Unprotected With the Mob Boss Read online

  I get up, pulling my bag over my shoulder. As it begins to buzz, I unzip it to get my phone. It’s my father again. He must be worried that I haven’t called yet to say I’m home. I put the phone back in my bag. I’ll be calling him soon anyway when I report that Jeffrey is drinking and driving.

  The exit door squeaks as I push it open. At first, I don’t see Jeffrey, but after the door closes, I notice him leaning close to one of the dumpsters. He nods at me.

  “Hey.” I try to give him a flirty wave, pretending to stumble a little as I step toward him. “Um, I was just hoping to bum a cigarette from you.”

  “Sure,” he says. He lets the cigarette dangle in his mouth as he taps the pack against his palm. He pulls out one of the cigarettes. I take two more unsteady steps toward him.

  Then everything happens fast.

  As I reach for the cigarette, he lurches forward, grabbing my arm and yanking me toward him. He drops the cigarettes as he grabs my other arm and shoves me against the wall. The air whooshes out of my lungs. I see stars where my head cracked against the bricks.

  “Bitch,” he spits out, the cigarette flinging out of his mouth and bouncing off my shirt. “You don’t think I remembered you from the courtroom? You don’t think I saw you watching me in there? You dumb, bootlicking bitch.”

  “Let me go!” I struggle against him, but he’s a lot stronger than he looks. When I try to kick him, he presses his whole body against me, pinning me against the wall. “My father is the chief of police. I’m friends with the DA. Don’t do anything stupid. Just let me go and I’ll forget this whole thing.”

  “You know, that whole time in the courtroom, I imagined being pressed up against you like this,” he sneers. His face is right up in mine, breath hot on my cheeks. “It was so hard to concentrate on my lawyer and the DA while you were sitting there, so uptight that I knew you’d be the best fuck of my life. I’m thankful that I didn’t go to prison because now I can get what I want.”

  I spit at him.

  His jaw stiffens. He spits back at me. It lands on my chin before it drips down to the ground. Still, his hands keep me pressed firmly into the brick wall at my back.

  “Just for that, this is going to be ten times worse for you.” He moves his hips back to try to pull down my sweatpants.

  I stomp on his foot. He jerks backward, loosening his grip. As I turn to run, his hand swings through the air. It hits me so hard across the face that I slam into the dumpster, the metal edge jamming into my ribs before I crumble onto the asphalt.

  My bag falls beside me. Inside it, I see the glint of something aluminum.

  I pretend to be writhing in pain. I keep one hand on my face as my other hand inches toward my bag.

  “Get up,” Jeffrey snarls. “Let’s see if your high horse protects you from getting fucked next to the goddamn trash.”

  My hand shoots forward, snatching the pepper spray can from my bag. I pray that it’s facing the right way as I press down on the top.

  The pepper spray disperses in a cloud of orange. As it hits Jeffrey, his head jerks back. He makes a sound like a mountain lion’s scream. He takes several steps back as he tries to use the heel of his palms to rub his eyes, but it only makes things worse for him. Coughs wrack his body as he hunches over, desperate for air.

  I scoot back on my butt as his coughing becomes more severe, dragging my bag with me. He’s spinning in place, roaring in pain.

  I clamber to my feet and take a couple of steps back, toward the exit door. His coughs start to sound strangled. He falls onto his knees, his hands on his throat.

  Something is wrong.

  He’s convulsing on the ground, and foamy drool is issuing from his mouth. His eyes are wide open and a sickening shade of red.

  Then, just as suddenly, he stops. Every muscle in his body goes slack.

  Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Cautiously, I drop my bag again and step towards him. I reach a hand out to check for a pulse.

  But as soon as I’m in range, his eyes fly back open and his arm swings out, hitting against my shoulder before he grabs the front of my shirt. He pulls me closer to him. His coughing sprays his spit onto my face. His other hand grasps my neck, his thumb digging into my throat. It feels like a vise clamped around me, cutting off the air. Stars are swirling again, thick and fast. Black is creeping in at the edge of my vision.

