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My father had been dedicated to the cause. I’d seen no one more diligent about it than him, which earned him respect. He was a friend to many, a role model to most, and my hero. But most importantly, he was my father.
And I missed him.
I missed him a lot. Thinking about the days I’d spent without him was like taking a spear to my heart and ripping it out.
I missed our long conversations when he’d rush in twenty minutes before lights out just to say goodnight. I missed his warm smile and encouraging words when I needed motivation. I missed the way he made me feel like I was the most important person in the world. I missed his witty jokes and crazy life advice that somehow worked out anyway. I missed his solid belief in me.
My father never made me feel or even think I couldn’t achieve the impossible. He stood on the sidelines and cheered when I went for soccer tryouts and sort of failed. He was still there, supporting me during my successes and talking me out of my failures. When I wanted to join the swim team, he challenged me to be my best self and pushed me out of my comfort zone—even if I found out that the swim team wasn’t my thing, either.
My father always made me feel like I was a part of something bigger than myself.
I missed the days when he’d take me out into the rain for the most absurd reasons. One time, it was for a random shooting practice. The other time, it was after a fight with my best friend, Ruby, two days after we both turned fifteen. He’d made me scream my frustration at the pouring skies, and afterward, I did feel better.
That night, we drank hot chocolate on the couch and watched a bit of Netflix, and he kissed my forehead, assuring me that everything between us was going to be fine.
A week later, after the fight with Ruby, Sergeant Keith called our house.
My dad had died in a car accident.
An eighteen-wheeler crushed his sedan on the highway.
He was rushed to the ER but never made it. The sergeant said he’d called my name before drawing his last breath.
Hurriedly, I tucked the picture away, hiding his smiling face with crinkles at the corner of his eyes and blinking back tears. Seven years later, his death still stung.
It was the reason I was doing all of this, the reason I’d become a detective. To honor him, continue his legacy, and purge our city of those drug dealers. Most especially, the Russians and Irish families running the show.
And that was wherehecame in.
Egor Yezhov.
The dour man who possessed everything at the same time. He was as charming as he was terrifying, intimidating, and threatening. With those hard, emotionless green eyes that bore to the depths of a person’s soul, like he knew everything,saweverything; lips, full and grim; and the rest of him too delicious and searing to forget.
I’d committed him to memory.Everysingle detail.
The subtle tick of his jaw when he thought I wasn’t watching; the smooth side-part of his hair that made the rogue in him appear like a gentleman; the clean, chiseled jawline that could give a pass for a supermodel; and his neck—the part that made me warm all over—a hint of black ink peeking out from above the collar of his white dress shirt.
God.
The man was hot. Undeniably the hottest man I’d ever encountered. He was the kind of man any woman would be happy to jump on and ride. Every word from his lips had sent cool shivers down my toes. But the red flag flying above his head was too bright to ignore. It was bright red, a loud neon sign with a megaphone attached. “CRIMINAL,” it announced.
It was such a shame that the sexy man was a criminal, and not just any criminal. Oh, no, this one was the kingpin at the veryhelm of affairs, with many offenses on his hands, including the blood of his uncle.
I sighed and rested on the headrest.Thoroughly disgusting.Irritating. Sad.Anyone with a heart—or obviously lacking a heart—who was able to kill family for money and power was a monster.
Hewas a monster.
And should NOT be fantasized about.
I copied that and cleared the growing images of his hard, sculpted body from my mind.
A slow buzz started beside me. Turning to my side, I grabbed my tote bag from the passenger seat. I fished out my phone, glared at the lit screen, and groaned. I put the phone on speaker.
There was a cackle and muffled sounds of things moving before her voice came from the other end of the line. “Is this call on speaker?”
I massaged my temple with a smile. “A normal conversation always starts with, ‘hello’ or ‘hi.’”
She laughed. “Nothing’s ever been normal about us, sweetie.”
