Page 14 of Possessive Mafia Bodyguard

She isn’t here to visit the residents and Gianna is safely inside.

I move to the window, stand aside so that I’m out of sight but within reach of the gym bag, and study the building. Then I wait.

And wait.

I’m a patient person, but when she doesn’t come back out, my heart overrides my brain and tells me that whatever is going on inside that building, shouldn’t be happening. But more importantly, it shouldn’t be happening to her.

This isn’t a job for Aiden Kavanagh to resolve.

This isn’t about a Russian trafficking organization trying to drag the city of Chicago down to its lowest depths.

I don’t know what’s going on exactly, but my gut is yelling at me to get the fuck over there and find her.

I drag my pants on over the top of my shorts and slide a gun into the pocket. Then I drag a sweater over my tank, hoist the gym bag onto my shoulder, and step outside into the weak sunlight.

I don’t have a plan other than press the front door buzzer and wing it from there.

But I barely make it past the gym when a figure dressed in black flies at me from the alleyway between buildings, wraps her legs around my waist and one arm around my neck, and presses something cold and hard against my temple.

“Back up now,” she murmurs. “Slowly.”

I don’t need to be told twice. She’s holding a gun to my head and has easy access to the weapons in my gym bag, but all I can think about is the feel of her body against mine.

I reverse into the alleyway, one step at a time, until we’re far enough away from the street that no one will see us in the gloom as they hurry past, focused on their busy life schedules.

“What are you doing here?” she demands, tilting my head sideways with the gun.

“Looking for you.”

I grip her arms and pull her over my shoulder before she can react, setting her carefully onto her feet and pinning her against the cold brick wall with my body. Then I pry the gun from her hand and slide it into my spare pocket. A gun for a gun; that’s how it works. She raises her right knee into my groin, and fuck, she’s fast. But I preempt the move and grip her thigh, moving it sideways and pressing my hips against her so that she can’t move.

“What do you want?” Her voice is low, feral, and my loins reach for her the way a thirsty man would reach for water as she peers up at me with hazel eyes flecked with amber.

“Your name.” I can feel her heart skittering like a cornered rabbit against my chest. “That’s it.”

Her eyes narrow, and I picture them rolling back into her head when I inevitably make her come. “Where is my sister?”

“Your sister?” There are two of them.

“Did you see her last night at the port?” Every muscle in her is tense, poised ready for flight, but she isn’t fighting back.

Yet.

“Was she there?” I’m trying to slot a sister into the pieces of the Russian organization, but I’m confused as to why she thinks I might know where she is. “What happened to her?”

Her eyes scan mine, flickering back and forth, searching deep. Then, “Why were you there?”

“I was tracking your organization.” The words are out there before my betrayal of the Kavanagh family who brought me up as their own can put a gun to my head and pull the trigger.

“My organization?” Her eyes are like slits now, almost totally black. “Why would you⁠—”

I silence her with a kiss before I give away all our secrets. My tongue parts her lips, begging to be allowed in, and she kisses me back. Her hands sneak around the back of my neck, cool and slender, and I don’t consider the possibility that she might be armed with a blade that I’ve missed in the heat of the moment. Our teeth collide. A sound like a puppy whimpering escapes her throat, and I press harder, deeper, my tongue filling her mouth, our breaths combined.

“Fuck, I want you,” I murmur into her mouth.

She twists my hair around her fingers and tugs, as she rises onto her tiptoes and sucks on my bottom lip. “Why?” It’s barely a whisper, but I feel it vibrating through me as if she yelled it at the top of her lungs.

“Because…” I could tell her she’s beautiful, but she deserves more than pillow-talk clichés. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.”