  I pry his fingers off my neck, his thumbnail dragging across my throat, and yank his other arm hard enough that he releases my shirt. I take several steps back until I’m pressed up against the wall, gasping for air.

  On the ground in front of me, Jeffrey’s coughs start to turn into dying rasps.

  I dig through my bag and grab my phone. I dial 9. As my finger moves to the 1, my father’s number pops onto the screen.

  You’re also a reflection of me.

  Jeffrey falls onto his side. His hands curl into fists. He presses them close to his neck. His face is bright red.

  His rasps quiet into whimpers, and then nothing. There is only silence, the distant rumble of cars on the freeway, and my own labored breathing.

  Is he dead?

  Being the daughter of the chief of police is different than being the daughter of other fathers. As a kid, people assumed I could get away with anything because my father would get me out of trouble, but the truth was that I couldn’t be caught around anything illegal because the slightest sign of indiscretion could be turned into a full-blown conspiracy against the police force.

  I know how this story will go. The fact that it was accidental won’t matter. I’ve seen how easily prosecutors can twist a story. They won’t just convince a jury that I’m a remorseless cold-blooded killer who planned to go to the same nightclub Jeffrey mentioned in the trial and followed him out to the back of the club—they’ll spin the story to the media and the city will eat it up.

  It’d be nice to believe the justice system will treat me fairly, but I saw today that the law isn’t based on facts—it’s based on who can tell the best story.

  And the best, most sensational story will be that the police chief’s daughter is a vigilante that took justice too far.

  It will stain my father’s career and the city government will force him to step down in order to save face. Even if it’s proven to be accidental, the fact that I killed a man will always haunt both of our lives.

  Jeffrey is silent, facedown on the asphalt. His hands that were clenched into fists slowly unfurl. I crouch down next to him again. He doesn’t try to hit me. I touch his arm. Nothing.

  Shit.

  I push him onto his back and start to do chest compressions.

  He’s not dead yet and I can’t let him die.

  This isn’t justice. This isn’t what I wanted at all.

  4

  Lev

  The parking lot of Black Glacier is nearly empty.

  When Daniil Trofimov approaches me, his size looks like an illusion. He’s large enough to make the few cars he passes resemble those toy cars that kids use.

  “Hey, boss.” Daniil stops a couple of feet in front of me, cracking each one of his knuckles. His eyes sweep the parking lot. He’s a great lieutenant, but it’s mostly because his size intimidates everyone and he can lead soldiers to do what I need, which is invaluable. “Sorry to bother you, but I figured you’d wanna know.

  No kidding, I’d ‘wanna know.’ The phone call brought me halfway across the city immediately, as few things can that aren’t directly business related.

  “You’re certain it’s the chief’s daughter?” I ask. He nods. The song from the nightclub changes to something louder, the bass pulsing like a heartbeat.

  “What has she been doing since you called?”

  “She danced with her friend and then sat at the bar. When I walked out here, she was still at the bar.”

  “Her father must have sent her.” I rub my hand over my throat.

  I can only guess at the game that the police chief is playing with me here. Sendi
ng his own daughter in to scout me? There’s a certain kind of twisted logic in it, I suppose. She’s young enough that she could fit in and he wouldn’t know that we’ve researched him enough to know what she looks like.

  It’s a fucking fishing expedition. They’re hoping to find a connection between my nightclub and the Bratva to nail my ass to the wall.

  “Do you want me to handle it?” Daniil asks.

  “It’s an insult,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, sir—”

  “Not you,” I cut him off. “The police. They think that they can just send a young woman to act as a lure and we’ll make a mistake just because she’s got tits. The cops in this city are turning to shit if they thought that would work.”

