Simona was the oldest of Natasha’s cousins, and I’d heard her father, Simeon Resnov, had a worse reputation than Natasha’s father. Vassili had to keep his stuff together for UFC.
But Natasha’s father wasn’t the issue. The issue stood half a field away with that traitor, my brother.
Lorenzo Ferri.
His Armani grin had cornered Natasha in an elevator last week, smug with intention. He wasn’t here for my brother, his old brother-in-arms. He was here for my woman.
I moved.
“Lach,” Natasha called out behind me.
I didn’t stop. Didn’t pretend to hear.
I walked fast. Steady. Until I stood two feet from him.
“Lorenzo.”
He smiled like we were old friends. “Lach. Jamie was just telling me Nan should be here soon?—”
“Don’t mention my mother,” I cut in low, flat. “And leave Tash?—”
Jamie stepped forward between us. “Easy?—”
“I am easy,” I said. “Right now. Lorenzo, your military achievements mean nothing to me. Back off.”
“I was just beingamichevole,”he said in Italian.“Uh … friendly.” Lorenzo chuckled, hands high in mock surrender.
“Friendly? You trapped my girl in a friggen elevator!”
His smile flickered—a crack in his facade.
7
LORENZO
I sawher before she saw me.
Across the field, Natasha had embraced Lachlan MacKenzie like she belonged there. Laughing. Relaxed. Her cheek lay on his bicep, his arm wrapped around her—casual, thoughtless affection. The kind earned in time. It seemed like they loved each other. Loved each other for years.
That couldn’t be the case.
The three of us crossed paths three Decembers ago. The infamous Dodger. The Golden Highlander didn’t have dibs on her. I’d studied him like a case file for a black-ops mission for years. I’d etched every detail about him in my memory, like evidence waiting for the right time.
Was this the right time to deck him?
Probably not. I hid a smile as I watched the tick of his muscles as he stormed toward me. Watched the way his thumb ran over his fists in barely restrained violence. Golden Boy had a tell. When he mentioned the elevator, I wanted to tell him his current restraint paled to mine in that moment with Natasha. Instead, I pivoted. Best not to poke the bear in front of my militaryfra, Jamie.
Smiling, I turned the conversation away from me and his woman in the elevator. “Hey, I’m a fan.” Though I ramped up the Italian accent for women or every once in a while to get what I wanted from a friend, I played it up—just to be consistent. Paired the melodic consonants with a nice-guy act. “You’re my favorite player. That postseason slide last year? I studied it frame by frame.”Hmmm? Did he notice my choice word—frame? A subtle reference to Natasha’s career.My thoughts revolve around your woman. She will be mine. She. Will. Be.
Mine.
“But baseball’s a game, yeah?” I lowered my voice so that my disrespect didn’t carry any further than the Scot in front of me. “That’s what you do. Play games for big money. Take pictures. I respect it.”
“Yep. I make big money. Just to play a game. Such a blessing. But we’re talking about off the field. Natasha. She’s not a game. She’s not a trophy, my man. She’s a woman to be loved. And a woman used to certain luxuries. Luxuries you can’t afford to satiate. Respect that.”
My trigger finger itched. I stared at my mark. PID. Positive identification of a target acquired. At Jamie and Jordyn’s wedding two years ago, I had vowed not to kill him. Even though I talked crap, I loved baseball. Yet I despised every man who valued money over humanity. Like I was nothing. The fair game? Letting Natasha choose? Not an option.
A woman used to certain luxuries. Luxuries you can’t afford to satiate.A million ways for his demise flashed in my mind.
