Page 8 of Tangled Vows

“Yes,” he accepts with a nod and shoves the money into his pocket. “You’ll have some information on your email within the next twenty-four hours. Is that all?”

Some top-shelf vodka.

I’m just about to utter those words, but I throw away the thought in a heartbeat. Some liquor is good company when I do business here. I often stay until early dawn, talking to my people and getting updates from them. Tonight, though, my own slice of heaven won’t taste as good as it usually does. All I want to do is get the hell out of here and be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Away from the violence of my world, with some peace of mind for a change.

“No. Thank you, Malachi.” I dismiss him with a nod of appreciation. I leave my seat and head back out, repeating the same process. No eye contact. No courtesies.

I run into the same girls outside, apart from a redhead. She was probably lucky enough to get a customer. I exhale hard, putting some distance between me and the club. Some tension leaving my neck muscles, I return to the parking lot. At the sight of my Mercedes, an annoying questions pops into my head.

Why does everything feel so goddamn unbearable after all these years?

Coming up with an answer isn’t difficult. That answer even has a name.

Clare Jensen.

She showed me I was still human. Seeing her amongst all those women stirred something within me. Not desire; the hookers I keep running into can ease that itch just fine. It woke up a desire to shield someone. To protect her from harm. She was a stranger to me, and yet, I felt the urge to stash her away so her abusers couldn’t lay a hand on her again.

I reach my house, knowing that she and I are not done yet. I’m going to keep an eye on her. I’m not going to deny my interest in that woman. I want her to be safe. She deserves better than what the Armenians brought.

––––––––

Things don’t change much the next day. To my disappointment, I don’t get an email from Malachi. I contact him, and his excuse is solid. He hasn’t had the time to have a word with all his girls. He’s a busy man; plus, he’s got more than five dozen women working for him in different parts of Miami. Even if he’d spent the entire day driving around to talk to them, it would’ve been hard for him to get that job done so quickly.

I’m on edge, and I’m usually more patient than this.

I’m still in bed when my phone pings with an incoming email. I rub my eyes and sit up, picking it up from my nightstand. It’s a staffing report from The Blue Dolphin. According to the manager, our new hostess failed to show up for work last night. His explanation? She got the jitters over her high-profile clientele. More than that, she had to be taught from scratch how to interact with Bratva soldiers. Not many people have the stomach to work with our organization, that’s for sure. The manager’s last sentence is about an application from someone new, which raises my interest.

But this minor reaction is nothing compared to what hits me when I see the attached resume. At the top of the page is a clear picture of a brunette. Name: Clare Elise Jensen. Damn, I wish I was wrong. I wish this was someone else, and this was someone playing a joke on me. Yet, those sage-green eyes and that smooth skin don’t leave much room for doubt. My fingers loosen, as if someone’s sucked all the energy out of my muscles. My eyes widen, a sharp exhale leaving me.

I swallow hard and read the rest of her profile. Age: Twenty-two. Originally from Oregon, moved to Miami on a volleyball scholarship. Then, she transferred from community college to university for a business degree. Her athletic figure makes sense now. Even under my bulky coat, it was visible.

About a thousand thoughts roar into my head. The most dominant one has nothing to do with my attraction to her and everything to do with her motive. What the fuck kind of game is she playing? Is she trying to get an inside look into the Bratva? If the answer is yes, who is she working for?

That’s a load of crap, Leonid. That’s bullshit, and you know it.

My brain cuts in with some common sense. When I first saw her in that warehouse, her reaction and the fear all over her face were one hundred percent genuine. A Hollywood actress wouldn’t have been able to fake those. She wouldn’t have made me feel her trauma.

I roll out of bed, energy surging through my muscles. I’m fucking desperate for an outlet. I head to my downstairs gym, wanting to pound everything in that room until my knuckles bleed...

Chapter Five

Ivan

Holding the surveillance reports, I’m waiting for Leonid in his living room so he and I can talk about what to do next.

But, before I can even think of how to start our little chat, a noise from downstairs forces me to sprint across the room. The papers slip from my grasp, my loud footsteps echoing. I hear bullets popping. I lose count of those, jumping down the steps two at a time. I’m halfway down when I hear my brother shouting curses. This isn’t like him. Leonid keeps a cool head, no matter how fucked up a situation is. I guess something got the better of him this time.

I shove the steel door open, only to find that he’s using a punching bag for target practice. The chain it had been hanging from is history. The bag is lying on the floor, most of its sand scattered around it. I count six bullet holes up and down its leather surface, and Leonid is taking his frustration out on another bag to my left. He’s pounding away with his fists, testing the strength of that leather, the chain creaking as the bag sways back and forth.

By his feet, an assault rifle is lying on its side, smoke still rising from the barrel. For a guy who prefers handguns, Leonid’s surprises me. He thinks high-powered weapons are a burden because of their bulk.

I shuffle closer, taking in the rage in his expression. The guy looks like he means to demolish the bag.

“Interesting choice of weapon,” I comment, my gaze shooting back down to that rifle. “Let me guess. You couldn’t find any of your handguns? Or you ran out of bullets?”

“Shut up, asshole,” he groans, still not making eye contact with me. “Fuck!” He cries out, a right hook to the bag sending it four or five feet back.

“Okay, now I’m worried,” I admit, taking two more steps closer. “What the hell is wrong?”

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