Page 79 of Possessive Mafia Bodyguard

I can feel my heartbeat thudding against my thighs. Finn’s cum trickles out of my pussy and soaks through my panties, and when I suck in a deep breath, I can smell sex on me. I can smell Finn on me.

I pray the sick fuck doesn’t have a great sense of smell or he’ll sniff me out before he has even warmed up the engine.

The aircraft jolts when someone else climbs aboard.

I listen to them moving about and settling into the pilot’s seat, flicking buttons like they’re getting to grips with a new gaming console.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins. I must time this right. Too soon, and I risk revealing myself when he might still be waiting for a passenger. Too late and we’ll be in the air.

I feel the vibrations of the engine beneath me before it rumbles to life.

Pulling the curtain back a fraction, I note the pilot has his back to me, his briefcase is on the passenger seat, but the cockpit door is still open. He isn’t waiting for someone. At least not on the ground. He’s staring at the dashboard, probably waiting for the green light to claim the air space that he needs to complete his journey.

I glance beyond him at the night sky through the open hangar shutters and see his hazy reflection in the windshield.

Fuck! He’ll see me coming unless I wait until he dims the lights, but I can’t risk waiting until he has closed the door.

His cell phone rings, the tinny tune strumming inside my chest and accelerating my pulse. The pilot answers the call, wedges the device between his chin and shoulder, and unlocks the briefcase. He speaks in Russian, his voice so low and quick I can’t keep up, but I understand the words ‘port’ and ‘arrival’ as he pulls a document from the briefcase and rests it on the dashboard in front of him.

He has a schedule of shipments entering the Port of Chicago.

My heart is thudding so hard it’s making me feel queasy, but I push it to the back of my mind, unfold my trembling legs, and ready my weapons.

He’s still talking when I burst through the curtain, press my gun to the side of his neck with one hand, and slice through his fingers with the blade in my other hand. I don’t cut deep enough to sever his fingertips, but he drops the phone and I stamp on it with my foot, stabbing the blade through the back of his hand as he tries to reach his gun.

My finger presses the trigger of the gun at his neck, and he freezes.

“I will shoot you,” I say in Russian.

“Who are you?”

I face his reflection in the windshield. If Leonid had shared his intel on the Petrovs with me, I might’ve recognized him, but the suit is expensive, the briefcase smells as if it was once worn by an endangered species, and something about him is strangely familiar.

Bile rises in my throat.

“I’m asking the questions.” At least my voice doesn’t give me away. “What is your name?”

His reflection smirks back at me. “Original.”

I hit the back of his skull with the butt of the gun, buying myself a moment to slide another blade from my pocket. He follows the movement in the glass and grips my wrist, but not before I sink the knife into his shoulder as he tries to drag me forward and slam me into the controls. He relinquishes his grip to try pulling the knife out of his shoulder, but I slip around in front of him, pressing the gun to his temple.

“Name.”

“I could lie to you, of course, and you’ll never know my real name.”

He has the arrogance of a sick fuck.

I put a bullet through his other hand and move the gun back to his temple. “Last chance.”

“Mikhail Petrov.” There’s a hint of pain in his voice now.

“Who runs the trafficking operation in and out of the Port of Chicago?”

His mouth curves into an unpleasant smile, lips curled away from his gums. “You’re assuming it isn’t me.”

I narrow my eyes and listen to my gut. “You follow orders. It isn’t you.”

“Why should I tell you? You’re going to kill me anyway.”