PROLOGUE- LACHLAN
Dundee, Scotland
Shouldn’t have lefther alone.
Not after what happened.
Not after the ambush.
But the last twelve hours in this God-forsaken hellhole had been our only peace since bullets flew, the sickening crunch of bone, the searing pain of a broken finger.
Mysawed-off, severed, and now reattached forefinger. Man, I needed to get my arse and Natasha back to civilization. To a world where the biggest threat involved a fastball to the head, not a bullet to the chest.
“Tasha … Natasha …” My voice was a low rasp in the stale air. I reached my left, nondominant hand up, the good one, since the right one was wrapped in bloodied gauze. A dark smear stained the greasy paper bag of street food. Great. Shouldn’t have clutched the breakfast so tight, despite the cold fury rising in my veins. Fury born out of our predicament, of why we were hiding out.
The second my knuckles rapped against the paint-peeled door, it pushed ajar.
No lock.
No resistance. Just … open.
The bag dropped to the cracked cement floor with a soft splat. I drew my Glock.
As I pushed through the door, my thunderous heartbeat echoed in the crappy living room. I cleared corners, every shadow a potential threat.
“Tasha?” I called her name again, eyes traveling across the threadbare loveseat. Images flickered: Natasha, full lips pulled into a smirk, a peach glow over her honeyed, clear complexion.Now the couch is not rat-infested, Lach. It’s love-infested.
She’d grinned like she wasn’t the daughter of a Bratva Tsar. Like we weren’t hiding out like fugitives from war.
I shoved the memory away, guilt resurfacing. I’d lived without her long enough. For over two years, she’d allowed Lorenzo Ferri to slither into her life because of the mistakes I’d made. No cheating, just not committed. I hadn’t given her the same space in my heart as baseball.
I started for the bedroom when a shrill ring cut through the silence.
I rushed back to the small kitchen with its two-burner stove, scarred and grimy. On the counter sat coffee mugs we’d filled with cheap whiskey. Natasha’s lipstick, a vibrant slash of life, on a cracked rim.
I zeroed in on an orange ceramic bowl. Dug through the rice. There. My phone. No longer dead.
I answered. “Dad, we need help. Nat?—”
“Never been more ashamed of me son,” he said, his voice a raw rasp, laced with a rage that caught me off guard. Sure, he led a Scottish crime syndicate deeply entrenched on the West Coast. But he reserved anger for enemies. Traitors. “Da?—”
“You’re at it again. You think this family survives because I’m soft? Do not mistake my silence for weakness! The video?—”
“What video?” My mind flitted to Lorenzo. Sniper rifle. Chunks of wood breaking across the— “Listen, Natasha and I need help.”
“You? Nay! She does. I’ve seen more of you and the young lassie than I’d ever need! Natasha is a sweet girl, Lach. But you know herfamily.Yewill see me entire clan dead because of thinking with your pants. So hotheaded, you put the girl on video.”
A guttural curse ripped from me as my hand swiped against the bowl. Rice scattered along the warped linoleum floor. My boots pounded toward the bedroom, the phone clutched to my ear while Dad tore me a new one about footage that included compromising positions. Me. Natasha … Resnova. Bratva Princess.
“I wouldn’t do that to her,” I snarled, the words a desperate defense, as I neared the closed bedroom door. “Someone set us up,” I cut in while he called me everybawbagin the book. “Get the clan together. Call you with more orders soon.” I killed the connection.
At the closed bedroom door, dread settled in my gut. Had Lorenzo seen us last night and captured what we’d cherished? He must have. Had he shared our first time with just my parents? Or the world?
I shouldn’t be surprised by Dad. Not like this hadn’t happened before. When the first video exploded, I was twenty-two—Natasha’s current age. A rookie in the Dodgers, bedding any beautiful woman who crossed my path.
With protection.
Guess I should’ve protected myself by not sleeping with groupies in their hotel rooms. A random hookup had somehow recorded me without my consent and turned my baseballstardom into something I didn’t want. Temptation. More women. More lust. Got tired of that life.
