Page 5 of Possessive Mafia Bodyguard

“Don’t move.”

I freeze. In the dark, there’s no shadow to plot the man’s position, but he was close enough for me to hear the click, and I can smell his cologne or aftershave, fresh, clean, with a hint of citrus. If he was going to shoot me in the back, he’d have done it already, which means that he’ll either order me to stand up, turn around, and face him, or he’ll force me to walk down to the busy landing area with his gun pressed between my shoulder blades.

In the fraction of a second that it takes me to shift my attention from the predator wearing black down on the landing, to the predator behind me, I’ve formulated a plan.

I roll sideways, sliding both guns from my holster at the same time, and spring onto my feet to face the man pointing his own weapon directly at me.

He isn’t what I expected, probably because my thoughts were skewed by the man in black, and I instinctively projected his appearance onto the man who snuck up behind me. This guy is tall. I mean, he’s a fucking giant who could balance me and my sister, one on each extended arm, without straining a muscle. His thick black hair curls around his ears, and I can’t even look at the wide shoulders. He must have to walk sideways into a room.

A couple of beats pass before I realize that his lips have curled into a small smile, and fuck me, the guy has dimples.

“Who do you work for?” I demand, ignoring the Flamenco dancing taking place inside my rib cage. He might be a giant, but I’m the one holding two guns.

The smile tilts up in one corner, and my eyes follow it, while the dancing inside my chest pauses momentarily, and then resumes with more verve than should be possible.

“That’s it? That’s what you’re leading with?” His accent rolls off his tongue like cream, and I find myself mesmerized by his mouth and the sneak peek of straight white teeth. “Are you not going to ask me who I am?”

“You’re Irish.” I had this strange, preconceived notion that Irish men have red hair and pale skin. I guess I was wrong.

“You’re… Russian.” His smile slides into a full-on grin now, and I bristle, despite the blood pumping around my veins.

“What did you expect?” I narrow my eyes. Neither of us has lowered our weapons, and I would rather die than be the first.

Frown lines appear between his brows, and even in the dark, I swear I already know that his eyes are green. “Would you believe me if I said that I expected to find a black-haired Russian with a gun in each hand and carrying enough blades to take down a small army?”

The way my heart is hammering, I’d believe anything he told me, but then I remember who I am, and the reason why I’m here.

“But I didn’t expect to find you,” he says.

The honesty in his voice cracks something open inside me, and I remind myself that he’s trying to distract me. And it’s fucking working.

I’m not here to observe an Irish giant, even if he is potentially the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. And I certainly can’t go back to Leonid and tell him that I failed a simple task because I couldn’t take my eyes off this man’s dimples.

“So, now what?” I demand. “Are you going to tell me who you work for, or do I have to shoot you first?”

He chuckles. He fucking chuckles, and for the first time in my career with the Bratva, I don’t know how to react.

“Depends,” he says, “on if you’re shooting to kill, or shooting to cause me pain. Not too much pain, mind. Too much and you risk me shutting down, or worse, dying a slow and excruciating death without giving you the information you want. Too little and⁠—”

I release a bullet towards his left foot, and he dodges it like he was the one who pulled the trigger, dropping into a forward roll and taking me out with his legs as he unfurls.

My chest hits the ground, the air leaving my lungs with a steady whoosh. But I don’t waste a beat. I roll onto my back and fire again, this time missing his right ear by a whisker as he lunges sideways and retaliates with a bullet that ricochets off the ground beside my shoulder.

He deliberately missed. I see it in his casual expression, in the lazy smile, the dimple lingering in his right cheek: he aimed wide because he’s sizing me up. He wants to see what I can do, no doubt so that he can report back to whoever he works for that if I’m the best the Russians have got, it’ll be a doddle taking us down.

I leap onto my feet and aim both weapons at his head.

He faces me without flinching and lowers his gun, sliding it into his pocket. Then he walks towards me until his chest touches the barrels of both guns I’m holding.

“So,” he says softly, “are you shooting to kill or not?”

My pulse races. I wouldn’t be shooting him in self-defense now that he has already lowered his weapon and killing him means that I’ll have to find out who he works for through the usual channels after his body has been dealt with.

It would also mean that I’ll never see him again.

“Why would I tell you?”

He shrugs. “Courtesy. In lieu of telling me your name. You know, back where I come from, it would be rude to lie on the grass with a lady without first finding out her name.”