“Da,” Simeon murmured.
Vassili sighed, staring at the building as if he’d end me once someone brought him his child.
“She. Is. Gone. Lorenzo took her.” I wrestled my arm away. With a surge of desperate strength, I slammed my fist into the side of Simeon’s face.I was a dead man, anyway.
He spat blood, a dark spray against the pavement, but otherwise seemed unfazed as he placed the gun back at my head.
Vassili pondered for a moment. “I don’t know this name—Lorenzo—and if you can’t tell, my restraint is wavering, Lach. I am, however, familiar with your entire family. Every single MacKenzie.”
A growl ripped through my lips. “Don’t?—”
Simeon chuckled, nudging the tip of my nose with the gun. “See? That’s the real him, Vassili. Not this golden boy, superstar LA Dodger, who keeps his hillbilly, shotgun-slinging family at arm’s length.”
“She is part ofmyhillbilly shotgun family.” I snarled. “Natasha is my wife! We just got married. I gotta find?—”
A blow landed to my stomach. Vomit surged up my throat.
I choked it back as Vassili snarled, “Enough! I will no longer tolerate lies!”
When he stood to his full height, he exhaled, turning his attention to the lieutenant who hadn’t gone to search the flats. “It’s time the MacKenzies became intimate with the Resnov credo: ‘Touch what’s mine and the funeral home becomes rich.’ ”
I clawed at Simeon’s forearm. “Wait. Wa?—”
1
NATASHA
Pop would breakLachlan MacKenzie’s money-making Dodger legs, and every one of those perfect, million-dollar batter fingers if he knew Lach stood me up tonight.
Good thing Pop didn’t know.
I’d given Pop and Momma Christmas Day in Rublyovka—Russian Hollywood—and would fly out before midnight. Tomorrow belonged to family.
Christmas Eve night? Well, it didn’t belong to Santa.
I stood at the center of a grand hotel lobby in Manhattan. One hand rested on the camera bag at my side, the other gripping my phone like it owed me answers. “Where are you?” I murmured under my breath.
This wasn’t just another trip. I flew to New York to give him one last chance. And then when promotions required it … and I hadn’t seen him, I agreed to meet him here at this hotel.Okay, if all else fails … I’ve taken photos of Christmas Eve in Times Square.
Allelse fails?
No. It would be Lach.
Again.
He was the only disappointment that mattered to me.
The screen lit up.
My thumb hovered over the Accept button. His face smiled back at me—those intense, tropical green-blue eyes. That confident smirk, powerful jaw. A lethal combination of all-American athlete and Scottish mischief. It wrecked me.
The call went to voicemail.
Stupid. I know. I’d spent Christmas Eve day alone, then I didn’t answer?
Ugh. I always answered. Always available since we started seeing each other two summers ago, after we'd met during the Christmas holiday season prior. While part of me had loved him too muchbeforehe even said hello, another part of me craved this. The waiting. To always run to him when he called.
His call dropped.
