Page 15 of Mountain Daddy (Broken Boss Daddies #1)

NIKOLAI

T hree weeks in Fern Falls and I'm losing my goddamn mind.

This town is a postcard. All white picket fences and Sunday morning church bells. The kind of place where people wave at strangers and leave their doors unlocked.

The kind of place that makes my skin crawl.

I don't belong here. Never will. I'm a wolf trying to play house cat, and it's eating me alive from the inside out.

But Maksim was right. Chicago's too hot. The cops have my face plastered on wanted posters. The Kozlov family wants my head on a spike. All because I put three bullets in Viktor Kozlov's chest.

No regrets. The bastard had it coming.

But killing a Kozlov comes with consequences. Even when they deserve worse than death.

So here I am. Hiding in Norman Rockwell's wet dream while the heat dies down. Maksim bought me time, but time has a price, and I'm paying it in sanity.

Honestly, if I hadn’t found her, I’d have been off in hours.

She’s the only thing keeping me here.

Every morning, I wake up in the rented house on Maple Street. Drink coffee that tastes like dishwater. Pretend to read the local paper that covers nothing more scandalous than the church bake sale.

And every morning, I find myself staring through the window at Sugar and Spice.

At her.

God. She’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight.

One week, and I can't stop watching.

Can't stop thinking about the way she feels wrapped around me.

The sounds she makes when I'm inside her.

The way she tastes like sin and salvation.

Can't stop thinking about Chleo.

The kid has my eyes. It's like looking in a mirror.

The timeline fits. Five years ago, a few passionate nights, no protection.

He's mine. I know it. Feel it in my bones.

But she ran. Kept him from me. And every time I try to bring it up, she deflects. Changes the subject. Builds walls higher than I can climb.

The smart thing would be to leave them alone. Let them live their quiet life while I serve my exile.

But I've never been smart when it comes to Lilly.

The coffee shop on Main Street serves liquid disappointment, but it gives me a clear view of the town square. I sit at the corner table and watch the world go by.

Boring as hell.

Until she appears.

She's wearing jeans and a sweater the color of autumn leaves. Simple. Sweet. The kind of outfit that shouldn't make my blood run hot.

But everything about her makes my blood run hot.

She stops near the fountain.

That's when I see him.

Tall. Lean. Dark hair slicked back. Wearing a leather jacket that screams trouble.

And there's ink crawling up his neck.

I go very still.

The tattoo is small. Subtle. But unmistakable to someone who knows what to look for.

Bratva ink.

Specifically, the serpent wrapped around a dagger. Symbol of the Moscow syndicate.

What the fuck is Bratva doing in Fern Falls?

The man approaches Lilly. She lights up when she sees him. Genuine happiness. Relief.

They embrace.

Not romantic. Familiar. Friendly.

But my vision goes red anyway.

She's hugging him. Smiling at him. Talking to him like he’s out of a Hallmark movie. Like he's not connected to the world she judges.

I watch them talk. Can't hear the words from here, but I can read body language. He's animated. Gesturing. She's laughing.

Laughing.

With a man who wears the mark of killers.

She doesn't know. Can't know. Lilly's too pure for this world. Too innocent.

Unless it’s all an act.

They part ways after ten minutes. Lilly heads back to the bakery. The man walks in the opposite direction.

I fold my newspaper. Drop a five on the table.

Follow.

My feet move without conscious thought. Muscle memory from twenty years of hunting predators.

He's good. Keeps to main streets. Doesn't look over his shoulder. Maintains the facade of a tourist.

But I'm better.

I stay two blocks back.

Use storefronts as cover.

Move like smoke.

He turns into an alley behind the old movie theater. The kind of place where rats go to die.

Perfect.

I give him a thirty-second head start. Then slip into the shadows.

He's not alone.

Another man waits in the alley. Shorter. Stockier. Face like a bulldog.

I recognize him immediately.

Dmitri. Works for human traffickers. Runs girls from Eastern Europe through the port cities.

Son of a bitch.

They're speaking Russian. Low voices. Careful.

“—told you to not ask about my family,” the tattooed man is saying.

“Family?” Dmitri laughs. “You think I give a shit about your cousin? She's just another pretty face in a nothing town.”

Cousin.

The word hits like a physical blow.

Lilly's cousin.

