Chapter 94 One month with the Mafia boss: Day seven
8:07 p.m.
State Opera House, Imperial Box 3
The chandelier above the auditorium is a galaxy of crystal and gold.
The orchestra is tuning; the air smells of velvet, old money, and the faint ghost of centuries of perfume.
La Traviata is tonight’s poison, and every seat is filled with diamonds and secrets.
Kazimir is a vision in midnight-black tailcoat, white tie severe against his throat, the only color the cold platinum of his cufflinks and the thin chain that disappears beneath his waistcoat.
Nyra sits beside him in a gown of liquid emerald silk that looks demure from the waist up.
High neck, long sleeves, back covered in delicate buttons.
From the waist down it is pure sin: a slit so high that when she crosses her legs the entire house could see she is wearing nothing underneath.
Nothing except the toy.
Days ago, Kazimir had it custom-made in Antwerp, matte black silicone, curved perfectly to nestle against her G-spot, with a thin tail that tucks between her lips and presses directly on her clit. Wireless.
Ten speeds. Controlled by the slim obsidian remote currently resting in his palm like a loaded gun.
The house lights dim. The conductor raises his baton.
Kazimir leans over, lips brushing the shell of her ear as the overture begins.
“Rules tonight, kotyonok,” he murmurs, voice barely louder than the strings.
“You do not move. You do not make a sound. You do not come until the final note of ‘Addio del passato.’ If you fail, I stop the toy and you sit wet and aching through the standing ovation. Understood?”
Nyra’s answer is the tiniest nod. Her hands grip the velvet arms of the chair so hard her knuckles blanch.
He presses the first button.
The toy wakes with a low, insidious purr. Level two just enough to make her thighs tense. She bites the inside of her cheek.
Violetta’s entrance. The audience sighs with pleasure.
Kazimir turns it up to four.
Nyra’s breath hitches. The vibration is deep, relentless, perfectly placed.
Heat floods her cunt; she feels herself growing slicker, the silk of the gown already clinging to the tops of her thighs.
He watches the stage with the lazy interest of a man admiring a painting he already owns, while his thumb idly circles the dial.
Level six during the brindisi. The entire house is singing “Libiamo,” glasses raised, and Nyra is trembling so hard the diamonds at her throat quiver.
Her nipples are granite against the silk bodice. She is dripping onto the antique velvet seat.
Kazimir leans in again, lips barely moving. “Look at them.
All these people dressed in their finest, drinking thousand-euro champagne, and none of them know I’m fucking you right now.”
He flicks it to eight.
Nyra’s spine bows off the chair for a fraction of a second before she catches herself.
A tiny, broken sound escapes half moan, half sob.
The woman in the next box glances over; Nyra forces her face into a serene mask even as her cunt spasms helplessly around the toy.
Act II.
The confrontation.
Violetta’s heartbreak is spilling across the stage in aching soprano notes, and Kazimir is merciless.
He cycles the toy in cruel patterns, thirty seconds of brutal high, ten seconds of nothing, then a slow, grinding pulse that makes her want to scream.
By the time Alfredo storms out, Nyra is crying silently, real tears of desperation tracking her cheeks beneath the perfect makeup.
Her thighs are slick to the knee; the scent of her arousal is faint but unmistakable in the closed box.
Intermission lights come up.
People stand, stretch, murmur. Kazimir slips the remote into his pocket and offers her his arm like a perfect gentleman.
“Walk,” he says softly.
She tries.
Her legs nearly give out on the first step.
He catches her elbow, steadying her as they move into the private marble corridor behind the boxes.
No one can see them here.
He presses her face-first against the wall between two gilded sconces, yanks the slit of her gown open, and slides two fingers into her without warning.
She is so wet they sink into the knuckle.
“Soaked,” he growls against her neck. “You’re ruining couture for me, malyshka.”
He finger-fucks her fast and hard, thumb grinding her clit, until she’s on the edge of coming in under thirty seconds.
Then he stops, licks his fingers clean, and straightens her gown like nothing happened.
Back to their seats.
Act III begins.
Violetta is dying now, voice breaking on the high notes, and Kazimir turns the toy to its highest setting and leaves it there.
Nyra’s entire world narrows to the brutal, unending vibration inside her and the iron control it takes not to scream.
Her nails dig crescents into her palms. Tears pour freely now; she lets them fall, pretending they’re for the tragedy on stage.
The final note approaches. The orchestra swells. Violetta collapses.
Kazimir leans close, lips against her ear, and whispers a single word:
“Now.”
The note dies.
Nyra comes so hard her vision fractures into white light.
She bites down on her own wrist to silence the scream, body convulsing in the chair, cunt gushing around the toy in pulse after pulse after pulse.
The standing ovation thunders around them; no one notices the woman in emerald silk shaking apart in the shadows.
Kazimir kills the vibration. Gently, carefully, he slips his hand beneath her gown and eases the soaked toy out of her, tucking it into his pocket like a trophy.
The curtain falls. Applause crashes like waves.
He stands, offers his hand. She takes it on legs that still tremble.
In the private elevator down to the waiting car, he finally kisses her, slow, filthy, swallowing the last of her broken sobs.
“Seven days,” he says against her swollen lips.
“And you just came in front of two thousand people without making a sound. I’m so proud of you I might let you choose where I fuck you when we get home.”
Nyra’s answer is to sink to her knees right there on the marble floor of the elevator, mouth already open.
Kazimir smiles, dark and fond, and threads his fingers through her hair.
“Good choice.”