Page 2 of Big Bad Daddy

“I’m forty-eight. A twenty-three-year age difference feels obscene. We would have nothing in common. Enough about Larissa, tell me the other thing,” I command while I pour myself another drink.

“Oh, it’s nothing significant, and I wasn’t sure if I mentioned it, but she sounded desperate and made me promise I would bring it to your attention.” Bogdan’s reply leaves me confused.

“Since when do you make promises to strangers? Who is ‘she,’ and what does she want?” My curiosity is piqued, but I need clarification before deciding.

Bogdan tosses a magazine on the minibar, and my eyes immediately land on the wide hazel eyes of the gorgeous woman gracing the cover. She’s magnificent, too beautiful and vibrant to be visually groped by my old eyes. But somehow, I can’t look away. The supple curves of her breasts make my dead heart skip a beat. Her plump pink lips make my cock twitch in my pants. No one has captured my attention like this in years.

“Who is this?” The question flies from my lips with a manner of urgency.

“That’s Sybil Sheridan. She’s a supermodel and the younger daughter of Bernard Sheridan, the powerhouse defense attorney who always represents the rich and famous. Her best friend happens to be Scarlett Rossi, the young woman Vasily kidnapped to God knows where. Miss Sheridan wants answers.She fears for her friend’s life and wants your reassurance she’s still alive and well. Do you want me to tell her you’re busy?”

I lift the magazine and flip through the pages, hoping to find more photographs of pretty Miss Sheridan. “Am I busy? I’m pretty sure I have time tomorrow evening.”

“Aren’t you?” He makes a good point but that doesn’t prevent me from tucking the magazine under my arm and head for the door.

“Not that busy.”

Chapter Two

Do it for Scarlett. Do it for your friend.

The voice in my head echoes off the walls of my panic-stricken brain as I step out of the taxi and tread quietly toward the iron gate. My pumps wobble beneath my weak ankles, struggling in vain to steady my gait against the slick incline leading me to the burly men guarding the only entrance to Boris Volkhov’s gothic estate.

“I have an appointment,” I whisper, my voice nothing more than a breathy sigh as I search the contents of my purse for my notes. “I was told to ask for Bogdan Volkov. My name is Sybil Sheridan. Is he available for me?” I brush the strands of sweaty hair off my forehead and drop my nervous gaze to the pavement.

Two minutes in and I’m already failing miserably. Tasha told me to look them in the eye. She made me promise not to look away first. Their stony expressions and piercing gazes are a test. Men like these can smell fear and use it to their advantage at the first opportunity.

I clear my throat and lift my chin, willing my heartbeat to decelerate, fearing it's moments from shooting straight out ofmy chest. “Is he here or did he cancel without notice?” The sound of my stern voice surprises me. It’s a ridiculous act that may cost me dearly, but I can’t back down so soon. This is a matter of life or death and I’m strong enough to fight for the sake of a dear friend. I know Scarlett would do the same for me.

One of the men, the taller of the two, nods without a word and unlocks the gate. “Mr. Volkov is expecting you. Follow me.” His gruff voice makes me jump, and his long stride forces me to catch up two steps at a time. He walks with purpose, clenching giant mitts like he’s looking for a fight. I only hope it’s not with me.

“Am I disturbing him?” I ask, as we pass through a thick black door embossed with Cyrillic letters across the top. I’m unsure what it spells and there’s no sense asking the stern man leading the way. He doesn’t appear interested in holding a conversation with me.

I step onto the marble floor and cringe at the sound of my Mary Jane pumps echoing off the walls. Mortified by my heavy steps, I tiptoe on the balls of my feet, then realize my correction has made me fall behind. The giant man in front of me peers over his shoulder and furrows his brow disapprovingly. He shifts his gaze to the empty space between us and silently commands me to hurry.

“Sorry,” I murmur and leap into position, forcing myself to stop looking around and catch up.

“This way.” The scary man escorting me curls a finger and points toward a hallway beneath a sprawling black staircase. His icy expression makes a shiver run down my spine, but I tread into the darkness, hoping the light illuminating our path leads me to someone willing to help me.

This may all be for nothing. Boris Volkov has no obligation to offer his assistance.Why would he?Now that I’m hereand risking my life, I think my optimism may have been both premature and delusional.

My panicked mind urges me to run. But adrenaline makes me brave. I should be more frightened than I feel, but I can’t let Scarlett down. I’ve seen enough documentaries to know that the first forty-eight hours are crucial. As much as I’d prefer not to wade through Brooklyn’s underworld to gather information on her whereabouts, I can’t count on the proper authorities. They refuse to help if her parents aren’t concerned enough to file a report.

I still can’t believe they can be so calm about this. It’s incredibly suspicious. Scarlett’s stepmom worries about the most trivial things and doesn’t appear fazed by her stepdaughter’s sudden disappearance. I’m almost certain she’s been kidnapped by Vasily Volkov, Boris’s lunatic son, and everyone is pretending she’s okay because they’re too terrified to create a scandal or get on the wrong side of the Volkov Bratva. At least, that’s what my friend, Tasha, believes. She knows more than me about these things. Tasha grew up around the Volkovs and knows firsthand how ruthless they can be.

When we reach the end of the hallway, my brawny guide knocks twice and leans his ear to the wood, listening for an answer before he turns the knob. He nods once, having heard something inaudible to me, and pushes the door open.

“Mr. Volkov, Sybil Sheridan is here to see you,” the man grunts, then waits for a reply, watching my nervous fidgeting from the corner of his eye.

“She’s early.” A deep gravelly voice floats from the room and makes my hair stand on end. He’s right. I’m ten minutes early, but Boris Volkov didn’t sound like the type of man you keep waiting.

“Show her in, Gaspar. And please let me know when Bogdan arrives.”

With trembling steps and a drawn-out gait, I walk into the private office of the man known to everyone as the Boogeyman of Brooklyn. Lord, help me. What have I gotten myself into?

The room is devoid of color. Everything is gray or black with specks of white to add dimension. A bookcase lines one wall and expensive-looking paintings decorate the other. The office is understated but elegant—masculine yet uncreative and joyless. The entire house needs a woman’s touch to bring it to life. Although I wonder what caliber of woman would be desperate enough to hitch her wagon to a man referred to as the boogeyman. I suppose some women are into bad boys, but there must be a point where you draw the line.

The most terrifying man I’ve ever seen sits in the far end of the room. Piercing brown eyes focus on me. They’re sharp and menacing, like a hungry predator eyeing his prey. I clasp my hands and wring them tightly, digging my fingernails into my skin until I nearly draw blood. Tasha was right. I must be out of my mind believing anything I do can persuade this man to help a stranger. He’s a brutal killer, not a good Samaritan.

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