Page 11 of Sweet Deception (Irish Kings #4)

Chapter Nine

A victorious smile spreads across my face when I whip my matte black Aston Martin into a parallel parking space across the street from Veronika Kotova’s apartment building in Bushwick.

Yeah, that’s right. Veronika Kotova. I found my little thief’s name and where her flighty ass scurried off to.

First, I traced the taxi plates back to the business, located the driver, and persuaded him to share the information…

with both my wallet and my fists. That’s how I learned he dropped her off at some seedy airport hotel after she left me.

Shaking down the reservations manager there earned me her full name and a copy of her ID.

After that, I may’ve done a little additional searching on my own. Curiosity pestered me even before she stole my information and pulled a Houdini act, but now I’m practically seething with it.

Just my luck that she also lives in New York. For some reason, I’d been half convinced she was a spy from Vegas. Turns out, she’s a spy who lives in my backyard.

With a bit of digging, I also found employment information showing she’s a freelance information technology specialist.

Beauty and brains.

Honestly…the fact that I so severely underestimated her has haunted me since the moment I found out she left me high and dry in that hotel room. I’ve wondered more than once whether I really would’ve kicked her out four days ago if I’d found her asleep in my bed, where she should’ve been.

Maybe I would’ve tried to get a few more days of fun out of her fine body before I cut the little mouse loose, but we’ll never find out now.

No, she had to go and double-cross me. All that’s left from that night of fun is her betrayal and my vengeance.

Based on my reconnaissance, I expect to find her at home, working.

That sexy fucking liar will be sorry she ever walked my way.

My eyes crawl down the block, analyzing the buildings and shopfronts. Her place is a three-story-walkup in a historical Brooklyn brownstone.

I flick my lighter open and closed, watching her building from my parked car.

I’ve been waiting here the past two nights, but she never came home.

I drove around the borough, top to bottom, hunting for any sign of her.

If I’d spotted her walking home or coming out of a shop, I would’ve nabbed her then and there, but nothing.

Two nights of nothing, though I did notice a couple of things.

I encountered a cute orange cat I’ve named Napalm that likes to nibble on the treats I picked up at the bodega around the corner and play with the shiny wrappers.

Also, I observed someone else lurking about.

A twitchy guy who’s out of place. He’s lanky, with gruesome features he keeps tucked under a cap. Always leaning on a wall or a dumpster. He must be an accomplice of hers.

I’ve been trying to figure out who she might be a spy for.

Now that I know she’s Russian, the first thought that comes to mind is that she’s part of the Petrov Bratva. Rory, our family spymaster, shot their heir in the face a few weeks ago, and we expect they’ll be eager to repay the favor at some point.

Maybe they sent in Veronika Kotova to spy on us. The name fits, at least.

Obviously their little plan failed, but I’m still not going to allow even encrypted King data to sit or be placed in the wrong hands.

Whatever information she managed to get off my phone—and I’d be impressed if she actually succeeded in getting any of it—dies with her. That’s the way this needs to be.

Shit. I see her.

I sit up straighter in my seat. I’d recognize that graceful gait anywhere.

She’s walking from a shop on the perpendicular street with takeout in one arm.

Just as I suspected, as soon as she’s in sight, the lurker guy begins to approach her. Fuck. My hand is on the door handle in seconds. Is this the drop? Am I going to have to kill them both?

I’m expecting her to make eye contact with the guy as she walks toward her apartment, but she doesn’t acknowledge him at all.

Huh?

Maybe they have some secret signal. If you pass him on the street, it means you’ve got the goods. If you walk the other way, it means the plan fell through.

But then Veronika crosses the street, striding right past my wheels and into her building. Meanwhile, the lurker gets even twitchier, stops walking, and produces a cell phone. He’s making a call.

I only have a few minutes to ponder before three armored SUVs descend on this tiny, forgotten block.

And who steps out of one of those SUVs and into the glow of a streetlight but Troy Fucking Sullivan, with his goons in tow. That neon orange head of his gives him away every time.

Interesting.

Troy’s the son and nephew of the men who run the Red Hill Mob out of Philadelphia. The Sullivan Brothers. Darragh and Patrick.

The Sullivan Brothers are many things, but above all, they know how to run a ransom racket. It’s kept them in business all these years.

Their success almost led to our families joining forces a few years ago, a deal brokered by Thomas Brennan, the traitor in our midst. The merger and the marriage were on track until Troy battered a protected daughter of the Kings.

This led to a broken deal and a disgraced Troy. When that deal fell through, Troy tried to take his revenge by crawling into bed with our ugliest enemies, the De Lucas. Well, our former ugliest enemies, since Kiara’s the sole surviving member of that family.

We had to torture information out of Troy, but we eventually let him go.

By the looks of things, our time apart only made him meaner.

He glares down the street in both directions as the lurker jogs up to meet him. They exchange a few words.

Well, well, well.

I knew Veronika was somebody’s spy, but I never would’ve guessed she was working for the Sullivan Brothers.

It’s clear Troy and his soldiers are here for her, probably for the encrypted data she stole from me. Boy, are they going to be disappointed.

Because I intend to get to her first.

Took this damn long to find her. I’m not going to let her get away a second time.

I didn’t come prepared to fight these assholes, but I’m always ready to blow something up. A gym bag full of smoke bombs sits in my passenger seat, waiting to be put to good use.

I scan the street again, searching for a window of opportunity.

There.

In my rearview mirror, I spot an empty shopping cart on the street corner, abandoned near a shop window.

Perfect.

I exit my car and stalk over to the cart. Depositing the gym bag inside, I flick one canister open so that it’ll start leaking smoke into the road. As I walk the cart into the street, back past my car, anticipation bubbles inside me.

I love this moment.

The calm before the chaos.

Smoke spills from the cart, wafting upward until a fire alarm begins to bleat. The car alarm I trigger joins the mayhem, each distraction working to my advantage.

Nearby pedestrians shout in confusion as I weave toward Troy and his posse. They haven’t noticed me yet, despite the purple fog trailing in my wake.

Once I position myself just right, I shove the cart, sending it careening toward Troy’s crew. They leap out of the way, but as soon as the cart connects with the side of one of their SUVs, the smoke bombs explode.

A purple cloud erupts, filling the air with a thick, opaque haze.

In the ensuing pandemonium—civilians screaming and coughing, Troy’s men cursing, car horns blaring—I curve right, unseen, toward the door to Veronika’s apartment building, my guns tucked away against my chest.

I hum along with the chaos below—music to my ears—and ascend the stairs.

Vaulting up the steps three at a time, I reach her door in seconds and kick it the fuck in.