Page 8 of Caged

“I don’t have to clean up this time, do I?” Alexei whines. “Sheila needs me.”

Jax groans and stretches as he stands. “I still don’t know why the hell you have a flamingo. You should have just left it at that golf course.” His dark curly hair falls over his brows as he shakes his head.

“I take my responsibilities very seriously.” Alexei steps over my duffel and follows Jax out through the sound-proof door.

It’s hard for me to stop looking at the empty spot on the dead man’s chest where the tattoo sat.

Was he there the night my wife died? What hand would he have had in it?

The turmoil of memories burns within me. This piece of shit may have been the reason my little girl no longer has a mother.

No. It’s the man who owns that moniker. He did it.

My father forever changed my life, and Elena’s.

And, Mikhail’s.

Ivan.

THREE

MILA

Ivan Volkov.

That fucking bastard.

His bald head and perfectly trimmed white beard are the first things I see when the dirty hood is ripped off of my head.

The stink of the sedative has faded from it a long time ago. I thought about feigning to still be unconscious, but know that by the way I’m handled, they’re professionals.

“Normal people text, Ivan,” I spit after a cleansing breath.

My hands and feet are bound to the chair facing him.

He chuckles and tugs on the pants of his designer suit before propping his ankle onto his knee. “Well, Mila, I wanted to make sure you’d show up this time.” He pulls a cigar from a wooden box on the table next to him and trims the end. “You see—” He puffs a ring of smoke as he lights it that forms a halo around his head. “—I need your, hmm, expertise on a matter.” His thick hand, adorned with enough rings to buy a small country, gestures at my breasts. “You have all of the equipment and training needed to accomplish a task for me.”

He blows a river of thick smoke towards my hips.

I’m sure he’s emphasizing my “assets”.

Asshole.

I’d love to wrap my legs around his head. But, only to snap his neck.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t just go through the typical routes.” I’d rather Tyler talk to him, anyways. That’s what handlers are for.

This old guy gives me the creeps. I’ve heard nothing but horror stories about him, and how quickly he will double-cross anyone.

“No time. I need you to go to America. Las Vegas, specifically. And you are to get back something that was taken from me.” He waves his hand to one of his men nearby who brings forth a folder.

They’re all the same. It’s full of information, locations, times, and the target.

“I don’t know. My schedule’s pretty full. Plus, you didn’t exactly ask nicely.” My mouth twists since I can’t cross my arms.

This isn’t how this business works. I’m not a lapdog. It’s taken years to earn my reputation as a dependable for-hire.

He’s skipping steps, and it’s pissing me off.

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