Page 44 of Possessive Mafia Bodyguard

The only thing I’m still uncertain about though, but it’s a bridge I will have to cross later, is the Irish mob’s part in all this.

12

FINN

I watch her walk away from me at the dock, and I feel like a fish that got dragged from the sea.

“Finn?” Connor snaps his fingers in front of my face.

She looked straight at me and she fucking walked away.

“Going to the meeting was a big mistake.” I’m mumbling to myself. “I should never have let her see me as the enemy.”

“I’ve got news for you, brother,” Connor says. “She already knew you were the enemy. She’s Russian, you’re Irish. She works for the monsters; you work for the guy with morals.”

I drag my eyes away from their receding figures when they blend in with the darkness beyond the port, and stare at my brother. “She trusted me enough to let me fuck her.”

“She was distracting you.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Did you see the bruises on her face?”

“Did you see yours when she was finished with you?” Connor inhales deeply and peers around at the cops, paramedics, and firefighters dominating the dock. “I know you don’t want to believe it, but she was using you to spy on Aiden. It’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“I don’t believe it because it isn’t true. She was a virgin. I was her first, Connor. Her fucking first.”

He rests his warm hand on my shoulder, and my breath hitches in my throat. “I don’t doubt that you believe it, but it doesn’t make it the truth.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot.” I shake his hand off me. “I know what I saw and I know what I felt.”

I saw a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. A woman who took all that I had to give and still wanted more. A woman who used me like a pole to give me the erection to end all fucking erections.

But I felt that wall inside her, and I can relive the exact moment when my cock pushed through it. Sure, she’s the sexiest fucking virgin that ever walked this planet, and the odds of her walking into my life while my boss is trying to stop her boss from human trafficking are probably a million-to-one. But the only person who can convince me otherwise is Tamara.

I walk away from my brother, away from the chaos, away from the information Aiden is waiting for us to bring home.

“Finn! Where are you going?”

“To get answers.”

It takes me three days of tracking the Ivanovs’ movements, of staking out the golf resort, the women’s refuge, Andrej Ivanov’s apartment building, and their skyscraper in the Loop, to finally catch a glimpse of Tamara accompanying her boss to a casino resort in Joliet, Illinois. The Pakhan’s wife is with them, and another enforcer I recognize from the golf club. I watch her climb out of the car and gaze around the parking lot and at the other guests milling around the entrance, with her hands hovering over her weapons. She’s dressed in black, still wearing her leather jacket and Doc Martens, completely at odds with the other guests’ attire, and oblivious to the attention the small party is getting.

My chest swells with love for my beautiful butterfly. She’s doing her job, keeping her Pakhan and his wife safe, but even from a distance, I can tell that she doesn’t want to be here. Her head is following orders, but her heart wants her to go find her sister.

She hesitates outside the entrance, casting one final look around the parking lot, her eyes skimming the motorcycle I’m sitting on, still wearing my helmet and visor. Then, head down, she follows the Ivanovs inside.

I give them time to pass through the foyer before I make my move.

Removing my helmet and leathers, I join the rear of a group of guests just arriving.

Inside the foyer, I head straight for the restroom and wait inside a stall for them to move on. Then I nod to the concierge when I emerge and head straight for the casino.

The floor is busy. Every table is almost full, and more people are gathered around the bar. I purchase some chips and find a vacant seat at a roulette table where the wheel is already spinning, buying me some time to look around.

I don’t see them on the floor.

Glancing up, I spot Leonid Ivanov and his wife Gianna in a booth on the mezzanine level with another couple. They are all beautiful. You would only have to look at their clothes and the jewels the women wear on their fingers and in their ears to understand that they are incredibly wealthy also. But their smiles are genuine. They are the smiles of people who are comfortable with each other. Smiles generally reserved for family and close friends, and for time spent relaxing without the stresses and cares of everyday life.

I’ve replayed the brief meeting in my head almost on repeat since it got cut short, and no matter which way I try to spin it, Leonid Ivanov didn’t deny the trafficking allegations my boss threw at him. Perhaps everything I thought I knew about men like him was a fallacy. He has clearly mastered the skill of separating family from business and is able to present this impeccable, loving husband and doting father façade that the rest of the world buys into.