. I shot a frantic look over his shoulder-no one was watching, thank God-but my legs still felt like they might give out.

I pulled back, heart hammering against my ribs. "I should... I should probably-"

"Can you show me around?" he asked, cutting me off smoothly. His gaze drifted from my face to the line of my throat, then lower. "I want to see the rest of this beautiful church."

Every warning bell in my head screamed at me to turn around, walk back inside, find my mother, do anything except what I was about to do.

But my mouth had other plans.

"Sure," I heard myself say. "Let's go."

I turned and started down the stone path. Behind me, his voice floated out, lazy and wicked.

"That dress is covering too much, doll."

My steps faltered. A shiver raced down my spine, hot and electric, and I kept walking anyway-straight into the garden, straight into whatever came next, knowing damn well I was already in way over my head.