Page 86 of Toxic Attraction
He trusts me. And I'm still lying to him about Patrick. Still hiding the fact that my father was an informant against him. Still keeping secrets that could destroy us.
"Lev—"
"Whoever keeps calling, whatever it is that is threatening your family—we'll handle it together. But I need you to know you're safe here. Protected. Mine."
Mine.
The word settles over me like a brand.
"Okay," I whisper.
He kisses my forehead. "Sleep. Tomorrow, I start the retaliation. But tonight, just sleep."
I try.
But hours later, still wrapped in his arms, listening to him finally rest, all I can think is that I need to end this with Patrick.
Before Lev finds out the truth, before this tentative trust shatters.
Before Patrick tries again and succeeds.
Before I lose everything that's become worth protecting.
Tomorrow, I’ll start figuring out how to end this.
Tonight, I just hold onto Lev and pray he forgives me when he learns the truth.
Chapter fourteen
Lev
The Armenian organization burns hot and wild; it has to be the most beautiful sight of the night.
Orange flames lick at the night sky, consuming the warehouse where Grigor Markaryan ran his distribution network. The heat hits my face even from thirty feet away, mixing with the tangy smell of blood and the acrid bite of gasoline.
Inside, what's left of Grigor's organization is dying.
A normal person would be puking their guts out. Not me though.
I watch the fire through the scope of my rifle, waiting. Three men try to escape through the back exit—exactly where I knew they'd run. The first one makes it two steps before my bullet takes him in the spine. The second stumbles over his corpse, and Mikhail puts one through his skull. The third gets smart, throws his hands up, tries to surrender.
I shoot him anyway.
No mercy. Not for men who tried to take my daughter.
Fucking bastards.
"Boss." Yaroslav appears at my shoulder, face streaked with soot. "Building's clear. Everyone inside is dead or burning."
"Grigor?"
"Basement. Alive. Waiting for you."
I nod and hand off the rifle, head inside through the front entrance we breached an hour ago. Bodies litter the floor, sixteen men who chose to fight instead of run. Their stupid mistake.
The basement stairs are slick with something I don't care to examine too closely. Down here, the heat is oppressive, and smoke is already creeping through the ventilation.
Grigor is chained to a support beam in the center of the room, kneeling in water from burst pipes. His expensive suit is ruined, torn and dirty, his face is already swelling from the beating my men gave him during the extraction.
