Page 33 of Turmoil's Target

She leans into me, her subtle perfume tickling my nose as she presses a kiss to my cheek.

“Glad you could make it,” she murmurs, her breath warm against my skin. “We weren’t sure you boys would actually show, since you kept us waiting.”

Jolt slides in across from us, giving Rita a quick smile. “Wouldn’t want to leave you ladies hangin’,” he replies, and I’m proud of him for keeping his cool so far.

The bartender comes over to take our order and we each opt for a round of drinks—whiskey for me and Jolt, something fruity for the girls.

As the conversation starts to flow, I allow myself to relax into the night.

I keep an arm around Seraphina, her body pressed close to mine.

The music in the bar is a soft lull, just loud enough to fade in with the idle chatter and clink of glasses.

Seraphina’s laughter rings out, breaking through the humdrum as Rita tells another one of her horrendous dating stories.

She leans even closer to Jolt, her shoulder brushing against his chest.

Jolt seems more at ease now, chuckling along and tossing in a smartass remark or two.

The girls are charmed, and I can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

We are fitting in, blending seamlessly into this world that is so far removed from ours.

Just as I’m about to suggest we take a break from our drinks and pull Seraphina out to the dance floor, I spot a face across the bar that brings me back to reality.

My father.

I excuse myself, leaving Seraphina with a soft peck on her cheek.

As I approach him, I swallow hard, curious as to why the fuck he’s here.

The bar lights reflect off his olive skin, casting deep shadows under his sharp cheekbones.

He’s aged well, with a few silver specks in his curly hair that matches my own chocolate brown hue.

Our same ocean blue eyes lock onto each other’s from across the room.

My father, Anatoly Morozov—Hollywood royalty turned billionaire producer.

He looks away first, breaking our gaze in favor of the drink in front of him.

His presence here is a stark reminder of the double life I lead.

Turmoil, the rough, charming MC prospect by night; Abram Morozov, the estranged son of Hollywood’s elite by day.

I plaster on my most nonchalant face as I step up to him at the bar, feeling like I’m walking into enemy territory.

The thud of my heart pulsates in my ears as I approach him.

“Papa,” I greet him in Russian. The word tastes bittersweet on my lips.

It’s been at least three years since I last saw him.

He grunts in response, not looking up from his glass. “Abram,” he says, finally acknowledging my presence as he takes a swig of his vodka.

“Imagine meeting you here,” I continue, ignoring the sharp twist in my gut at the sound of it.

I order a whiskey from the bartender and lean back against the counter, trying to appear casual.

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