Page 35 of Turmoil's Target

“I think you should leave,” I state coolly, holding his gaze. “Now.”

A nasty smirk twists his thin lips. “????????, ??, ???????????? ?????????? ????,” he spits in Russian, the foreign words dripping with disdain.

I have no idea what he said, but it clearly wasn’t polite.

Abe’s face darkens with rage as he steps between us, shoving the man back with a hand to the chest.

“???? ??? ? ??? ?????????????!” he growls, voice low and menacing. “???????? ?????? ? ?????, ???? ? ???? ????? ?? ?????????.”

The venom in Abe’s tone sends a shiver down my spine, even as a thrill washes through me at his fierce defense.

I may not understand the words, but his message is crystal clear—no one disrespects me. No one.

Abe remains firmly planted in front of me, a wall of coiled muscle and barely leashed aggression as he stares the other man down. “Don’t ever speak to her that way again,” he warns in English, deathly calm. “Or we’re going to have a real fucking problem. Understand?”

The older man chuckles a wry, humorless sound that grates on my nerves.

He shakes his head, a condescending glint in his cold eyes as they flick over me dismissively before returning to Abe.

“Always thinking with the wrong head,” he sneers in thickly accented English. “Some things never change.”

With that cryptic parting shot, he turns on his heel and strides away, expensive suit jacket stretching across broad shoulders.

Abe glares after him, jaw clenched and nostrils flared.

The tension rolling off him is palpable, a living thing that crackles in the air between us.

After a long, charged moment, he exhales harshly and wraps an arm around my waist, steering me back toward our booth.

His touch gentles as he pulls me into his side, but I can still feel the rigidity in his posture, the tight coil of his muscles.

As we slide onto the black vinyl bench seat, I notice Jack whisking Rita off toward the bar, clearly trying to give us some privacy.

Bless him.

I twist to face Abe fully, one hand coming to rest on his thigh.

“What was that all about?” I ask softly, searching his shuttered expression. “Who was that man?”

Abe takes a slow, measured breath, blowing it out between pursed lips.

He seems to be gathering his thoughts, choosing his words carefully.

I wait patiently, absently rubbing my thumb along the inseam of his dark jeans.

“That,” he finally says, voice low and raw, “…was my father.”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

I wasn’t expecting that.

Abe’s never mentioned his family before. “Your father? I didn’t realize...”

“We don’t talk,” he cuts in brusquely. “He’s...difficult. Always has been. It’s complicated.”

I nod slowly, digesting that.

I want to press for more, to understand the history there, but I can tell by his closed-off demeanor that now isn’t the time.

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