Page 31 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

One moment she was sitting on the edge of my bed in a towel and those ridiculous gardening boots, arguing with me about something. Whether she was staying, whether I had the right to keep her here, whether the towel constituted adequate clothing. I lost track of which argument we were on around minute fifteen.

Somewhere around minute six of arriving at my home, we ended up in my bedroom. She sat down and the whole time her mouth was running. She talks a lot when she’s nervous. Cutest fucking thing. That and the way she uses her hands to express every single word that comes out of her pretty mouth. Around eight minutes in I was tempted to put my lips to her and see if that shut her up, but then she was horizontal.

Two days of running caught up with her all at once, and her body made the decision sleep was in her immediate future. She yawned mid-argument, looked at the pillow and now I don’t know whether I should cover her or let her be.

She’s adorably frustrating.

I lean a shoulder against the frame of the door to my bedroom. This is the last place I should be. There are things to do that cannot wait until she wakes up. I promised my brother a call. Rafael needs to know I’ve stepped into the middle of something with my son and then there’s the dead body behind this woman’s shop. And more at her house. That’s not going to be fun to handle. Maybe Kon can give me a hand. Her nosy neighbor, too. I can’t remember her name, but I’ll have to handle her. I’m not into knocking off old ladies, but a full expenses paid trip to somewhere warm for six months should keep her out of my business for a while.

I thread my fingers through my hair and let out a heavy sigh. Tonight was a clusterfuck of events. That my son killed someone isn’t the biggest question, sadly. It’s why. What the hell is the little fucker up to? His mother, God rest her soul, is rolling in her grave.

I swallow the guilt of letting us both down for not being the father I meant to be.

I rub my tired eyes. Anger forces its iron grip around my guts. For myself, toward my son, my choices and how it all brought pain and fear to this woman’s life.

I look at my son’s former girlfriend and wonder how much time I have left on this earth to experience the glow of her presence. I can’t seem to make myself move. The energy coming off her in waves is made up of color, warmth and love.

To be in her presence is a gift I don’t deserve, but I’m not moving either.

I catalog the way her breathing evens out and deepens into a slow rhythm. Her body finally surrenders fully to exhaustion. One boot is half off her foot, the heel caught on the ankle like she tried to remove it and gave up before she could finish the motion. Her hand curls against the pillow with dirt or maybe it is blood smeared over the palm of her hand. Nothing but stubbornness and resourcefulness kept her out of a grave tonight.

The bruise forming on her forearm is already darkening to purple. One of my son’s assassins put his fucking hands on her. The memory of his fingers on her skin makes rage tighten behind my ribs all over again. If he wasn’t already dead, I’d hunt him down and relieve him of a hand. Then off him again.

A small cut on her shin catches in the low light of the lamp on my nightstand. Dried blood crusts around the edge. She must have brushed up against some of the broken glass during the fight. She never mentioned it. She was too busy swinging rolling pins at men twice her size and calling me an overgrown refrigerator.

I replay the chaos that unraveled in the middle of her duplex in my head from every angle. There’s no way my son didn’t intend to kill this woman tonight. Five men was overkill. He didn’t simply want to eliminate her, he wanted revenge. Probably as payback for walking out on him. I can only speculate, but the boy has his grandfather’s mean streak and taste for blood. And then he has my blood. Pakhan blood. I got to where I am today because of violence and bloodshed. I’m far from innocent. I only hoped that after the boy’s mother died and I pulled us out of Russia, it could be different. He could have a shot at a normal life that didn’t involve death and decay.

Seems it didn’t work. Some people are destined for darkness no matter how hard they fight to reach for the light.

The closet holds extra blankets and bigger towels than the kitchen rag she’s wearing. I pull a thick blanket free and carry it to the bed, shaking it open. Right before I settle it over her small frame, I can’t help but appreciate the beauty of her sleeping form.

She’s less than half my size and yet so mighty. I lean forward and catch a tendril of her soft ash-colored hair between my fingers. It’s slightly stiff from the leftover soap, but beautiful. The color makes the dashing of freckles of her checks stand out.

I watch her sleep. Her chest lifts and falls gently. A couple of lamps on side tables are on, but I left the overheads off. Shadows play in the corners of the room, but a few sprawl over the lower half of the bed as if reaching for her from the door.

The rest of her is covered in warm lighting. Like this, stretched out and sleeping peacefully, she's the picture of my dream woman. Feisty to the core, even when she’s down. Resilient. Her unmatched beauty is just an added bonus.

And that is a dangerous thought I can never entertain.

My gaze sweeps over her body. I run my thumb along her jaw, memorizing the silky softness of her skin. “I wish I could erase the horror my blood has caused you, malyshka.” I murmur hoarsely. I should put some distance between us. I smell like guilt, gunpowder, and blood. But leaving her like this would be another offense against me.

“I hate to do this to you, malyshka.” I tug off the damp towel. Much longer in that thing and she will get sick. I don't mean to reveal her body, but it’s hard not to see her beauty.

A spike of unbidden arousal shoots through me. I’m a fucking bastard for appreciating the view of her nipples hardening against the cold of my bedroom.

I slide my palm along the back of her neck and settle my thumb over the beat of her pulse. Strong. Steady. Like this, she’s defenseless. Protectiveness surges through me.

My dead heart heaves from the pain my bloodline has caused this woman. “No one will ever hurt you again,” I vow, and hope her dreams hear my promise.

I spread the blanket over her delicate body and move back to the doorway before my curiosity and intrigue test my morality.

I drag my hands through my hair and pull out a smoke from my pocket. The pack is a bit crumpled but I find a cigarette that isn’t in too bad a shape. I put it to my lips but instead of lighting up I let the thing hang there. What if she doesn’t like the smell? Or what if I wake her?

“What if, what if…enough already.” I crumple the smoke and toss it in a nearby waste basket on my way out. Standing around feeling guilty for something I didn’t do isn’t helping her, me or my brothers.

I welcome the night’s air when I push through the cabin door. It is cold enough to strip the warmth of the compound from my chest. I lock the compound behind me on my way out.

Locks are just a precaution. She's safe underground. No one gets in without my authorization. The elevator requires biometric access and the cabin-level doors are reinforced steel designed to withstand anything short of a military-grade assault. The only weakness is the staircase, but it’s well hidden.