  “Do you want me to deal with her?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Sir, I know the pigs are shit.” He starts cracking his knuckles again. “But you know that you’ve grown your business large enough that it hides everything else. You’ve done better for us than any other boss. The police wouldn’t be suspicious of you at all if it weren’t for what your mother did.”

  I stare at Daniil. He exhales hard enough that it sounds like he’s choking before he takes a half-step back, eyes wide with something akin to fear.

  “I mean—I didn’t mean it like that all. I don’t think your mother did anything wrong. Your mother was a wonderful woman. I only meant that if it … I meant that it’s not your fault that the police are suspicious. If everything had started with you, they wouldn’t be suspicious at all. I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean anything by that. Please, sir.”

  I roll my wrist. There’s nobody around. He’s a large man, but he has a weak left knee and limited fighting experience. He’s used to fighting with a gun. I know he keeps his gun in a holster on his right side, but even if he made the poor decision to try to kill me, I’m close enough to disarm him and use the gun against him. I could claim self-defense. I could just walk away and the rest of the Bratva would clean up the mess for me. The police would never know. Not even Allison Harrington would know about it.

  “Leave,” I order.

  He moves faster than I’ve ever seen any full-grown man move. I head toward the nightclub.

  The police chief’s daughter is waiting.

  Jonathan sets the whiskey down in front of me. I hand him a twenty-dollar tip. He murmurs his gratitude before walking away. I’ve only seen him a few times, since I rarely come into Black Glacier, but he’s good enough at his job and he has the common sense to not draw attention toward me, which makes him preferable to most of the other bartenders.

  Allison Harrington is about twenty feet away. She’s directly in my line of view when I look straight ahead. She’s different from the photo we got from one of the soldiers. In the photo, she was nearly five years younger and she was heading somewhere with a layer of makeup that made her look like an echo of every other teenager. She was pretty, but in a way that anyone else could be pretty.

  Now, she’s not wearing any makeup and looks for all the world like a stoner.

  And, most irritating of all, she’s far too fuckable for any of that to matter.

  She has this aura of incandescence, which should be hampered by her black hair, but the contrast only sharpens her allure. There’s a fervor in her expression that the photo either didn’t show or wasn’t there during her teen years. She also seems to have gained some weight since she was sixteen, but it adds a gentle softness to her face and, from what I noticed walking in, a fine-as-fuck ass.

  God, if she wasn’t the chief’s daughter, I’d rip her to shreds. The high would last long enough for me to take her over and over until she was broken.

  I swallow down my drink. It’s quickly replaced.

  I shake off my weakness. I knew walking in here that the police would send a beautiful, sensual woman to try to distract any Bratva member from the fact that she’s connected to the department. She must have rejected dozens of men, waiting for one of my men to wander too close.

  She’d be worth a fuck, but she’s not worth prison.

  A beautiful blonde woman with streaks of turquoise in her hair sits down beside me. She orders a mango margarita before turning toward me.

  “I’m Natasha,” she says. I consider telling her to fuck off, but I need to keep up the façade that I’m just another man in a nightclub. I smile, leaning against the bar to be closer to her.

  “Hello, Natasha. I’m Ryan.”

  I shake her hand before glancing over at Allison. Natasha’s eyes follow me. I won’t be able to keep an eye on Allison without tipping my hand.

  “So, Ryan,” Natasha asks. “Have you heard about the thirty-six questions you can ask a person and it will cause the two of you to fall in love?”

  “I’m not looking for love,” I tell her.

  “I’m not either,” she says. “But I figure it’s a good way to find out if we should fuck tonight.”

  I raise an eyebrow, pretending to find her bluntness unique. “Okay. What’s one of the questions?”

  “Hmm. Let’s say you have a crystal ball. It can tell you the truth about anything. I mean, anything about you—like who you are, things about your life, your past, your present, your future—what would you want to ask it?”

