Page 59 of Possessive Mafia Bodyguard

I haven’t seen her at the docks. There’s been no communication between Aiden and the Ivanovs since the meeting that got cut short, or at least none that he has shared with us, and there’s been no sighting of Tamara’s twin sister or the blonde woman that she was so determined to track down.

It’s almost as if I imagined her into existence in some alternate reality, and now I’m back in the real world, with an ache in my chest and vivid dreams that wake me up with a raging hard-on every morning.

“We got too close to the Russians quayside. One snuck up on us from behind and got a lucky hit before I took a couple of them down.”

Aiden sits back in his seat and watches me coolly, his expression completely neutral. Then, “Aye, that’s what I thought you said. So, why is it that I’m hearing stories about a Russian woman turning psycho on the Bratva assholes?”

Fuck! When the truth grew legs and walked away for the first few days, I convinced myself that the Russians would never admit to being slaughtered by a woman. Especially not a woman who barely stands five feet tall in her black Doc Martens and looks as if she could be blown over by a strong gust of wind.

Guess I was wrong.

They’re putting the story out there because they’re looking for revenge.

“There have been sightings of a Russian woman fighting with the traffickers. She hasn’t been seen since that night, so maybe they got what they wanted and shut her up.”

Aiden stands up, walks to the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room, and half-fills a glass tumbler with whiskey. When he resumes his seat, his eyes drift lazily between me and my brother as if he’s choosing the right moment to drop the bombshell.

“Would this be the same Russian woman who accompanied Leonid Ivanov to a casino resort in Joliet that night?” He studies the amber liquid in his glass. “How long do you think it would take to get from Joliet, Illinois to the Port of Chicago? Approximately. I don’t expect you to use Google Maps to get the answer.”

“An hour?” I shrug. “Depending on traffic.”

Connor remains silent.

I don’t know where he’s going with this, but he learned from a master of misdirection—his pa could’ve been a thriller writer—and his timing is always impeccable. So, I sense that he isn’t ready to play his ace card yet.

Sure enough, he raises his glass to his lips and downs his drink in one mouthful, releasing a satisfied sigh as it goes down. “It’s doable then. What do you think, Connor?”

My brother avoids eye contact with me, but I see the tic on the side of his jaw and know that he’s battling between choosing his loyalty to me over his allegiance to the Kavanagh boss. “Outside of rush hour,” he says finally.

Aiden’s expression doesn’t falter. “Leonid Ivanov must be biding his time then.”

Connor and I both wait for him to elaborate.

“I heard that his enforcers are like sisters to him. If the Petrovs have taken one down, I’m surprised the shit hasn’t hit the fan at full speed and spread that muck all over the fucking city.”

My pulse skitters. What does he know? Did the Petrovs follow Tamara to my apartment and get to her the following morning? She told me not to follow her when she got dressed and walked away from me before the sun had even made an appearance. She said that she would come to me, and I respected her wishes because of course I fucking did.

Now, I wonder if she has been dead the whole time I’ve been waiting for her to knock on my door, and it’s hard to breathe with my heart banging a gong inside my chest.

“Where did you hear that?” I ask.

“I have eyes and ears everywhere.” His eyes bore into mine. “I hope it wasn’t the same enforcer who attended the meeting at the golf resort. She was⁠—”

I don’t wait to hear the rest. I’m out of my seat and yanking open the door, dizziness crashing through me in waves as I hear Connor mutter, “Must be something he ate.”

There are cameras installed around the women’s refuge, but gaining entry at the back of the building is as easy as knocking on the door and introducing myself.

The rear door opens onto a vegetable garden where two women are pulling weeds and picking ripe squash. They work in comfortable silence with their heads bowed, and don’t look around before heading back inside.

The guilt I feel doesn’t come anywhere close to overriding the fear that something bad has happened to Tamara. Maybe I’m being irrational, I don’t know; I’ve never been in love before. But short of gatecrashing Leonid Ivanov’s office at the golf resort and risking him blowing my brains out before answering my questions, this seemed like my best option in the heat of the moment.

Once inside, I question my sanity.

The kitchen is homely, the pine cabinets neat and clean, and the green Aga gleaming. The pots and pans hanging from a ceiling rack were obviously chosen for their durability rather than glamor. A woman is rinsing dishes at the sink before slotting them inside a dishwasher, singing along to a song I don’t recognize playing from an old-fashioned radio, a picture of calm and secure domesticity, something that she might never have experienced before in her life.

And I’m about to blow it to smithereens.

Before I can reverse out of the back door and wait for Gianna or Cartier to appear, she must sense my presence. Her shoulders stiffen, her hand freezes midway between the sink and the dishwasher, and she turns around slowly, her mouth a round O of shock and panic.