I interrupt. “I’m aware of what we’re walking into. To some extent.”
“Then let me enlighten you,” he says, overly polite in his polished English. “Any Bratva is ruthless. They won’t negotiate, like you and I would. They solve issues with violence. Extreme violence. Someone challenges them, they retaliate hard and fast as a show of their strength. They do it publicly as a warning to others.
“The same could be said about Italians or the Irish, even the Cartel, but in a way, we police ourselves about what is acceptable and what is not, because we’re more structured. The Russians are the opposite. No one trusts them because they do what everyone expects them to do, which is fuck over their enemies and their friends. If there are terms in a business deal that says they can’t touch women or children, before morning women and children will be dead, and they will offer no explanation. I asked if you have everything in order because there’s a good chance we might not walk out of this alive.”
What he says rings true. Across the world, organized crime exists. And exactly like Cabal said, despite the clear factions, they are forced into some kind of truce due to shared shipping routes or commodities needed. Each region has its own version of a similar business structure, and each individual outfit has its own unique way of operating. The Russians are similar in those ways, but Cabal hit the nail on the head when he said the Russians are a separate entity entirely.
All of what he said makes sense, except one thing I can’t figure out. “How did she end up here? Honestly, I had no idea she was involved in anything associated with organized crime. Even now, I can’t see it. The Quinn I know is married to her job.”
Cabal takes a turn off to the highway, the directional sign taking us to an area I know is more affluent than other parts of Moscow. He’s as introspective as I am and as confounded. Eventually, he answers. “I have no idea. And what is more interesting is trying to figure out her tie to Ambassador Hernandez. There are records of Quintessa Garcia, but nothing links Garcia to Hernandez. Whatever the connection is, it's buried deep.”
“Which is your answer. Someone buried something for a reason. Why hide something?”
“So no one else finds it.”
“Or so no one knows the value you see in it and then holds it against you. Perhaps, it’s just another thing we will have to add to our list of things to ask her.”
“We do not discuss anything in the house,” he replies.
I take a slow exhale, fighting against a burning desire to punch him in the face. “I’m aware, we’re there to watch over her and not fucking interrogate her.”
One other thing has been bugging me because I know how criminals work. They're opportunistic parasites only out for themselves. “What’s in this for you, Cabal? You talk like you’reQuinn’s most loyal servant. By your own admission, you hardly know a thing about her, and the only time you’ve spent with her is half a day, at most. Something isn’t adding up.”
He takes a long, drawn-out inhale and exhales slowly too. He’s almost unguarded when he looks at me again. “It’s probably the same reason you just left a role you’ve been chasing for years… she’s mine. Honestly, I knew my whole life got turned on its head after a handful of minutes in her presence. Now all that remains to be seen is whether she’s going to acknowledge we share a bond or not. I’m okay, for the record, if she doesn’t acknowledge yours.”
The smug fucker laughs before accelerating with a sudden burst of eagerness. I don’t join him in laughing, because he just said out loud my biggest fear.
Cabal, despite being involved in organized crime, has everything I don’t. He’s a strong Alpha, with obvious connections and money, where I’m a Beta, with not even ten grand in savings and a huge-ass lie to explain. That doesn’t mean I’m walking away honorably or not fighting dirty for my girl, because Quinn and I were never just friends with benefits.
Her scent made sure of that.
We both made it our mission to skirt around the truth of our scent-matched relationship, but there’s no denying the intense draw and deeply rooted need we had for each other.
Hopefully still have.
Chapter Fifteen
QUINN
Leaving the dogs to their happy reunion, and the wild dogs still trying to break the door down, I go back to my suite. Because, once again, I need a fucking minute.
If I wasn’t frozen to the bone, there’s no way I would go anywhere near my room, but hypothermia isn’t something I’m keen on experiencing.
I have to stop outside the door to my room as nausea bubbles in my tummy. I seriously wonder if losing a couple of toes is easier to deal with than the state of my room. Logic is hard to justify when my designation is pining and pining hard. Losing prized possessions isn’t about materialism for an Omega; it’s the sentimentality of scent and the times that object has become your only comfort in a crisis that strikes deepest. It’s like losing a friend.
“Come on, Quinn, you’re better than this,” I say, my head resting on the door as another wave of uncertainty steals my thunder. I hate what she did to my belongings, but doing thisto me, punching holes in my psyche, makes me hate her as a person.
Closing my eyes, I take a series of calming breaths to center the flyaway nature of my current mood. I need to get inside and shower. Parts of my body are cramping up, while other parts are numb because of the freezing cold.
The bite on my hand tingles, and I’m not sure if it’s in warning or encouragement. I lean in to the comfort side, and then I go with therip the Band-Aid offapproach and throw the door wide open.
I nearly fall flat on my face.
My senses are blown, my thoughts tumbling again but for a completely different reason.
His scent wraps around me, so real and tangible that warmth spreads from deep inside my chest, chasing away the shadows she left in her wake. He must have spent hours in my room for it to be so saturated in his scent. But he wasn’t just sitting idly; he was busy, which doesn’t make a lot of sense after he so willingly looked through me like I was a ghost.
There are no ruined clothes strewn over my floors or empty bottles leaking anymore. There’s no destruction, period. The room looks like it did when I first arrived—neat as a pin and dappled, no, drenched, in peaceful serenity.
