Page 53 of Deception & Desire

“Ivan is suspicious of me,” Mia says as she pads across the room to grab a bathrobe.

I click my tongue. “I tagged his car before I left. Do you think he’d jeopardize your position with Carmen?”

She turns to look at me, contemplating something with her teeth against her bottom lip. “He told me if I stepped out of line, he’d…” she swallows, “bleed me out in front of those tech guys and let them have me.”

Something very cold and very lethal comes over me.

“I think Ivan has outlived his usefulness.”

The tracker takesus to a factory near the Coney Island Yard, and sure enough, as Max and I pull up a block away, Ivan’s sleek, gray Mercedes is parked right outside.

We settle in to wait as long as we need to.

The sky turns slowly gray, and by the time Max is done getting me up to speed on his last meeting with Dante—the Guild is sending the Cartel’s stolen merchandise to California—the heavens have opened.

I watch as the rain trickles down the window. It makes it more difficult to see the entrance to the factory, but not impossible.

“Can I ask you something without you biting my head off?” Max says after a pause of comfortable silence.

“That’s not a good way to start a conversation.” My tone definitely indicates that heads may be bitten off anyhow, but Max continues regardless.

“Why did you swap out with me the other night?”

He’s talking about the infiltration at the beach house. I wrack my brain for a valid excuse. “It was a simple job, no need for both of us to waste our time on it.”

“So it had nothing to do with the mercenary?” he asks innocently.

I turn to see my second blinking his eyes at me, a smug little smile slapped on his face. If he wasn’t so goddamn useful, I might have wrung his neck then and there.

“You’ve been talking to Dante.”

“Nope,” he says, putting emphasis on the “p”. “I’m just observant. I wasn’t sure if I was right until just now, though.”

“Asshole.”

“So is it like a thing then?” he presses. “I mean, I get it, she’s?—”

I cut him off. “She’s my wife.”

His mouth forms a perfect “O” shape, and he is suddenly looking very sheepish indeed.

“You may as well know,” I sigh out. “But we’re keeping things…discreet for now.”

“Roger that,” Max straightens and nods toward the factory doors. “Heads up.”

Eyes to the front, we both squint through the rain as a figure spills out. He’s hunched and muttering into his phone, and his hand is in his pocket—probably gripping his weapon.

Max shifts beside me, suddenly poised. “He’s packing,” he murmurs.

Silently, we both exit the car, the hammering rain covering the sound of our movements. The shadows swallow us as we close the distance, boots silent on the rain-slick concrete.

He approaches his car, and his back turns to us. We might be able to subdue him without complications.

Then it happens—his head snaps up, his hand flying from his pocket, the dull gleam of a gun catching the streetlight.

He doesn’t hesitate. Neither do I.

The first shot cracks through the night. I pivot, almost imagining that I can feel the rush of air as the bullet grazes past me. My own gun is already in my hand, and its weight is as natural as breathing.

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