Page 24 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

My right foot connects with hard muscle. “Smack me again and I’ll kick you again.” I get a grunt of pain from my captor and then another firm hand on my ass.

“Kick me again and you’ll get the same, only harder. I can smack that ass all night.”

Dark and twisted emotions spiral through me. Fear mostly. And heat. But I don’t focus on that and make sure the goosebump skittering across my skin is all about the fear I’m feeling and nothing else.

I grab onto handfuls of fine cotton or whatever the hell his shirt is made of. And lift a leg ready to drive the tip of my gardening boot into flesh when my whole body stiffens.

Wait a freaking minute. I know that voice.

“Let go of me…wait. Let me see your face. Let me…”

I twist in his grip and look up in the limited light.

Ice-blue eyes. The same shade his son inherited. My gaze falls over the same jawline, the same nose and muscular body. Only this russian has dirty blond hair with gray threading through the temples.

The restaurant. Three months ago. “You’re Nikolai's father.”

Dread fills me. My stomach drops to the floor.

"You!" The word comes out scalding hot. I shove against his chest with both palms, the heels of my hands landing hard against his taut pecs.

"Are you here to finish your son's job? Three days of his goons chasing me across Chicago and now Daddy shows up to make sure it sticks?"

Nausea causes me to inhale deeply, but it’s no help. The gurgling acid in my stomach is a clue I already know the answer.

I smack the lightswitch on the wall and the hallway lights up.

His brow creases with what looks like bona fide confusion. His head tilts my way a fraction more and yeah. He looks as confused as I feel.

He says a string of Russian words that has my brows rising and then he translates.

"What are you talking about?"

Ahh.

The confusion in his voice is real in both languages. I can hear it the same way I could hear the detective's bullshit back at the station. The detective was performing a script somebody paid him to memorize. This man is processing information he didn't have five seconds ago.

Trust is a luxury I ran out of days ago. Volkov men are charming. But I learned the hard way that Volkov men lie. The last Volkov I dated tried to make me believe he was good inside and out. I almost believed him.

Mea culpa and all that.

I would be a fool to trust him again or his father given they are both in the murder business.

I open my mouth to tell Daddy Volkov exactly what I think of his entire bloodline, but we’re interrupted by the man who threw me. He’s barreling down the hallway with murder on his face and zero interest in who's holding his target.

“And the hits keep coming.”

Nikolai's father shrugs me off his shoulder with a gentle ease as if he’s handling priceless merchandise. One second I'm pressed against his hard chest and the next I'm behind a wall of muscle acting as a shield.

With trembling fingers, I secure the section of towel tucked between my boobs. My hands tremble so hard it takes multiple tries before I get it to stay put.

“Stay behind me,” Daddy Volkov grumbles and that is all the warning I get before hell breaks loose.

There’s grumbling, broken pieces of Russian words and a lot of grunts carrying over the sickening sounds of fists meeting flesh.

Volkov takes a punch on his forearm, a deflection that redirects the man’s momentum past my bodyguard, and his fist connects with the man's ribs.

Something cracks. Sharp and wet.