Perhaps even… Easy? What am I missing? I take deep breaths. I’ve been so caught up with Bunny, I think I’ve lost my rational brain.
Opening up the chat, I scroll back until I find the beginning. There’s a small note. “Aaron added Blake, Sinner, Clive…”
Clicking on it opens the complete list. Near the start is Benny. Close the end is BunnytheKiller.
My instinct is to get Aaron to my office and pull out his toenails until he tells me who Bunny is. But I pause. The logic that stopped me before hasn’t changed. If Bunny is someone Aaron knows, I need to be careful.
It could be his friend, relative, or—the thought boils inside me—even his girlfriend.
Instead, I look him up on our HR system which gives me his address. An apartment.
A bit more digging around reveals that Aaron has a sister.
Nina.
I stare at the picture on her social media account.
But the photo is incomplete. I want to see more of her.
I’m pulling on my motorbike helmet within seconds, and minutes take me through the London traffic. I shoved the closest letter I found into my pocket. I’ll need an excuse for being there, and being a courier is as good as any.
It’s hours of waiting and monitoring who comes and goes from the building where Aaron lives. I’m not a naturally patient man, but I wait.
It’s London, so it rains. Drizzly tiny droplets that make the air as dense as my emotions as the seconds crawl by. I leave my helmet on, and I shift between being astride my bike, pretending to check my phone, walking up and down the street, and letting the time pass as people come and go.
Older men, women with children, some boys, an old lady laden with shopping bags. I stride over to help the last one, carrying her groceries into her apartment building next door to the Brookes’, but otherwise, I just observe.
And then I see her. Nina Brookes, Aaron’s sister, makes my heart lurch with longing. She’s far prettier in person than in her photograph online. Generous curves that my cock responds to immediately. Her light-brown hair with blonde bits, that falls around her shoulders in soft waves, and slightly over her cheeks. She’s wearing a neat pair of trousers and a blouse with a coat that’s wet from the rain.
And I just know.
I cross the street in a second, and as she uses her card to open the outer door, I lean over her, holding it for her.
“Oh thanks!” She looks up into my reflective visor, taking in my bike leathers and helmet, and fear flashes across her pretty face. Her eyes are a mix of brown and green and gold, and her mouth, fuck. Her mouth is a perfect little bow.
I just nod.
Because BunnytheKiller—Nina—has told me everything I needed in those two brief words. This is her.
And while the inclination to haul her over my shoulder and take her with me right now is a rapid blast of fire in my ears, I let her slip away.
She casts a worried glance back at me, and I whip the letter from my pocket and hold it up in explanation.
I know where she is, I can be patient.
My sweet girl is already mine. And a plan is forming in my mind of how to tempt her into my arms.
8
NINA
My phone pings first thing in the morning two days later, and I jump on it with all the eagerness of a dog hearing a plastic packet. Then my brain catches up, remembering that I blocked him, so it can’t be Blake. I fall back onto my pillow.
I have an insane amount of money and a solid lump where my heart should be.
This was the correct thing to do.
Feeling bad about taking money from a billionaire mafia boss is silly. Being sad about not talking to a dangerous, ruthless man is even more idiotic.
