Page 38 of Possessive Mafia Bodyguard

Because there’s an entire city full of men who’d be more than willing to fuck her brains out whenever the fancy takes her, and she chose me.

More than that, she chose me and then she came back for more.

That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

I don’t sleep well. My sheets still hold the lingering scent of her. My pillows smell of her hair. And my body misses having her pressed up against me, tucking her into the hollow I make when I curl up on my side, like a bear hugging its cub.

I can’t even console myself with the guarantee that she’ll be back. That she’ll miss me too, even if it doesn’t make her chest ache the way mine does. Because Tamara doesn’t need me in her life. She’ll get along just fine without me, and I’m probably nothing more than a complication that she’ll be better off without.

But this doesn’t feel right either.

My head is fucking spinning by the time I finally sleep, and my broken dreams are filled with images of Tamara giving me the middle finger and walking away with another man’s arm around her shoulders, a man with black hair and a Russian accent.

Three days pass by without a word from Tamara or a glimpse of her around the city.

Russian activity around the docks has either been non-existent or they’ve found a way to make themselves invisible to the human eye. I post myself on observation duty at the various harbors within the Port of Chicago, but I feel myself getting careless even before I snap at Connor for wanting to head off early at the end of the third day.

“You can fuck off if you want, but I’m sticking around.”

Connor fixes me with his gaze that says he knows I’m being a dick and he’ll use it against me later, and even though an apology is on the tip of my tongue, I don’t get the words out because I’ve heard raised voices from somewhere on the quayside.

I’m instantly on full alert because my mind does what it’s been doing for the last four days and immediately connects the woman’s voice that I can hear to Tamara.

Pulse accelerating, I scan the dock for the argument and spot a man and woman about halfway down facing each other in what appears to be a standoff while everyone else works around them giving them a wide berth to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.

I ignore the disappointment settling in my chest when the woman isn’t Tamara and move closer, sticking to the stacked pallets and waiting vehicles at the rear of the landing and trying to blend in. My brother has no such qualms. He strides past me wearing a hard hat and orange hi-vis vest produced as if by magic, approaches the group of men standing close enough to the fight to overhear what’s being said, and gestures to the boat moored up alongside them.

I leave him to it and focus on the man and woman. Her blonde hair is so pale it’s almost white. She’s petite, but even from a distance, she exudes an aura of stern authority that reminds me of the nuns who visited the primary school I attended in Dublin. I remember being afraid to make eye contact with them in case they saw straight through me and knew that I was never going to make it to heaven. I get the same sense of uneasiness when I look at the blonde-haired woman now, and I involuntarily find myself looking away.

The man shows no signs of backing down though. I’m looking at him from behind, at the thick dark hair and line of tanned neck above his black sweater, but his body language is way off, and my hands instinctively ball into tight fists. His shoulders are leaning over the woman, deliberately trying to intimidate her with his size and stature, one hand hovering near his pocket.

Armed and fucking arrogant.

My orders were to observe, but I’m not going to sit back and watch this turn violent, and no other fucker is going to intervene.

Including my brother, who is making his way back to me while the fight continues.

I meet him halfway.

“Turn around, brother, and keep walking.” He makes a spinning motion in the air with his index finger.

I hesitate, torn between following orders and protecting a woman who is out of her depth. “Fucking talk to me, Connor.”

He keeps walking, and I fall into step beside him.

“They’re yelling insults at each other in fucking Russian, but the guys I spoke to warned me to stay the hell out of it if I know what’s good for me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means if we interfere, we won’t be the good guys.”

“Fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed.” Connor doesn’t glance behind him as we head back to our vehicle. “Time for Aiden to either step up or shut up, I reckon.”

The following evening, Connor and I return to the same exclusive golf resort with Aiden at the request of Leonid Ivanov. En route, Connor jokes that his reputation as ‘the young golfer to watch’ has reached the Pakhan, and he’s going to offer him professional training in return for a cut of his earnings when he becomes the world’s number one.

Aiden laughs.