Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Crap?” She bombarded me with fake angry hits.
“Aye. Because none depict”—I blocked a slug meant for my chest—“you.”
The fight in her stalled. “Aww, Lach.”
“Lassie, if I possessed half the camera skills as you, I’d have succeeded. One pic would rival Leonardo da Vinci.”
Her voice carried a breathless lilt. “You know the Mona Lisa isn’t originally a photograph, right?”
“Don’t care about all that, but any photo, no matter the technique, just scratches the surface of your beauty.”
She climbed out of bed, fanning herself. Between exhales, she murmured, “I think I need my own room.”
And I think I need to “lock this girl down” as Montana would say, with a ring ASAP. Only, he’d say it with a disdainful head shake.
“No room, Tash.”
“Your family is big, granted, but not that big.” She looked a little skeptical while staring at the fireplace, large enough for her to walk inside. Castles. The myriad fireplaces? A nightmare to restore.
“Lemme explain.” I climbed from the bed. “Willow and Cam take an entire east wing with their brood. Little Brody and his clan take the west. He’s taught his two girls and Justice to sleep through Armageddon. That ruckus of snoring.”
Arms folded, she chuckled. “Mm-hmm. So, the west wing is an option.”
I stepped toward Natasha, drawing her into my orbit. “I propose … we get married today. Pick whichever side of the bed tonight.” What was I thinking? With my pants? Yeah. But … “I love you, woman. More than you’ll ever know. When we broke up, I was gutted. When I carried ye …”—my voice cracked—“… outta your da’s nightclub, I knew I’d not let you go. Can’t let you go, Natasha. You belong to me.”
41
LORENZO
Scotland
How had I let her go? I braced my forearm against the wall above the single-pane window. From our rented room above the pub, I glanced over a stretch of rolling green. Below, the dirt lot sat empty, waiting for drinkers to crawl in.
Rain and I hadn’t left the cargo hold until hours after the MacKenzies departed the plane. She was concerned that we wouldn’t be able to locate their residence. Jamie had once mentioned a small cottage in the area that he visited during summers while growing up. But we never expected the MacKenzies to move into a castle.
Would that make extracting Natasha without their knowledge easier? More rooms, less chance of those good old MacKenzie boys jumping on me like a dog pile. Less chance of breaking the trust between Jamie and me.
I sat wide-legged on a tattered brown couch, writing in my journal: She will be mine. She will be mine. She—
Ideas popped into my head.
“Have the Russians found the body yet?” I scrubbed a hand over my face. Would make my job easier if Vassili Resnov discovered Borya and took that as an additional sign of betrayal and initiated a surgical strike.
I’d exfil Natasha while they terminated each other. Troppo facile. A grin formed on my face. Way too easy.
Enzo, why the hell are you speaking Italian in your head?
Because Vassili stripped me of my identity. Because the world applauded him for a fight he didn’t even win—my father’s fists rained while my mother cowered in the audience, pregnant with me. Gotti won, but he beat Mama that night, bruises wrapped around her ribs tighter than his championship belt. She told me that story in whispers. How the fans screamed Vassili’s name as if my father didn’t exist. As though he hadn’t won.
Papa never forgave her. He never forgave me. He left her in blood and silence, and when she couldn’t take it anymore, she abandoned me too.
And so I wear his ghost—sometimes in his tongue, sometimes in his charm. Il padre perfetto. My father, the great Italian fighter.
“Just a sec.” Rain sat against the bed, laptop in front of her. After a few clicks of her fingers, she said, “While Resnov’s hired help continue to play dumb because they weren’t paying attention, the police have uncovered a body from the LA River. Let’s hope it’s our guy and not another LA murder. Yet to be identified.”
Antsy, I crouched onto the ground and opened the case to my MK22 sniper rifle. The black velvet interior gleamed like a coffin lid peeled back. Piece by piece, I laid the weapon onto the sticky carpet. Barrel, scope, stock—each click and lock, a hymn to my obsession.
“What did you do with the voicemails from Natasha to her dad?” I asked.
“Scrubbed,” she muttered while my fingers ran along the barrel—nice and slow. I’d be all over Natasha like this, soon.
“And his calls to them?”
“There were so many. Erased all of his to Lachlan, but I left one voicemail accessible to his daughter,” she mumbled.
Huh. She left one on Natasha’s phone. The stroking ended, and I lifted the stock against the pocket of my shoulder. Beautiful. This wasn’t a perfect fit for all. For me, though? Yep. Perfection. I muttered as much in Italian. “Perfetto.”