Family.

“She doesn't know anything,” the cousin continues. “Never has. I keep that life separate.”

“Whatever. Let’s get talking.” Dmitri steps closer. “This town's perfect. Quiet. Trusting. Nobody asks questions.”

“No.” The cousin's voice turns hard. “Not here. Not her town.”

“Her town?” Dmitri's laugh is ugly. “Since when do you care about geography?”

“Since I decided to get clean. Find a different life.”

“Clean?” Dmitri spits. “You think you can just walk away? You think the brotherhood lets people retire to play house?”

“I'm not asking permission.”

Wrong answer.

Dmitri's hand moves toward his jacket. Toward the gun I know is there.

That's when I step out of the shadows.

“Gentlemen.”

They spin. Hands reaching for weapons.

I'm faster.

The cousin gets slammed against the brick wall before he can blink. My forearm across his throat. Not crushing. Not yet.

“Lilly’s your cousin?” My voice is deadly quiet.

His eyes go wide. “Who the fuck are?—”

I press harder. Cut off his air.

“Answer the question.”

“Yes,” he gasps. “I swear to God, she's my cousin.”

I study his face. Looking for lies.

Find none.

“She Bratva?”

“No. Never. She doesn't know shit about the business.”

I believe him. Can hear the truth in his voice. The desperation.

But then Dmitri laughs.

And I know that sound.

It's the sound of men who’ve done unspeakable things and never paid the price.

Not yet.

“Well, well. Another knight in shining armor. How sweet.”

I release the cousin. Turn to face the real threat.

Dmitri's got his gun out now. Pointed at my chest.

“You picked the wrong alley, friend.”

“Did I?”

My smile makes him nervous. Good.

“You know what I think?” Dmitri's getting chatty. Bad sign. “I think small-town girls are the best kind. Sweet. Innocent. Easy to move.”

The words hit like gasoline on a fire.

“They trust so easily,” he continues. “Believe anything you tell them. Perfect for overseas clients who like their merchandise unspoiled.”

Red.

Everything goes red.

The gun doesn't matter. The alley doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the rage burning through my veins.

I move.

Fast. Brutal. Unforgiving.

The gun flies from Dmitri's hand before he can pull the trigger. My fist connects with his jaw, snaps his head back like a rag doll.

He stumbles. Tries to regain balance.

I don't let him.

My knee drives into his stomach. He doubles over, retching.

I grab his hair. Slam his face into the brick wall.

Once.

Twice.

Blood streams from his nose.

“You like small-town girls?” I growl in his ear.

Slam his face again.

“Think they're easy to move?”

Again.

“Perfect for overseas clients?”

This time I hear something crack.

He's sobbing now. Begging.

I don't care.

Men like Dmitri don't deserve mercy. Don't deserve breath.

They deserve pain.

I let him drop. He crumples to the pavement like a broken doll.

But I'm not done.

My boot connects with his ribs. He screams.

“Please,” he whimpers. “I'll disappear. Never come back.”

“You're right,” I say, kneeling beside him. “You'll never come back.”

I wrap my hands around his throat.

His eyes bulge. Hands claw at mine.

“The next time you think about trafficking innocent girls,” I whisper, “remember this moment. Remember me.”

I squeeze. Watch the life drain from his eyes.

Almost.

Then I let go.

He gasps. Rolls onto his side. Vomits blood and bile.

“Get out of my town,” I tell him. “If I see you again, I'll finish what I started.”

He scrambles away on hands and knees. Disappearing into the shadows like the rat he is.

I turn to the cousin. He's still pressed against the wall. Pale as death.

“You stay clean,” I tell him.

He nods frantically. “I swear. I swear on my mother's grave.”

“Good.”

I pull a handkerchief from my pocket. Wipe the blood from my knuckles.

That's when I hear it.

A sharp intake of breath.

I turn.

And there she is.

Lilly.

Standing at the mouth of the alley. Face white as bone.

She saw everything.

The violence. The rage.

Our eyes meet across the blood-stained alley.

Hers are wide with horror. With fear.

With recognition of what I really am.

She takes a step back.

Then another.

Then she turns and runs.

“Shit!” I gasp.

She's gone.

And I'm standing in an alley with blood on my hands, watching the only good thing in my life disappear into the distance.

Again.