  “If I’m going to be rich someday,” I say. Her eyes flicker over my clothing. She must have pegged me as rich. I’ll give her points for her ability to spot an expensive suit, but I can see her questioning her decision to talk to me already. Jonathan drops off her margarita. She wraps her fingers around the stem and sips from it.

  “Are you going to ask me the same question?” she asks.

  “No.” I briefly look toward Allison. She’s leaning against the bar, her head propped up on her hand. Tired. I could fix that for her. I focus on Natasha again. “If you could sleep anywhere tonight, where would it be?”

  “Maybe in my bed. Maybe with you. It depends,” she teases and takes another sip of her margarita. She licks some salt from the edge of her mouth. Usually, I’d be all over this kind of woman. Unabashedly sexual, and already dripping with a desperate desire for my approval.

  But her antics are bordering on annoying right now. She sets her margarita down. “All right, I have another one. If you could change the way that you were raised, what is one thing that you would change?”

  “I’d have given myself a dog,” I lie.

  We had a dog. His name was Bear. He used to get upset every time my parents kissed. We were never sure why, but my father used to tease him by kissing my mother repeatedly. Bear would bark over and over until my father walked away. As a child, I thought my parents were madly in love and maybe they even were.

  If anything, that was the problem.

  Marriages should be nothing more than a contract between two people, where it’s beneficial for both sides to remain together without any emotions involved.

  “Oh, dogs are great.” Natasha plucks the lime slice off her glass before taking another sip. “I wish my father had been around more.”

  I nearly laugh. Daddy issues, a drinking problem, and flaunting enough cleavage for a man to drown in? This girl is a true triple threat.

  But nothing she’s doing can capture my interest tonight.

  As a man stands up from the bar, I see Allison’s eyes track him. She stands up and follows him out. I look back at Natasha. She’s looking down at her drink, her shoulders slumped.

  There is nothing worse than a drunk therapy session.

  “Excuse me,” I say, standing up. She grabs my arm, her nails painted the same color as her hair dye.

  “Wait,” she says. “Are you going to come back?”

  I look straight at her. “No.”

  A slow-motion camera might be able to pinpoint the exact moment her heart breaks.

  But I pay no attention as I turn and stride away. I move casually across the floor to stay under the radar. I’m not certain what I’m going to do if it turns out that Allison and this man are working together to und
ermine me.

  I just know I can’t let them leave my sight.

  When I step outside, there’s a faint stinging in my eyes and nose. Any unknown substance should be a top priority, but it’s Allison that is demanding my full attention.

  She’s kneeling beside the man, who is flat on his back. She’s applying chest compressions, her hair swaying every time she presses down. The man’s limp body jolts from her efforts. As his head bounces, his eyes remain open, but there’s no reaction to anything that’s happening.

  I let the exit door slam shut. Allison turns and sees me.

  “Do you know how—do you know what stops an allergic reaction?” she asks in a panic, continuing compressions. Her face gleams with her sweat. “I need—can you do mouth-to-mouth? Or I can and you can do chest compressions. Can you do chest compressions?”

  “I’m not putting my mouth on a corpse,” I tell her. She looks up at me, confusion creasing her forehead.

  “He’s not—he’s not dead. He can’t be dead. There’s still a chance. He’s going to be fine.” She shakes her head, her chest compressions becoming harsher. “He can’t be.”

  As she adjusts her legs, I notice a tiny metal can. Pepper spray. He could have been allergic, he could have had asthma, or he could have had some kind of cardiac issue.

  They weren’t accomplices. For some reason—I could imagine a few—he attacked her and she defended herself.

  She’s still doing chest compressions, but they’re getting slower and slower. It’s gradually dawning on her that she’s trying to perform a miracle.

  And just like that, the answer to all of my problems slides neatly into place.

  “You killed someone in my nightclub,” I state, the gravity of the situation hitting me quickly. The police will swarm the nightclub. They only need the flimsiest reason to investigate me, and a death in my nightclub while I’m here might as well be a nail in my coffin.