Page 9 of Alexei

I swatted his hand away. “That’s my coffee.”

“Don’t you and your brothers share? You should be used to sharing.”

Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum. Bum. My heart sped up at the painful speed, hammering against my ribs.

“Don’t you know sharing is caring,” he continued. My spine went rigid. A memory flashed. I blinked my eyes, hazy images in my mind playing.

“Run, Aurora!” My brother’s voice shattered the beautiful sunny winter day. “Run and don’t look back.”

“I don’t want to go alone,” I whimpered, my fear keeping me glued to my spot.

“Don’t worry, little girl.” The old man’s voice was creepy. His English sounded weird. He smiled, his teeth yellow, and it widened with each step he took toward me. My little heart thundered so fast, I thought it would explode out of my chest. “Sharing is caring.”

“Leave her alone!” Kingston’s eyes bore into me. “Run, Rora!” He screamed at the top of his lungs; his demand was clear. For the first time that day, I listened. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me.

My lungs burned, my muscles shook, but I kept running.

Ding.

I blinked. The elevator came to a stop. I shook my head, shoving the memories aside. Somewhere dark and deep, where they festered until I could make him pay.

“Fuck sharing and caring,” I hissed. I hated those words. “Don’t you have someone to stalk?” I snapped at Milo, his eyes widening at my words.

I rushed out of there before he could answer. Lack of sleep made me extra sensitive and another word out of him, I’d lose my shit.

It would not be smart to get called by HR just as I was placed in the field.

ChapterThree

ALEXEI

She had grown up.

Of course, I immediately recognized Aurora Ashford, daughter of Senator George Ashford, who had been eyeing the presidency. I’d kept tabs on her, on and off, over the last twenty years. I knew she worked for the FBI. And only recently, I found out she was in New Orleans, my city. All those years and life brought her back to my doorstep.

She was part of the plan. Vasili had the general idea of what we needed, but when it came to my connection to the Ashford family, I kept that to myself. Certain things were hard to forgive.

I watched the petite woman smack the man’s hand and my lips twitched. Actually twitched! My sisters, nephew, and niece were the only human beings that ever made me want to smile. The scar on my lip had stopped me from smiling since I was a teenager. It didn’t seem worth the physical pain it brought, and there was rarely ever anything to smile about back then.

Actually scratch that - there was never anything to smile about. Yet now, I felt the urge to smile.

I focused my eyes on the woman in front of me. Her back was to me, the top of her head barely coming to my chest. She was tiny. Too fragile. What was the FBI thinking, sending her into the field? Obviously she worked in the field, she still wore her bulletproof vest. Last time I checked on her, she was in D.C. working for the FBI as a profiler, seated behind a desk.

And now here she was, within my reach. That little girl was gone, in her place was a beautiful, grown woman.

Her blue jeans hugged her hips and her round ass looked tempting in them. She wore a white shirt underneath her FBI body vest and black combat boots. Sidearm too. Her long black mane was pulled up into a silky ponytail and that same olive skin tone as her ancestors from her mother’s side. The DiLustros, Italians, and part of The Kingpins of the Syndicate.

When she uttered her next words, I was convinced she inherited her mother’s temper. I had been around my fair share of Italian women lately, and their tempers flared faster than bullets. Though the Irish could be just as bad. Bunch of damn hotheads. Though I’d rather see Agent Ashford have the Italian temper than her father’s qualities. He was more of a smile as he stabbed you in the back type of a conniving son-of-a-bitch.

“Fuck sharing and caring. Don’t you have someone to stalk,” she snapped at the guy that dared to talk to her. The words from twenty years ago rang in my ears. My part in all that clawed at me, the guilt burned right into my heart.

The elevator opened and she disappeared, her scent fading without her in the small space. Much to my disappointment. She smelled like chocolate. My favorite sweet. Unfortunately, my body couldn’t process that dessert. It was what happened when chocolate was used as a method of torture.

Chocolate.I must have imagined it. It wasn’t a normal scent, definitely not a perfume.

No, it couldn't be. Her coffee had to be some mocha shit or something. As she disappeared from my view, a sense of loss lingered.

Fucking ridiculous.