Page 16 of Altered By Lead (Undercover Sinners 2)
"Who paid for my father's head?" I ask suddenly, because it's just occurred to me. If these guys work for a company who takes money to carry out these sorts of jobs, then somebody must really want my father dead. I mean, there are hordes of somebodies really, but someone with enough money to pay professionals? Has to be a rival boss, I'm sure of it.
"Irrelevant," Hawke says, lifting his iPad up and turning away toward the door. "Warm up and meet me in the gym in five."
"But it is relevant. You wouldn't have mentioned who our current client is if it wasn't," I continue, rising to my feet. Weston follows me up, and he must give some sort of look over my shoulder that makes Hawke pause.
"Knowing who's paying us makes their motivations clear," he says hesitantly, eyeing me up and down, like he's considering all the ways he wants to destroy me in the gym today. If only he'd continue that destruction in the bedroom. "Your father's friend and business associate—Tommy Mogilevich—that's our current client."
My skin prickles with chills—Tommy Mogilevich, the boss of the Leontiev Group. Fuck. He is most definitely not who I expected. I met Tommy a handful of times, under the guise of Uncle Mogi. I knew he wasn't my uncle, but my father had created a very close relationship between their two organizations—one group from the West Coast and one from the East, a mutually beneficial arrangement.
My mouth goes dry and my throat feels suddenly tight.
"Don't forget that this time, our motivation isn't quite so pure," Arsen says, his voice like venom, dripping down my spine and making me shiver. "Konstantin killed Portia. He has to pay."
And the way Arsen smiles ... I can tell he's got some creative ideas in mind on exactly how to make that happen.I can’t sleep.
There’s too much energy in this house now that all the boys are back. I end up lying in bed—on an extremely crappy mattress no less—staring up through the darkness at the water-stained ceiling. The only light comes from the moon, shining through the wavy old windows behind my bed.
After a while, I decide that it’s pointless to try to sleep with old memories clawing at my psyche, and fresh fears threatening to derail what little progress I’ve made. Screwing a bunch of dominant assholes for a few weeks doesn’t exactly equal life growth, does it?
Groaning, I sit up and rub at my sore muscles, hating Hawke for putting me through today’s workout yet knowing that if I want to make it here, I have no choice. In fact, I need to train ten times harder if I want this to work.
I’m smaller, younger, female.
I’ll always be at a disadvantage if I don’t make myself try harder.
Sighing, I run my fingers through my hair, energy seeming to prickle through my bare toes as I place them on the hardwood floor. I know I’m imagining the sensation, but it feels real enough.
Hawke’s hatred for me, Arsen’s insatiable lust, Colt’s desperate need to be liked, Weston’s quiet jealousy … and Mace’s strained avoidance.
Each time I see him, I wonder what could possibly be going through his mind. Back in the city, when I was staying at the hotel, I didn’t see much of any of them, but I knew they were busy cleaning up the mess from our shootout with Konstantin. But here? We’ve been here for weeks, and Mace hasn’t touched me. He’s barely spoken to me.
Hawke, I get. He’s a jerk. And he hates me. But he also wants me. Pretty sure he also hates himself for wanting me. There’s a lot going on there. Mace, on the other hand … I thought he was one of the good guys.
Okay, so that’s a bit of a stretch. None of these guys are good. I did think he was one of the better ones though.
Standing up, I run through a few quick stretches before heading downstairs to look for something to eat.
I’m rummaging through the fridge, bent over, my thong-covered ass sticking out, when I hear a deep rumbling, like the shifting of boulders before a rockslide. I stand up so fast that I bump my head, whirling around and cursing as I find Mace situated in one of the chairs at the kitchen table.
He looks ridiculous sitting in it, a true mountain of a man perched on a toy chair.
“When did you get down here?” I whisper, my voice hitching with the slightest tinge of true fear. I didn’t see him, a man as big as that, sitting in plain sight. Hawke is right: I’m never going to survive this if I don’t up my game.
“I’ve been here,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. He’s shirtless, and glorious, and my thighs squeeze together without my even meaning them to. The milk carton in my hand dents as I squeeze it just a little too hard. “Natalia, don’t,” he warns, his words balanced on the fine tip of a knife’s edge. He seems liable to snap.
