Page 22 of Possessive Mafia Bodyguard

I go to her, and she backs off before I can reach out and pull her into a hug.

“Don’t touch me.” She avoids eye contact as she slides her arms into her leather jacket and checks her weapons, realizing that her gun is missing.

I gesture to my pants on the floor, the handle of her gun visible from inside the pocket. “I think it’s a bit late for that, a ghrá.”

She retrieves her gun and stiffens, raising her eyes to me slowly. “What does a ghrá mean?”

I smile and keep my arms by my side. She’s running scared, and I can’t bear the thought of her fear, not when I’m the cause. “My love. It’s an Irish term of endearment.”

Her eyes flicker, and for a moment, I think she might open up to me again the way she did earlier, not by spreading her legs wide, but by giving me a glimpse of the woman inside the shell.

But my heart plummets when she says, “I’m not your love.”

I could explain that it isn’t meant to be taken literally, that the last thing I want to do is come on strong and push her away before I even know her name. But her vulnerability is on full view right now, clothed in black and armed with a gun, and I won’t be responsible for making that shell any tougher than it already is.

When she’s fully dressed and ready to leave, she faces me squarely. “This won’t happen again.”

My chest cracks open just a little bit, and I swear I watch a piece of me land on the carpet at my feet and shrivel until it dies.

“No regrets,” I say huskily. “Please tell me that you won’t regret it, because I sure as fuck won’t.”

She swallows hard, her tongue darting across her lips as if she wants to taste me one last time before she responds. “No regrets.”

My shoulders lower themselves from around my ears. “Good, because you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I will never forget you.”

I don’t want this to be goodbye. A lump the size of a watermelon is already lodged inside my throat, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to budge it. But I want her to come to me on her terms, not mine, and if it means letting her walk out of here today without knowing her name, then so be it. I won’t beg her to stay. I won’t ask if I’ll see her again.

But for my own peace of mind, there’s one more thing I must say.

“Your Pakhan. If he ever hurts you, I’ll hunt him down and kill him myself.”

Her eyes narrow and the hard glint in them sends ice slithering down my spine. “He would never hurt me. You don’t know him.”

No, but I know what he’s doing. “I won’t take it back. You have my word that I would never hurt you. I would die trying to protect you, so if you ever need any⁠—”

“I won’t.” She shuts me down and walks to the front door. Before she opens it, she turns around and meets my eyes. “Tamara. My name is Tamara.”

Then she is gone.

It isn’t until the door closes behind her that I realize she never asked my name.

Aiden is playing golf at an elite resort on the SW outskirts of Chicago with my brother Connor. A resort owned by Leonid Ivanov.

Connor could be a professional golfer, and with his handicap, he can gain entry into the best courses around the world, a gift that is currently serving our boss well. He looks the part too in his white golf pants and Ralph Lauren polo shirt, sun visor shielding his eyes as he checks the trajectory ahead of him. As I approach them, I can already tell by Aiden’s sloping shoulders and wandering eye that he is losing by more points than he’ll ever admit to.

“Thank fuck you’re here,” he says, sliding his club back into his bag, and striding away from the hole. He pats my shoulder. “Good luck, pal. Your brother should get a life or go give Tiger Woods a call and get himself on the circuit.”

I chuckle. The ache in my chest is still there, but Tamara isn’t the only one who’s a fighter, and now I’ve found something worth fighting for.

“I gave up trying to beat him a long while ago.”

Aiden nods. “We’ll catch up later. The Pakhan is here.”

Leonid Ivanov. Tamara’s Pakhan. The man who gives her orders, who risks her life to save his own, who trades in people because he’s a fucking monster.

My hands ball into fists as I follow his gaze towards the elegant resort in the distance, a sleek white building that’s all smooth nautical lines, huge windows, and a shimmering turquoise pool surrounded by delicate palm fronds. I would say the monster has style, but he will have paid an architect for the privilege.

I watch my best friend climb into a golf cart and head back to the resort and turn my attention to my little brother, grinning widely, no doubt because he already knows he has this hole in the bag. People rarely guess that we’re related. Connor’s hair is sandy where mine is dark, and he has our ma’s blue eyes where mine are green. His shoulders are broad from working out at the gym, but his physique is naturally more slender than mine because I have our pa’s build. Big boned, some would say.