I turn to the kitchen, right as my phone starts ringing. I silently thank God that Aleksey has chosen this minute to interrupt.
I wait until I hear the bathroom door shut and the lock click before I answer my buzzing phone.
“Alek.”
“PD found the bodies and there’s a witness. They got to him before I could.”
That fucking weasel Hogan. He’d better keep his mouth shut. “Shit. He’s got a broken jaw though, so at least he won’t be saying much for a little while.”
I tense up my fist. I should’ve broken more than his jaw. I probably should have killed him, to be honest. God knows the bastard deserved it with what he was trying to do to Corrie. But I try never to hurt people who aren’t in the game. It’s one of the rules of the Bratva.
I may have bent the rule by pistol-whipping that sick fucker a few times. I left him alive though. So as far as I’m concerned, I didn’t do anything wrong.
Alek chuckles. “He’s barely stopped crying long enough to tell them his name. And since you didn’t leave any prints, we should be in the clear. I got the video guy to wipe the footage of you entering and leaving.”
“Good.” My fist relaxes.
“Funnily enough, an old friend of yours is registered into the room you hit.”
And there goes my fist tensing right back up. Of course he knows about Corinne. When a kid shows up claiming to be the son of the most powerful boss in the country, there’s bound to be a background check. Then the information goes through the ranks for verification. Only when it all comes back legit does the alleged son become what I became: the heir to the throne of the Bratva.
But I don’t like it. If I’d had things my way, no one would’ve ever found out about my past. About Mom or Corinne or any of it.
“Oh yeah?” It’s a noncommittal answer. Completely detached. I don’t owe Alek an explanation and I’m not giving him one.
“Cops are looking for her. And the Italians, if they aren’t already, will be soon.”
I expect more, but he’s keeping it discreet, businesslike. No telling what conversations my father is listening to. It’s how he manages his men and, as much as I am his son, I am first and foremost his employee.
“Cops need to forget her, and the Italians are never going to find her.” He knows what to do with what I’ve said.
“Okay. It’s as good as taken care of.” By morning, the reports will be scrubbed of any mention of Corinne O’Shea. “But, Tomas… be careful.”
I know what he’s saying. He isn’t talking business. His family has just left him. His wife took their kid and moved to Canada. And because of it, Alek spends a lot of time trying to drink his sorrow away. The wife was easy to let go. The kid, not so much.
“Oh, don’t worry. Being careful won’t be an issue with this one.”
“That’s not your story when you’re drinking. When you’re drinking, it’s how much you miss her. How much you love her. If you could just make love one more time …” The kissy sounds he’s making are going to get him killed.
“Fuck you, Alek. Just take care of it.”
He laughs. I hang up just in time, because Corinne is shutting the water off and I haven’t put her clothes out yet. I jog to the bedroom and yank a T-shirt and pair of jogging pants from the dresser and toss them onto the bed as the door opens and she walks out in her towel.
I stare because she’s Corrie—fresh-faced and shiny from the shower. A trickle of water slides down her shoulder and I watch it disappear into the towel. My dick is trying to see it too, apparently, growing harder with every breath that slides the towel lower.
But before her wardrobe malfunctions, she lifts a hand to hold it shut.
I take her in. All of her. Long legs. Smooth, soft shoulders. Tongue sliding over her lips as she stares back.
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
How she managed to speak, I can’t say because I’m so lost in her, in the memory, in all that skin, that there isn’t enough blood left in my brain to form a syllable, much less an entire word.
I turn and walk back to the kitchen. There’s whiskey in there.
And I need a lot of it. Now.
Two shots of whiskey later, she comes out of the bedroom wearing my clothes. I thought that would dampen down the desire burning up in me, but this outfit is just as fucking hot as the towel.
Fuck. I pour a third shot and down it.
I don’t want her. I do, but it’s not her. It’s her body. Well, not her body—any woman’s body would have me in the same shape. That’s all it is.
That’s my story. I’m sticking to it.
She comes to stand on the opposite side of the counter and nods to my shot glass. “May I?” Without waiting for an answer, she pours herself a shot and throws it back like a seasoned drinker.
“I can’t believe I’m here. With you.” She rolls her eyes as she pours another shot. “The most … fucking ridiculous thing ever.” She blows out a breath. “How long until you think I’ll be safe?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know you probably don’t get it, but I can’t miss work. We’ve just taken on a really big client and I have to be there.”
Her job. She’s worried about her fucking job. I smile. Of course she is.
“I have a five-year plan,” she continues, “and even though Alvin is… whatever he turned out to be, this monkey wrench isn’t going to derail me.” She frowns. “I left my computer at the hotel.”
“Your stuff is safe. I’ll get it tomorrow.” Not that I can let her use it. We’ll have to sweep it first. Until I know the room mix-up was nothing more than a mix-up, she isn’t going anywhere near traceable technology.
She stares at me, probably deciding whether or not to believe me. I don’t give a fuck if she does. If she wants to live, it has to be my way. If not, she’ll be free to go soon enough. “How long do you think it’s going to take to fix whatever this shit is?”
I shrug. How the fuck am I supposed to know? There are too many variables. But she needs an answer. I’m not above lying to her to shut her up so I can think without the sound of her voice making my cock jump.
“How long are you off for your honeymoon?”
“Until a week from Monday.”
That’s eight days. Should be enough.
“Fine. Stay until then. Or until I know you’re safe. Whichever comes first.” I take another shot and wipe my lips before I add, “Then we’re out of each other’s lives for good.”
7
Corinne
His bed smells like him. His pillow under my head. The blanket. The sheets. I can’t sleep. Too many memories, too much drama, danger—things I shouldn’t have to think about.
As if I didn’t have enough to think about already. “Roller coaster of emotions” doesn’t even begin to cover it. This was more like the thing Peyton bragged about in an all-hands meeting one time, some trip he’d taken on a supersonic airplane that goes way up into the atmosphere and then plummets back down towards earth so fast that everyone inside becomes weightless for a little bit. A vomit comet of emotions. Yeah, that sounds just about right.